The muzzle lifted. Jumping forward, Mac swung the blade. The razor-thin tip sliced the gunman’s forearm to the bone. Mac jumped closer, too close for the man’s AK to be of any use. Turning the long blade, he brought the tool up and across the gunman’s body, slicing him open from thigh to shoulder. The AK dropped to the ground. The gunman fell on top of it.
Mac wiped the blood from the machete on the ground.
He’d always wished he hadn’t grown up with a borderline psychotic and highly trained military father obsessed with turning his four offspring into a tiny paramilitary force. But the Colonel—and all the batshit-crazy survival weekends, weapons training, and combat drills he’d forced on his children—had just saved his youngest son’s life.
Mac rolled the gunman to his back to make sure he was dead. No worries. Mac’s conditioning had ensured his strike would be deadly.
The surge of relief was cut short as a sudden wave of agony sliced through his side. He put a hand just below his ribs. Hot blood seeped red through his T-shirt.
Not good. He was Cheryl’s only hope of getting help.
He ducked into the supply tent. The sat phone was gone, and the first aid kit was in the missing SUV. Son-of-a-bitch Juan. He hadn’t taken everything, just the essentials.
The village was a mile-long hike through the jungle, the day was getting shorter, and Mac was leaking. He found a bottle of Juan’s tequila, opened his shirt, and assessed the wound. The bullet had grazed the fleshy part of his side. Hoping it hadn’t hit any vital organs on its journey, he dumped alcohol on the wound. Pain burst through him as bright as a flashbang, blinding him and buckling his legs. Panting, he dropped to his knees and waited for the dizziness to pass.
When his vision cleared, he made a makeshift bandage from a bandana, filled his canteen with water, and fashioned a litter from a camp cot. The daily downpour continued. In the driving rain, it took him a few minutes to find Cheryl.
But only a second to realize she was dead.
No!
He dropped to his knees beside her body. He didn’t give a damn if the caiman ate those two drug traffickers, but he couldn’t leave Cheryl here.
Don’t leave me!
But he had, and she’d died alone.
White hot pain sliced him in two as he secured her to the cot. Dragging the litter behind him, he stumbled down the rutted trail. Each step sent sharp agony through his body. Good. Mac held on to the pain like a lifeline. Maybe it would keep him conscious long enough to make it to the village before he bled out. He pressed a hand to his side. At the moment, his survival seemed like a big maybe.
As he staggered through the jungle, he sent his family a mental apology. It didn’t seem likely that he’d make it home after all. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d been prepared to go home to see his father pass. Now it looked like Mac might be the first one to die.
Chapter Five
Wednesday, June 22, 2:00 p.m., Scarlet Falls, NY
Stella walked into the firing range. The muffled crack of gunshots bled through her earplugs.
And sweat pooled between her breasts.
This shouldn’t be hard. She was a good shot. Before November, her weekly practice session had been no more exciting than a trip to the gym, just one more thing she did to stay in shape as a cop. But now, every time she stared down the sights on her pistol, she thought of the shot she’d missed and the two cops who’d died as a result.
She set her bag on the wooden platform at the front of her assigned stall and removed her safety glasses and a box of bullets. Her heartbeat thudded over the steady pop pop of gunfire as she readied her stance. Discomfort flooded her body as she lined up her sights with the paper target. Her position felt all wrong, as if she’d never shot a gun before. She rolled a shoulder, cracked her neck, and stretched her arm, but there was no convincing her body that she’d done this a million times.
Her phone buzzed on her hip. She welcomed the distraction, until she read Frank’s name on her phone screen. She read his text: Done. Get over here.
She holstered her weapon, returned her gear to her bag, and drove to the medical examiner’s office. Stella took a deep breath of fresh air in the parking lot, as if it were her last, and pushed inside. In the antechamber, she donned a gown, cap, and plastic face shield. Bracing herself, she tugged on a pair of gloves and went into the autopsy suite. Frank was leaning over a sink, his back to Stella.
The metallic, sweet smell of blood and cold decay hit her through the face shield. The rubber-edged doors swished shut behind her as she focused on shallow breaths.
Frank glanced over his shoulder. “Stella, perfect timing.”
Perfect timing would be accidentally missing the whole thing.