No Holding Back Page 4
“Major’s got trouble,” Buck’s voice snapped in her earpiece.
“Hang on, Major. We’re on the way,” Andrews said.
Hang on? What the hell did he think she was doing?
“Forget me,” she said, fending off a tire iron and odd pieces of lumber bouncing around her. “Hostages . . . Buck . . . need medical.” A hard pothole hit lifted her off the bed, banging her rifle against her face and ending any more conversation. She released the M4 from its safety strap and it clattered away as the driver tried a new tactic. He sped up, slowed and gunned it again. Shit! Her boots were brushing air and she was about to follow her weapon onto the rock-strewn road. Her hands curled into claws. Bare fingertips burned as they slid across the cracked surface. Soon she’d be kissing the road. Industrial-strength adrenaline bursts gave her the strength to throw herself to her back, bring her knee to her chest and blast her boot against the rusted side, hoping like hell it wouldn’t fall off. It bowed with the pressure but held steady, giving her sufficient leverage to get to her knees. The driver looked at her over his shoulder through the blood-splattered window and jerked the wheel, sending her off balance again. She braced a boot, grasped the side, and pulled herself up, banging a fist on the cab and yelling Stop in three languages. It got her another maneuver that damn near sent her over and out. “Motherfucker.”
“What’s going on out there?” Santiago said. Cooper gave her an instant replay of the action.
Thornton braced her left shoulder against the cab and fired four rounds from her sidearm through the window. The driver slumped, his foot going heavy on the gas, his body on the wheel, guiding the truck toward a ten-foot rocky descent into the river. Using the gun’s barrel, she pounded the remaining glass from the window, shoved off her helmet and wiggled through the space. Less than halfway in all progress was stopped by the mag pouches on her body armor. She stretched her spine more than the owner’s manual suggested, punching the dead man’s knee until his foot moved off the gas. The truck slowed. A quick glance through the windshield did nothing to make her happy. The truck was dangerously close to the drop-off. Thornton grabbed fists full of shirt, hauled his body off the wheel and forced the shift stick into low. Gears ground. The back tires locked and the truck hopped, skipped, and jumped. An ugly grinding noise came from the engine before it clunked, sputtered and stalled. The steering was dead, forward momentum wasn’t. In a few seconds she’d be on a bruising nonstop ride to the river. Her fingers grappled along the console, searching for the emergency brake handle and finding the nub where it had once been. Fuck! She couldn’t catch a break of any kind. The foot brake was her only chance. She squirmed in the window, sucking in her belly, stretching, twisting her body and arms. Outside her legs windmilled to gain an angle that would let her slide in farther. She gave it up. There was no way she could reach. Time to bail before she couldn’t. Fuck. She couldn’t. She was jammed tight. She braced for the downward hurtle as the driver’s door swung open. Gunny, running, hopping, and finally swinging in a leg, filled the space, cracking his head in the process and releasing a growl.
“Damn it, Gunny, hit the brake.” The right front dipped.
“I’m trying,” he grunted as his size-twelve boot pounded the floor, searching for the pedal.
“To the right. It’s to the right.” The truck nosed down farther.
He found it, stomped hard and nothing happened. “Get clear, Gunny.” He hit the brake again. Nothing. “Get your fucking ass out of here.”
His response was to recite the Marine Corps dictionary of cusswords and keep stomping. The truck lurched. Gunny stomped again, bringing them to a jarring stop, pelting her with the litter in the cab. They stared at each other, both huffing to feed air-starved lungs.
“Geeze, Gunny, I didn’t . . .” She sucked in a breath. “Know you . . . could run that fast.”
His sweaty face split with a grin. “Neither did I.” He patted his chest.
“You okay, old man?”
“My blood pressure is a little high but . . . son of a bitch.” His grin slid away as fast as it arrived and he yanked the driver’s body from behind the wheel. “You’re hit.” He grabbed her shoulders and twisted.
“I am?” She patted frantically, feeling for warm stickiness, a hole, something. “Where?”
Gunny did the same. Running his hand over her head and neck, fingers probing, he let out a loud breath. “Not your blood. The Tango’s.”
“Jee-sus.” She shoved him away. “You scared the shit outta me.”
“Major,” Cooper’s voice broke in, “we’re about to get company. I don’t think they’re the white linen and fine china type. Two vehicles. We got maybe twenty minutes.”
Flaming fish balls. No break at all.
Also by Rita Henuber
Under Fire
Under Fire: The Admiral
Point of No Return
About the Author
Rita grew up running the beaches of a barrier island on Florida’s east coast. An island brat, she spent more time climbing weathered oaks and chasing alligators than playing with the dolls her family gave her. She married a Marine and feels fortunate to have lived many places and traveled to the states and countries she didn’t live in.
Retired from government service, she moved back to that barrier island, where she writes contemporary women’s fiction and suspense thrillers, weaving her experiences into her stories. Her heroes and heroines are either in the military or government service because she writes what she knows. Her father was in the Coast Guard and immediate family members served in every branch of the service. They ranked from private to admiral, and worked as desk jockeys, grunts, pilots, and everything in between. She’s experienced the highs and lows of military and government life and is grateful for each experience.
Rita finds living on the island inspirational to writing: brilliant sunrises over the Atlantic; long walks on the beach having conversations with her characters; enjoying sunsets over the intercoastal waterway from the dock.
She reads or listens to two to three books a week (she prefers listening while doing housework so as not to waste time). She has no favorite author, she just loves a good story.
To learn more about Rita and her books, visit her website at ritahenuber.com, where you can also sign up for her newsletter to receive regular updates and information.