screaming inside the van intensified with an ear-piercing force. Bodies lurched against her, and panic took hold. Kate felt the crush of weight on her chest. She couldn’t breathe. And the children were pulled away from her grasp.
The police were firing at them.
CHAPTER 4
His lungs burned. And a wailing siren edged his lifting fog. Kinkaid’s mind cleared enough for him to find his back in the dirt. And over his head, the shadow of a masked man eclipsed the moon. He felt a hand on his wrist, the one that still held the gun. An elbow was jammed hard to his windpipe. And his side hurt like a mother.
It took him a second to figure out what had happened. At the sound of the police sirens, his attacker had looked over his shoulder and loosened his grip—enough to allow him a breath. The bastard had made the same mistake.
The distraction would cost him.
With the man focused on strangling him, Kinkaid took a chance and fumbled in the dark for anything to use as a weapon. The fingers of his free hand searched the ground as he strained to maintain the grip he had on his gun. He bucked and arched his back to keep the man off-balance and kept his hand moving until he found a jagged rock. And with all his strength, he slammed the stone into the man’s head.
On the third blow, his assailant lurched forward and released his grip. Kinkaid could breathe again. And with his momentum, he used the man’s weight against him. He shoved him hard. The larger man toppled, but he was still conscious and dangerous. The guy recovered too fast and lunged for him again. Kinkaid had enough. Without hesitation, he raised his weapon and shot him in the chest, point-blank. The man grunted, and his body jerked. With his last breath, he collapsed and lay still.
It was over. And he knew he’d come close to dying.
He gasped for air with eyes watering as he knelt near the dead man. No matter how justified, killing always came at a price. And now wasn’t the time for a soul-searching tally. Kate needed him.
With police sirens blaring, the sound of his gunshot would not stand out, and he had no need to tread softly. After holstering his gun, he searched the dead man’s pockets for ID or a cell phone, anything that might serve as a lead, but came up empty. He grabbed the AK-47 left by the masked man and raced down the slope, heading for the road. Lunging over obstacles, he ignored the growing agony that burned his side. And through the brush he spotted red taillights fading in the distance. He had no doubt Kate was inside one of those vehicles.
Spiraling police lights swept eerie color onto the trees and cast long shadows between the shanties. He ran across a terraced ridge to make up time. When the vehicles sped by him, he heard gunfire coming from the police.
“God, no. No!” he shouted, and waved his arms, frantic to get their attention. He bounded down a dirt path toward the road, yelling, “They’ve got hostages. What are you doing?”
He fired the AK-47 in the air as the police raced past him. In the barrage of gunfire, he knew they hadn’t heard him. The local cops were in hot pursuit of murdering terrorists. They either had no idea these men had taken hostages, or they didn’t care. And giving the cops the benefit of the doubt would only leave Kate and the other hostages in the line of fire.
He had to stop the shooting. There was no one else.
“Damn it.” He got to the road in time to watch the last taillights vanish over a hill—a blur of red that drifted in and out of focus. He bent over and gasped for air, holding his side. The trees, the moon, the shadows—everything morphed into a jumble. He was losing it, and dizziness was only a fraction of his problem.
Unless he found a set of wheels, he’d be dead in the water—and so would Kate.
“Stay down!” Sister Kate yelled as she reached for the children at her feet, covering them with her body. “Protect the children.”
More bullets slammed through the van and ricocheted. There was nothing they could do. The driver made a hard turn, and the weight of bodies crushed her in the dark. She fended the others off for the sake of the children, but gravity worked against her. She was pinned and powerless to help anyone.
The steady shrill sound of sirens had been interrupted by gunfire. She knew the police were doing the firing. Why would they shoot at a vehicle in a high-speed chase with innocent hostages on board? The van driver swerved again and hit something. The collision sent bodies sprawling. Once the driver regained control, the van felt and sounded as if it had a flat tire. With the police so close and taking deadly aim with their weapons, she knew this wouldn’t end well.
She was in a fight for her life—they all were. And with the Haitian police firing on them, who was the enemy now?
But the van came to an abrupt stop. And she heard angry voices outside. In seconds, the door was unlocked and opened. Squinting, she raised her hand to block the glare of a flashlight. Shadows of faceless gunmen grabbed them and forced them out of the van.
“Head down. Move…Move!” one man yelled in English.
With the commotion, Kate did her best with the children. She only got glimpses of being shoved through a door. The building looked and smelled like a medical facility, and inside it was dark. They were taken to a murky room and herded into a corner and forced down on their knees. Two men aimed rifles at their heads and yelled at them. She didn’t understand any of it. Others shoved tables and metal cabinets against the windows in the room —windows with police strobe lights shining through them—a standoff.
On orders, one of their captors punched a hole through the glass with the butt of his rifle. He shot his weapon, and the police returned fire. Kate grabbed the hysterical children and shielded them with her body. Her eyes blurred with tears.
She didn’t want to think about dying—but she did.
“Piece of crap!”
Kinkaid peered through a cracked windshield and cursed. Being a beggar didn’t give him any right to complain.
If he’d been back in the States, he’d have a much tougher time hot-wiring newer cars with the added security. He hadn’t bothered keeping up his car theft skills—a byproduct of a misspent youth—and might have regretted it now except for one thing.
In Haiti, most of the vehicles were old and easy to steal. His vintage skills had been good enough.
With only one of the car’s headlights working, he floored the old Toyota sedan he’d “commandeered” and gripped the steering wheel tight, navigating half-blind. Dust from the streets kicked up in his rearview mirror, a red cloud colored by taillights. With the windows down, the dirt made it harder to breathe, but in the distance, he had heard gunshots. He gunned the old car and followed the sound. And without much visibility, he hit every pothole for a bone-jarring ride.
After he crested a hill, he saw the rotating police lights and heard more gunfire. The terrorists had taken refuge at a medical clinic. Smaller than a hospital, the facility looked closed. No lights were on inside. And from what he saw, even though the cops were positioned for a siege, the hostage takers were taunting them by firing back—a no-win situation with Kate and the others stuck in the middle.
Kinkaid parked the car with the confiscated AK-47 in the trunk. Because he’d hot-wired the vehicle, he left the engine running in case he’d need it in a hurry later. He looked for someone in charge to plead his case. He’d need balls of steel to press his luck with the Haitian police, especially given his unique line of work. And being an outsider, he’d have little chance to stop the shooting, but he owed it to Kate to try.
If he couldn’t sway the local cops, he’d come up with a plan B—even if he had to call in markers to do it.
Shattered glass was strewn across the floor. One terrorist lay dead—shot in the face. A dark hole had caved in his nose. And his blood pooled near Kate’s feet. Bullets pummeled the walls again. The gunfire intensified as the police escalated their assault, even after their captors, outnumbered, had ducked for cover. Tear-gas canisters were launched through the broken windows.
