Patton cocked his head at Devlin. Smart.
“Plus, it pays to have a backup plan.”
The prisoner pursed his lips. And tactical.
“Shouldn’t we,” Mills aimed his forehead at the accident, “see if anyone needs help?”
“We have a job to do.” Devlin pivoted her upper body to see out the back window. “You’re clear back here. Get this thing pointed in the opposite direction.” She spanked the front passenger seat twice. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”
Patton studied her out of the corner of his eye. Focused too.
*******
half an hour later
2:23 p.m.
one mile southwest
of san fernando, Mexico
Devlin checked the time on her watch. I don’t believe this. She shut her eyes and laid her head on the backrest behind her. Two more hours of him blabbering on and I might just shoot him myself...and save the legal system some time and money.
For the last twenty-five minutes, Patton had not stopped talking. No one in the vehicle had responded to any of his remarks. Not that that mattered. He was like a late night host delivering a monologue, minus the laughter.
He smacked his lips together. “I’m parched. Anyone have some water?”
Chambers held a half-full, clear plastic bottle between the front seats. “There shouldn’t be too much backwash in there.”
Mills and Hawkins chuckled.
Patton accepted the offering. “At this point, I don’t really much care.” He downed the beverage in one pull, compressed the container and affixed the cap. “Your spit,” he let out a short burp, “tastes divine.”
Chambers smiled at her partner. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
Mills and Hawkins sniggered.
“Since the communication lines seem to be opening, let’s go around and say where each of us is from. ‘Marshal Backwash,’ you can go first.”
She lowered an elbow onto the console and squinted at Patton. “And you can go fu—”
“What the...” Mills touched the brake pedal.
The sudden deceleration sent Devlin’s head forward. Opening her eyes, she peered between the front seats and through the windshield, as the Suburban stopped fifty feet from a two-car collision. A man was on the ground, on his side, his back to the deputy marshals’ SUV. A second man was down on one knee, assisting the injured motorist. Both crashed cars showed minimal damage.
“It seems someone,” Mills caught Devlin’s eye in the rearview mirror, “doesn’t want you to make your flight.”
She pivoted her head left and right and spied a forest on both sides of the narrow stretch of roadway. She faced the accident. Each car had ended up near large tree trunks, leaving no room for other cars to pass. Her stomach muscles contracted, and her heart beat faster, as her eyes zeroed in on the kneeling man’s black leather jacket. Too dang hot for that...this is a trap. “Reverse.” She undid her safety belt.
Mills turned around in his seat. “What?”
“Get us the hell out of here!”
He thrust the gearshift to ‘R’ and stomped on the gas pedal.
The genuflecting man produced a handgun from under his leather jacket. His partner rolled over and aimed a rifle. Both men opened fire on the Chevrolet.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 9
Punch It
Bullets pinged off sheet metal and penetrated the retreating Suburban’s front grille, as Mills spun the steering wheel left and sent the brake pedal to the floor. The windshield cracked, as holes and spider webs appeared on the transparent surface.
As Devlin undid her prisoner’s seat belt, she felt a spray hit her forehead.
The SUV lurched sideways in the middle of the road.
More incoming rounds strafed the driver’s side.
She grabbed Patton by the neck, shoved him to the floor, “Punch it, Mills,” and threw herself on top of him. Windows blew inward, dumping glass pellets onto her back and down her shirt.
Hawkins stuck his gun into the jagged opening to his left and returned fire.
Devlin drew her Colt 45 and braced for the sudden acceleration, but the large Chevy coasted backward a few feet and stopped. She looked up and saw Mills and Chambers slumped over in their seats. A hole at the back of the latter deputy marshal’s head caught Devlin’s eye. She wiped her forehead and smeared the red over her fingers. They’re dead.
A constant barrage of inbound gunfire shredded the SUV. Strips of leather and particles of foam flew around the interior, as more broken glass filled the space.
“They’re dead, Hawk.” Lying on her left side, she worked the door release with the toe of her right boot. “Bail out,” she kicked open the barrier, “on me,” and slithered backwards, out of the disintegrating four-by-four, dragging Patton with her.
Hawkins’ weapon ran dry. Reloading while crawling over the bench seat, he scrambled out of the vehicle and took cover behind the right-front tire.
Squatting, Devlin and Patton put their backs to the right-rear tire, she on his left.
Hawkins patted his ribs, winced, and scowled at his shiny, red palm. God da—he half stood, planted his Glock 22 on the hood, and worked the trigger.
Devlin eyed Patton. “You hit?”
He let out a quick breath through puckered lips and shook his head one time.
“Stay down.”
“No kidding. That must be why you’re in charge.”
She whipped her head toward her partner; he had assumed a low crouch. “How many?”
He dropped the magazine from his gun. “I saw four. They’re—” he fumbled while trying to insert a new magazine into the Glock’s magwell, “they’re armed with rifles.” He jammed the new cartridge holder into his weapon and ran the slide forward. “Our ride’s disabled. We need to get out of here. If—” twisting his torso, he grimaced. “If they flank us—ow,” he pressed his back to the fender and took a couple breaths. “If they flank us, we’re dead.”
Devlin heard the hitch in his voice. “Are you all right over there?” She pivoted her head back and forth, eyeballing the landscape. Tall trees were everywhere.
“Flesh wound...”
She glanced in the direction from which they had come, an open road. They’ll pick us off for sure.
“...I’m fine. We need better—”
Projectiles hit the side mirror.
Hawkins hunched his shoulders, as the car part flew over his head. “We need better cover. You
