The lead car had been shredded, wrecked, and had caught on fire. That rocket hit had probably killed everybody inside—everybody human at least—because then one of the doors was kicked violently open, and out came Franks, rifle up, and he went to town, dropping dudes left and right as he moved toward the truck that was blocking our way. It was frightening that somebody that big could be that fast.
Curtis had bailed out ahead of me and was using the engine for cover as he returned fire at our attackers. The other back seat merc should have bailed out my door because it was shielded from most of the gunfire, but instead he got out his side, and immediately got riddled with bullets. Our trunk monkey was smarter and crawled out behind me.
Franks reached the blocker truck. The driver stuck a pistol out the window to shoot at him, but Franks was too fast, and shot him in the head. He opened the door, flung the body out, climbed in, and started backing the truck up. Our path was about to be cleared, but our ride was dead in the water.
Curtis realized the same thing. “Move to the next. I’ll cover you.”
I got up and ran while Curtis fired over the hood.
Another RPG gunner rose on the rooftop across the street, but before I could shoot him, Lana fell out of the sky and collided with him, flinging the man screaming over the edge. Then she swiftly launched herself back into the air.
I reached the back of Stricken’s truck and took a knee. One of the Brazilians was lying there, dead. There was movement in one of the favela’s windows to my right, followed by a whole lot of machine-gun fire. Another of the men who had been riding with Stricken got nailed in the face. I flinched as I got hit with skull chunks, then dumped the rest of my mag through that window and the machine gun went quiet. I yanked a fresh mag and performed a fast reload. Ready to shoot again, I bellowed, “Move!”
Curtis and the trunk monkey ran toward us. The merc got hit in the back and fell. Rather than keep running to safety, Curtis turned back, grabbed him by the arm, hoisted him up, and dragged him along. I nailed the man who had shot him. Curtis shoved the wounded Brazilian through the door and climbed in after. That was it. I jumped on the running boards and banged my fist on the roof. “Drive! Drive!”
We took off.
Franks—being Franks—stubbornly shot people until the last possible instant, and then caught hold of our passing vehicle and hopped aboard. He was on one side, I was on the other, and even as projectiles were landing all around us, Franks kept on shooting his SCAR with one hand and effortlessly holding on with the other. I had to use both hands to keep from getting bounced off, because Stricken would certainly leave us to die in some trash-filled ditch.
I looked back. The light from our lead SUV’s burning gas tank revealed a bunch of black-uniformed men running out into the street to take potshots after us. One of them caught my attention. He wasn’t shooting. He was shouting orders. That was clearly the one in charge. I only caught a brief glimpse of him, an imposing man in a black beret with a beard, but there was something oddly familiar about him.
Then we were out of sight.
Chapter 26
It’s really hard to hold onto the side of a vehicle racing over a shit road in a favela. We hit so many potholes I nearly bit my tongue off. I probably left finger-shaped dents in the roof rack and the bouncing was killing my calf muscles, but there was no time to slow down. If the bad guys had set up multiple ambush points, that meant there were reinforcements nearby who might be converging on our position.
The whole ambush had taken less than a minute. It had been terrifying, but I hadn’t had time to process it. Now it was sinking in that it had been a miracle I hadn’t gotten shot. I caught glimpses of a winged form shadowing us which had to be Lana. Or at least I hoped it was her, and not some other random flying monstrosity. Then we braked so suddenly that it almost yanked my arms out of my sockets, but I managed to not get tossed into the dirt.
The back door opened. “Get in.” Curtis shoved our dead trunk monkey into the street. The poor guy had bled out, so no need for him to take up space. Extra-judicial Unicorn didn’t give a shit about leave no man behind. It was pragmatic, but it definitely demonstrated that these guys didn’t screw around. Franks and I got in the back and they floored it before we had even pulled the doors closed.
The driver turned out to be Stricken. From the amount of blood all over the upholstery and the wind whistling through the huge bullet hole through the armored glass, their original driver had met the same fate as ours. Sonya had wound up in the passenger seat and was holding an old M16 which, from the amount of blood on it, the previous owner no longer needed.
After a few seconds of terror, we were all that was left of the convoy. Holy shit, that had been close. Humans could be scarier than monsters.
“Are you guys okay?” Sonya asked.
“Yeah,” I said, even as I checked myself for holes.
Franks grunted as he inspected a wound in his shoulder. Then he grossed us all out by sticking his finger deep in the gash
