“How far to the rendezvous?” Mitchell asked, looking down the long, dark road.
“About fifteen minutes,” replied Jackson as he grabbed his cell phone and made a quick call.
A minute later, with Jackson behind the wheel, the SUV sped off down the narrow dirt trail, trying to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the thugs’ camp. Once they were clear, the local police chief, a strong opponent of the cartels, was going to receive an anonymous call and be given the exact location of the camp and the number of people still being held there. If Mitchell thought he was having a bad day, someone else was about to have an even worse one. Looking over his shoulder, Mitchell saw that Sam held Susan in her arms, a red fleece blanket covering her. Susan was fast asleep.
“How is she?” asked Mitchell.
“She should be okay. The shot only grazed her side; it’s all the other crap she’s had to endure that’s made her body weak. She should be okay if she doesn’t go into shock,” replied Sam.
“What the—?” blurted out Jackson.
Mitchell turned about. In the cold light of dawn, he could just make out a hastily thrown up police checkpoint barring their side of the road.
“Was that there earlier?” asked Mitchell as he picked up a silenced pistol from the floor of the BMW.
Jackson shook his head.
The thugs obviously have deep pockets. It’s probably easy enough for them to bribe the right corrupt police officers into shutting down all the roads in and out of the forest, thought Mitchell.
“No cops,” said Mitchell bluntly. It was one thing to kill criminals, but police living below the poverty line, even if they were crooked, was another thing.
Jackson nodded. He knew what Mitchell was going to say before he even said it. Seeing a bored-looking police officer step out of the idling car and out onto the road, Jackson obligingly decelerated. The man waved his arm, beckoning Jackson to stop. The SUV continued to slow; the police officer stepped back and then turned to say something to his partner still sitting inside their warm patrol car.
God bless amateurs, thought Jackson.
Seeing the momentary lapse of attention, Jackson slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. Their SUV’s powerful, six-cylinder engine roared to life. The vehicle’s tires dug into the dirt road. Rocks flew up into the air, spraying the stunned police officer as they sped past him. Jackson peered into the rearview mirror with a smile on his face, as the surprised cop seemed to stagger back and forth on the road. Gaining his balance, the man raised his submachine gun. Without aiming, he opened fire at the back of the fleeing car. Bullets struck the back of the SUV, harmlessly bouncing off, as if they had been nothing more than pebbles thrown up by a passing car.
At the sound of the bullets striking their car, Sam instinctively ducked her head, as did Mitchell.
Jackson, his eyes glued on the road, said, “Can you friggin’ believe it? You can actually rent up-armored SUVs from the El Dorado International Airport now.”
“Nice of you to tell me,” said Mitchell, watching nervously as the speedometer shot past one hundred kilometers an hour and continued to climb. He had no desire to end up wrapped around one of the many tall trees that lined the dirt path that passed as a road in this backwater part of Colombia.
Behind them, in the distance, a siren wailed.
“I suspect that there’s a great big, fat bounty for our capture, so I don’t think they’re going to give in,” said Mitchell, wishing Jackson would slow down a little as they sped around a bend. Sliding across the wet dirt road, the SUV’s tires clawed for something to hold onto. At the last second, the SUV fishtailed on the road and then shot around the bend.
After a minute, Sam’s cell phone rang. She answered it. “Gordon says they are good to go, but we need to hurry if we are to make our next rendezvous,” announced Sam. Recruited straight out of Canada’s elite JTF-2 special operations unit, Gordon Cardinal was their team’s sniper and surveillance expert.
“Did you warn him about our company?” asked Jackson.
“Yeah, he’ll give them the usual reception,” said Sam as she checked on Susan’s condition.
A moment later, the SUV broke out into a long grassy field. At the far end sat an ungainly looking, civilian-pattern Russian MI-8 helicopter, painted all white. Its bulbous back doors were wide-open, waiting to receive Susan and the remainder of the team. Turning off the dirt road, Jackson barely slowed down as he drove across the open field straight to the helicopter.
Cardinal, dressed in black, police-style coveralls, calmly hefted his Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle from the back of the chopper, and then moved over to one side of the helicopter. He got down behind the long-barreled weapon, inserted a magazine, and then cocked the charging lever, loading a deadly, armor-piercing round into the weapon.
Rapidly decelerating, Jackson brought the BMW to a sliding halt at the back of the helicopter. Mitchell gingerly walked over beside Cardinal, while Jackson helped Sam carry Susan to a stretcher already set up and waiting inside the chopper.
The sound of the police car’s wailing siren grew louder.
Mitchell quietly spoke to Cardinal, who raised his thumb, acknowledging the order. A few seconds later, the police cruiser turned the bend and sped out onto the long, open field.
Mitchell watched as the car grew larger by the second. When the police cruiser was about three hundred meters away, Cardinal took up the slack on the trigger. With a loud, thunderous bang, the sniper rifle fired. The round, travelling at over 850 meters per second, slammed straight into the engine block of the police car, tearing it to pieces. In the blink of an eye, the engine died. The car’s engine hood flew up into the air and then flipped right over the top of the car. Steam escaped from the destroyed engine, obscuring the windshield. Cardinal knew that he didn’t need to fire another shot. Clearing his weapon, he picked up his ejected casing and stood up.
At the smoking wreck, the two crooked cops sat there dumbfounded. They were both amazed that they were still alive. Neither man dared to move or venture outside of their vehicle. They had done all they were willing to risk for a few extra dollars today.
Mitchell tapped Cardinal on the shoulder and said, “Good shot. Now it’s time for us to go.” Together they climbed on board the MI-8, its powerful engine already coming to life.
Jackson smiled at the smoldering police car and then closed the bulbous back doors of the helicopter.
Looking around, Mitchell saw Cardinal and Sam standing beside Susan, exchanging hushed words. They were a couple, but had never once let it get in the way of their work. Cardinal, with short, jet-black hair and a thick goatee, was tall and lanky, whereas Sam was short and very athletic. They looked like an odd couple, but their bond was one that would never be broken.
Jackson walked over and sat down beside his disheveled friend. Handing a headset from the wall to Mitchell, he looked into his tired, bloodshot eyes. They had known each other in the army, and when a private security company sought out Mitchell, he had insisted that Jackson come with him. It was a decision that they had never once looked back on, until today.
The sound of the rotors grew louder as the MI-8 prepared to take off.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be running marathons this time next year,” said Jackson, struggling to be heard inside the rattling interior of the aged Soviet-built helicopter.
“Yeah,” wearily replied Mitchell. “Sam will make sure she’s comfortable for the trip home.”
Jackson could sense that Mitchell was exhausted and needed some rest. Placing his headset firmly on his head, Jackson crossed his arms and sat back. Letting out a deep sigh, he decided to try to get a few minutes of sleep. Like Mitchell, he felt drained from the night’s activities. He didn’t feel any remorse for the men he had killed. As far as he was concerned, it was three less thugs in the world.