Adleman lay on his back, his arms roped together and tied to the top of the bed. Bruce unsheathed a surgical blade and sliced through the ropes. Adleman stirred. He moaned, then blinked.
Bruce lunged over and put a hand on the vice president’s mouth. Bruce held a finger up to his lips, indicating silence. Adleman’s eyes widened, then he nodded.
Bruce sliced the ropes by Adleman’s feet, then pulled his legs around. Bruce helped him to his feet.
“Who … are you?”
“Later.”
Adleman put an arm around Bruce’s shoulder causing him to lose his balance and nearly trip over the dead guard.
The vice president spoke with difficulty. “Are you … all right?”
Bruce waved him toward the window. “Sprained ankle.”
Adleman hobbled to the window. He rubbed his hands together. Bruce noticed they were heavily bandaged, but didn’t say anything. Adleman peeked out. “It’s clear.”
The sounds in the back bedroom had quieted. Cervante didn’t notice the silence for some time.
He sauntered to the back. When he reached the door to the bedroom, he could not open it. He jiggled the door knob. “Open it — you cannot shock me!”
He chuckled to himself. The men had enthusiastically participated in the gang rape, venting their frustrations — it was not a woman Cervante had brought them, it was a toy. Something to be used, thrown away.
Cervante jiggled the doorknob harder. “It is over. Come out now.”
Still nothing.
Cervante frowned. He placed a shoulder up against the door and pushed. When it did not give, he stepped back and kicked at the doorknob. Another kick shattered the wood; the door swung open.
Two Huks lay across the bed, bullet holes in their heads. Cervante’s eyes widened. “The vice president!” He yelled at the top of his voice. “The vice president! Quickly!” And ran from the room.
Shouting erupted from the outer room. The sound of feet, thundering down the hall, grew louder and louder.
Bruce reacted immediately. He pushed Adleman out the window. Adleman yelped, then disappeared from sight, head-first. Bruce heard a muffled “Ooof” as the vice president hit the ground.
Bruce pulled out his radio and punched the on switch. He whipped the M-16 off from around his back as he spoke. “Mother hen — Mayday, Mayday! Pull us out!”
He had the wits about him to stuff the walkie-talkie into his pocket. Backing toward the window, he kept the M-16 aimed at the door. He reached out with his hand and found the window sill. He managed to get his foot up to the sill when the door splintered open from someone kicking.
Bruce let go with a burst from the M-16. There was a scream, then the kicking stopped.
More yelling. Feet running and people jabbering. Bruce’s nostrils filled with acrid smoke from the automatic weapon.
A round of bullets zinged into the room as Bruce fell over backward. He tried to keep from landing on his ankle and almost hit his head, but he rolled and flew out into the mud.
Adleman sat up against the house. Bruce waved and shouted. “Come on!”
Adleman winced in pain. “I think my leg is broken.”
Bruce crawled forward and grabbed at the vice president. He grit his teeth and stood, ignoring the blinding pain that shot up from his ankle.
“Come on! Bruce jerked Adleman up and started dragging him; they were in the rain, water covering them. “Help me, you son of a bitch!”
A volley of shots peppered the area. A zing flew past Bruce’s ear. He ducked and tried to drag Adleman faster. Bruce felt as if his leg would explode any moment — his ankle had to be broken.
Lights flickered through the rain and darkness, bouncing from the house as lanterns were taken outside. Bruce squinted through the downpour; he couldn’t see any sign of Yolanda or Pompano. All around came shouts and bullets, curses, the tart smell of gunpowder.
One of the Huks ran in front of Cervante and kicked the door at the opposite end of the house. “Booto!”
A volley of shots ripped through the door.
“Back — get back!”
The man crumpled, blood running from his stomach.
Cervante took an instant to decide what to do. He ran out the front, yelling at the top of his voice. “The Americans! They are coming!” Out in the rain, he spotted two of his men underneath the overhang by the right side of the house. They looked quizzically at him, holding cigarettes. A group of men poured from the house, rifles at ready.
Cervante pointed to the high-power microwave weapon in the truck. “You two — start the device. Everyone else — capture the Americans!”
“Where are they?”
“What? I only hear—”
“Which way?”
One of the men unfolded the three-meter dish antenna.
Barguyo appeared on the porch, rifle at port arms. He looked wildly around. “Cervante — which way do I go?”
Cervante motioned toward the high-power microwave. “Stay here — direct the men setting it up.”
Barguyo took a step out into the rain. Cervante motioned for his rifle. Barguyo hesitated, then, grudgingly, turned the weapon over. “I … I must join the others.”
Cervante nodded to the HPM device. “You are needed here. Your talent is too valuable to lose.”
Shouting mixed with the sounds of gunfire came from behind the house. The rain made Barguyo look like a little drenched rat, so hopeless standing there, as he was not allowed to join his comrades. Barguyo’s mouth twitched as he spoke.
“But what can I do?”
“The HPM weapon can stop them.”
“How? I do not hear a plane.”
The shouting continued. It sounded as if the men were chasing a fox through the clearing.
Cervante set his mouth. “They did not get here through the jungle. Someone will fly in to pull them out. The HPM weapon will stop them.” He turned to join the others, leaving the boy in charge.
“Got ’em, got ’em, got ’em!”
The Electronic Warfare Officer on board the MC-13 °Combat Talon looked excitedly up, for the first time all flight. His eyes weren’t adjusted to the blacked-out interior, but he threw his head back and took in the darkness — for relief of eye strain, if nothing else. The Coke-bottle-thick glasses he wore didn’t get in his way as he clicked the mike.
“Pilot, EWO. Assassin is away from the house, carrying a captive.”
“Rog, we copy the image up front. Can you make out any details?”
The EWO squinted back at the computer-enhanced infrared screen. “Negatory. The house is too bright, but — wait! A crowd has come into view. They don’t look like they’re bidding Assassin a fond good-bye.”
A second passed. The pilot’s voice was replaced by Colonel Lutler’s. “Can you pinpoint the good guys from the bad?”
The EWO leaned into the screen. He played the small recessed ball on the side of the control panel. The view jumped from person to person, but he still couldn’t get a good ID.
Two additional figures ran from the house at right angles from Assassin — if it was Assassin. The EWO swore to himself.
“I can’t get a positive.”
“Then scratch calling in Maddog right now. There’s too much uncertainty to have them blowing the hell out of everything. Put them on standby.”
“Sir, what about the Vulcans?”
“What?”
“The Vulcan cannons. It might be too tight for the ’15s down there right now, but we could use the IR to direct the Vulcans, at least to lay down a shield until the Black Hawk arrives.”
“Have they deployed that HPM weapon?”