But it was another movement that held her full attention.
A mirror behind the counter had been shattered by the first volley of rounds, but in the fractured reflection in the remaining pieces, she saw one of the enemy on his knees, reloading his rifle.
There won’t be a better chance…
She fired again toward the position of the first gunman. “Now!” she yelled to the two Marines.
She didn’t have time to explain more, so she simply dashed from behind the table and sprinted for the counter, hoping they would understand.
They did.
Malcolm and Schmitt flanked her, firing at the rifleman who was still an active threat. Under such a sustained volley, a bullet ricocheted off a rim of a metal chair and struck the assailant, knocking him back.
Jenna reached the counter and vaulted high, feetfirst, sliding her hip through the broken plates and scattered utensils on the top. All the while, she kept her gaze fixed on the reflection of the hidden enemy. He had already finished reloading and was rising up to go to his partner’s defense.
As he popped into view, she already had her left leg cocked and snapped a boot heel into his masked nose. His head cracked back with a satisfying crunch of teeth and bone. His body collapsed limply, out cold.
To the side, Schmitt placed a round through the other enemy’s ear as the gunman tried to bring his rifle around.
The sudden cessation of gunplay inside the café left only the ringing in her ears, muffling the firefight outside.
Malcolm stalked low to her side as Schmitt poked his head and shoulder into the kitchen, leading with his pistol.
“All clear back here!” he called out, falling back to them.
Red-faced with fury, Malcolm lifted the muzzle of his weapon toward the cold-cocked man on the floor.
“Don’t,” Jenna said. “We may need him to talk.”
Malcolm nodded.
She kept her Glock on the downed man. “I’ll watch him. Go help Painter and Drake.”
From the escalation of rifle fire out there, they were in trouble.
“They’re flanking us,” Drake said.
Painter recognized this, too. He crouched shoulder to shoulder with the Marine behind a metal trash bin. The shelter barely offered enough cover for the two men as they fired from either side at the trio of gunmen across the road.
Unfortunately, the enemy had a distinct advantage. A row of cars lined the far sidewalk, offering plenty of cover and maneuverability. Their side of the street was a no-parking zone.
Still, if Drake hadn’t come flying out the café window, Painter would likely be dead already.
The gunnery sergeant’s sudden and opportune arrival drove the three assailants from the street and into cover behind the parked cars. But now those three had begun to split up. Two men ran low behind the vehicles, heading left and right along the street, while the third kept up a continuous barrage, the rounds ringing and ricocheting off the trash bin.
Trapped, Drake and Painter could barely move. It would take only another few seconds before the two flanking gunmen reached positions far enough along the road to get a clear, unobstructed bead on them.
“I’ll cover you,” Painter said, slapping in a fresh magazine. “Get back inside. Try to make it out the rear with the others.”
Painter noted it had gone quiet inside the café—but was that a good sign or a bad one?
Then fresh gunfire erupted, blasting out from the shattered window of the café and strafing the row of cars across the street.
Caught off guard, the gunman to the left took a round through the neck, spinning away with a spray of blood. The assailant on the right suffered a similar fate, taking a bullet to the forehead.
The third had dropped low behind an old-model Volvo, plainly recognizing the tides had turned.
Drake rose to his toes, glancing to Painter, to his wounded shoulder. “We got this last one,” he said, getting a confirmatory nod from his two teammates as they climbed out to the street. “This is what Marines are built for.”
Painter knew better than to protest. “Try to take him alive.”
As if sensing his coming demise, the hidden man started shouting — not at them, but from the sounds of it, into a phone or radio, likely calling for help or backup.
Painter caught a few words in Spanish, but the rest was a mix of some unknown native patois. One word in Spanish caught his attention. It was repeated again, more urgently.
Mujer.
Painter tensed, glancing back to the café.
Mujer meant woman.
“Where’s Jenna?” Painter asked, his heart pounding harder.
Malcolm kept his gaze on the Volvo across the street. “Inside. It’s all clear.”
Or maybe not.
Disregarding the threat of the shooter, Painter bolted for the door and rushed inside. He held his pistol up with his good arm and scanned the tables, the bodies, and waded through the aftermath of the gun battle. He checked behind the counter, the kitchen.
A spat of gunfire echoed to him from the street.
A moment later, Drake burst into the café through the front door. His face looked stricken, scared, revealing a depth of emotion beyond the simple concern for a teammate.
“Jenna?” he asked.
“Gone.” Painter nodded toward the street, knowing they had one chance of discovering who had taken her. “What about the third shooter?”
Drake understood the significance of his question, going paler. “He shot himself.”
Dead.
Painter breathed heavily.
Then we lost her.
The world returned to Jenna on waves of pain. Blackness shattered into light that was too bright, sounds too loud. She lifted her head from the rattling floor of a van, igniting a lancing stab that ran from a knot above her left temple to her neck.
Oww…
She bit back a groan, fearful of attracting the attention of her kidnappers. She took a fast assessment of her situation, her heart pounding in her throat. From her vantage, all she could see out the window was the upper floors of buildings sweeping past and the tangles of power lines.
A trickle of blood traced fire down her left cheek.
She remembered the ambush, allowing anger to hold back the terror icing at the edges of her self-control. She had been crouched behind the café counter, watching Malcolm and Schmitt cross to the window and start shooting into the street. The deafening barrage covered the approach of her attacker from the kitchen area. The only warning was a soft honeyed scent.
She turned to find a dark woman with shadowy eyes crouched a yard away, the balls of her bare feet positioned perfectly to avoid the broken glass on the floor — not to avoid getting cut, but in a feral level of stealth.
Before Jenna could react, the woman lunged, her arm sweeping wide whip-fast. The butt of a pistol cracked against Jenna’s skull. Her vision flared brightly, then collapsed into a black hole, dragging her consciousness away with it.
How long was I out?
She didn’t think it was long. Not more than a minute or two, she guessed.
From the front passenger seat, a face turned to peer back at her. Long black hair framed a darkly beautiful face. Her skin was the color of warm caramel, her black eyes aglow. Still, an edge of threat shone through those handsome features, from the hard edge of her full lips to the glassy-eyed menace in her gaze. It was like confronting the cold countenance of a panther in a tree, displaying nature at its most beautiful — and deadly.