Henry tried to speak but only blood came out of his mouth.
“How does it feel to lose, old man?” Flattening his back against the boxes, Trent shoved with his legs. Muscle burned as he moved them toward the door. One row. Two. He dusted his hands on his trousers. That should hold them for a while.
The boxes wobbled when something hit the door.
Or someone.
“Take it down, Marine.”
Fuck. Trent jogged to the receiving doors. Bracing his hand against the rolling door, he pushed up. It didn’t budge. Damn. Metal clinked. He blinked at the chains. Excellent. Grabbing hold with both hands, he yanked.
Pulleys screeched. The door rolled up two inches. Three.
Wood splintered. Two boxes tumbled over. Dress shirts in clear plastic vomited across the floor.
“Halt!” A shot slammed into the cinder block wall near his head. Jagged chips sprayed around him.
Hand over hand, Trent yanked on the chain. Faster. Must move faster. Four inches. Six.
More shots dug into the wall. The boxes crunched and slid.
The Marines were getting in.
At ten inches, Trent dropped to his belly and wormed underneath, pushing snow aside. Footsteps pounded behind him.
“Shoot the chain. Crush the SOB.”
Trent gripped the ledge.
A pop echoed inside. Metal clanged.
Trent slithered free just as the door rattled down. Ha! He dropped to his feet and ran up the ramp. Snow crunched underfoot. His knees throbbed as he plowed on.
A shadow crept across the snow.
He glanced up. No! A military truck blocked the ramp.
Trent fell to one knee and reached for the gun. His fingers touched wet wool. Shit. Why did this always happen to him?
Metal screeched behind him.
The fuckers were coming through the loading dock.
The truck door popped open.
Jake stared back at him. “Hurry up.”
It was about time the asshole showed up. Trent lurched to his feet and sprinted up the incline. He leaped on the running board just as a bullet thumped into the canvas.
The truck rolled forward, picking up speed across the parking lot.
Trent threw himself onto the seat and pulled in his legs. The door slammed close behind him. “Thanks. They’re trying to kill me.”
“You and me both.” With one hand, Jake opened the right flap of his jacket—a neat hole burned through the layers of denim and fleece. Letting it go, he gripped the wheel as they jumped the curb, taking the shortcut back to the freeway.
“Where did they come from?” And how did they get here before me? Did he have a traitor? Dirk Benedict. It had to be that fat fool. Payment, no doubt, for the fatso being left behind that morning.
“They were parked on the other side.” Jake swerved around two tractor trailers advertising dog food on its sides. “I blended in while carrying blankets but Dirk noticed me when I bent down to tie my shoe.”
Trent stared at the man’s boots. “You don’t have laces.”
“I know.”
Rage roiled up through Trent. He was surrounded by incompetent fools. Next time, He would have to pick his own minions. His hands curled into fists.
“I think I disabled their trucks. Both of them.” Jake sat up in his seat. “They won’t be following us.”
Well, that was something. Trent settled into a simmer. He checked the mirror. No one seemed to be behind them. But he’d thought that once and the military had gotten ahead of them.
“Where to?” Jake tapped the steering wheel.
“The convoy.” They had no one, nor very many supplies. The convoy and the bitch in charge had plenty of both.
Jake stopped his tapping. “Isn’t that risky?”
Trent uncurled his fists. Blood on his hands made his skin sticky. “Not really. You did take care of all their headsets, didn’t you?”
“Sure.” Jake licked his lips as the truck bumped onto the freeway’s exit ramp.
“Then we have nothing to worry about.” Trent wiped his hand on his damp slacks, blood streaked the dark fabric. Unless, of course, Jake was the traitor. Then the man had everything to fear.
And this time, Trent would take his time and savor the execution.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“How did the fuckers get around us?” Papa Rose punched the steering wheel then the dash. His knuckles popped and pain zig-zagged up his arm. He glanced at Falcon. The ex-Green Beret deserved a sock to the jaw too. Where was his Spec Ops mojo when they needed it?
When Jillie, Olivia and Toby needed it.
Papa Rose’s throat closed. If anything happened to the munchkins…
Outside the truck’s windows, the desert flew by and the reactors of Palo Verde blazed white against the black clouds. So close, yet too damn far away. The bastards that had killed the kids’ parents could already be there, doing God knows what.
“We had to travel off the main road to reach the second well.” Falcon adjusted the bandage on his thigh. Blood trickled through, staining the seat cushion. “They could have snuck past us then. Can’t this rust bucket go any faster?”
Papa Rose checked the speedometer. One-forty-five. The truck vibrated with the motion but he doubted he’d get any more juice putting the pedal through the floorboard. He banked the truck as the road curved. “We were out of sight of the street no more than twenty minutes.”
Falcon wiggled on the seat then checked the cartridge of the M-4. “That was all it took.”
“What time was that?” Polo Shirt leaned forward from the back seat.
Time? What did that matter?
“We left about day-break and spent an hour at the first well.” Falcon scratched his whiskered cheeks. “I say eight-thirty, nine o’clock.”
Polo Shirt shook his head. “Couldn’t have been then.”
The red-hair kid behind Falcon bounced in his seat. “We chased the last one off about nine-thirty.”
Papa Rose eased off the gas. Something wasn’t adding up here. “We would have been on the main road by then.”
Falcon set the rifle across his lap. “In and out of the ditches, but we would have noticed if anyone approached.”
“And Glen was alive up until half an hour ago.” Papa turned toward the entrance to the power plant. “With all these cameras around the place, he would have noticed any new arrivals.”
The nuclear tech had seen them coming miles up the road.
“So where are they?” Falcon glanced out his window.
“Could they have gotten lost?” Papa Rose pried his fingers from the wheel. Despite being a straight shot, it was possible. The idiots had driven their vehicle into a brick wall.
Falcon straightened on his seat. “We’ll have to hunt them down. We can’t have them breaking into the plant and undoing all our hard work.”
“Yeah.” Especially since they still had to get the munchkins to safety. Papa Rose coasted to a stop where the entrance forked, to the right lay the guard’s station, to the left another road circled the station. “Or we can let them come to Papa.”
Falcon’s white teeth shone brightly against his ebony skin. He jerked his head toward the tank near the entrance. “The soldiers left behind some of their toys.”
“You think the main gun is loaded?” Papa Rose angled the truck across the left road and killed the engine.
“With missiles?” Falcon rolled his eyes. “No, but there’s usually some of the fun stuff packed by the turret.”
Ripping the keys out of the ignition, Papa Rose shoved open his door.
A cowboy in the bed tipped back his white Stetson and raised his shotgun. “I think they’re coming.”
Papa Rose glanced at Wintersburgh Road. Two oversized trucks barreled down the two lane street. Weapons bristled from the back and cab while the occupants hooted. He punched his palm. Oh, yeah, it was going to be fun killing the mother fuckers.