ordered, end of story. Yet the feeling wouldn’t be mutual. So long as he carried an AK-47, if the Haitian police caught him, they’d shoot first and ask questions later. Dead was dead. They find his body with the rest of these bastards, and no one would know he was any different. Considering what he did for a living, it would be an easy mistake to make. He’d be fitted for a body bag, no matter what his intentions were. And being the only dead terrorist in a fancy suit wouldn’t matter when it came to a body count in a foreign country.
Kinkaid shut his eyes tight to stop his head from spinning. He took deep breaths of muggy air to over-come his nausea. His body’s struggle between chills and fever was getting worse. And in his weakened state, he couldn’t afford to waste time. He’d get only one chance at helping Kate. He had to make it count.
Before he made himself into a one-man wrecking crew, he checked his cell phone for any messages from Joe LaClaire. After he came up empty, he heaved a sigh in frustration. Calling Joe had been a long shot. The whole thing sucked. The urgency of Kate’s predicament made any rescue nearly impossible for a man working alone, and he’d be bucking local cops, who weighed success by a high body count and had the photos to prove it.
“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath.
When he hit his speed dial to try Joe one more time, a thunderous blast shook the ground. And the night sky erupted in flames. Kinkaid covered his head as dirt and debris pelted him. When he looked up, he knew what had happened. The terrorists had used a grenade launcher that tore through police lines and cleared the way with deadly precision. Some cops broke cover and ran. Others stayed and fought, even though they didn’t stand a chance. The Haitian officers were outclassed in equipment and training.
The terrorists had rushed out a basement door using hostages for cover. A crush of humanity moved as one. Assault rifles erupted with short bursts of flame piercing the darkness. He squinted through the fires left burning from the grenades, unable to see who was shooting. The gunmen cut a swath through the few gutsy police officers who dared to resist. With brutal force, the terrorists showed no mercy as they hid behind women and children.
They were on the move again—and so was he.
Kinkaid tracked the cowards from the shadows on the ridge, weaving in and out of cover as he traversed the rough terrain. Armed with a grenade launcher, the men were more dangerous and better prepared than he had first thought. And coming off a firefight, they’d be wired with adrenaline and a shitload of testosterone. A lethal combo in his line of work. He’d have to be more careful.
And if these men escaped with Kate and the others, the terrorists would be in complete control to carry out their agenda. That was unacceptable.
When blood splattered her face, Sister Kate winced. A scream had wedged deep in her throat though she was too stunned to know if she’d actually cried out. The fierce explosions and the automatic gunfire had muffled any sound to her ears; it seemed as if the only thing she could hear was the pounding of her heart.
One of the gunmen had his arm tight against her neck, choking her. He’d killed a Haitian police officer in front of her. His bullets pounded the young man’s chest, the force of the blows staggering him. Her captor stopped long enough to see the body fall before he trudged on, dragging her with him.
The brief encounter forced a gap between them and the rest of the hostages. It isolated her with the man who had her by the neck until they approached a group of small dwellings. Kate caught movement from thecorner of her eye. Another man in uniform stepped out from behind a shanty and thrust an arm near her head. She heard a series of thuds and a gasp from deep inside her captor’s chest. He arched his back and let her go. Kate turned in time to see that a policeman held the masked
Kinkaid shut his eyes tight to stop his head from spinning. He took deep breaths of muggy air to over-come his nausea. His body’s struggle between chills and fever was getting worse. And in his weakened state, he couldn’t afford to waste time. He’d get only one chance at helping Kate. He had to make it count.
Before he made himself into a one-man wrecking crew, he checked his cell phone for any messages from Joe LaClaire. After he came up empty, he heaved a sigh in frustration. Calling Joe had been a long shot. The whole thing sucked. The urgency of Kate’s predicament made any rescue nearly impossible for a man working alone, and he’d be bucking local cops, who weighed success by a high body count and had the photos to prove it.
“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath.
When he hit his speed dial to try Joe one more time, a thunderous blast shook the ground. And the night sky erupted in flames. Kinkaid covered his head as dirt and debris pelted him. When he looked up, he knew what had happened. The terrorists had used a grenade launcher that tore through police lines and cleared the way with deadly precision. Some cops broke cover and ran. Others stayed and fought, even though they didn’t stand a chance. The Haitian officers were outclassed in equipment and training.
The terrorists had rushed out a basement door using hostages for cover. A crush of humanity moved as one. Assault rifles erupted with short bursts of flame piercing the darkness. He squinted through the fires left burning from the grenades, unable to see who was shooting. The gunmen cut a swath through the few gutsy police officers who dared to resist. With brutal force, the terrorists showed no mercy as they hid behind women and children.
They were on the move again—and so was he.
Kinkaid tracked the cowards from the shadows on the ridge, weaving in and out of cover as he traversed the rough terrain. Armed with a grenade launcher, the men were more dangerous and better prepared than he had first thought. And coming off a firefight, they’d be wired with adrenaline and a shitload of testosterone. A lethal combo in his line of work. He’d have to be more careful.
And if these men escaped with Kate and the others, the terrorists would be in complete control to carry out their agenda. That was unacceptable.
When blood splattered her face, Sister Kate winced. A scream had wedged deep in her throat though she was too stunned to know if she’d actually cried out. The fierce explosions and the automatic gunfire had muffled any sound to her ears; it seemed as if the only thing she could hear was the pounding of her heart.
One of the gunmen had his arm tight against her neck, choking her. He’d killed a Haitian police officer in front of her. His bullets pounded the young man’s chest, the force of the blows staggering him. Her captor stopped long enough to see the body fall before he trudged on, dragging her with him.
The brief encounter forced a gap between them and the rest of the hostages. It isolated her with the man who had her by the neck until they approached a group of small dwellings. Kate caught movement from thecorner of her eye. Another man in uniform stepped out from behind a shanty and thrust an arm near her head. She heard a series of thuds and a gasp from deep inside her captor’s chest. He arched his back and let her go. Kate turned in time to see that a policeman held the masked
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