Chapter 6 #3
They hit the logging road after forty minutes.
It was nothing more than a rutted dirt track barely wide enough for a truck.
There was an overgrowth of vegetation. Willow held up a fist, and he stopped automatically, scanning for threats.
No vehicles. No voices. Just the endless screech of insects and the hammer of his own heartbeat inside his skull.
That thumping was getting louder and louder.
She pointed to fresh tire tracks in the mud. The tracks were recent, probably from this morning. Fuck, he could have used a mile or two on cleared land. Then she gestured to a game trail that branched off into deeper jungle.
Message received. Stay off the road.
They paralleled the track for another thirty minutes, keeping it just barely visible through the trees. The terrain got rougher—muddy slopes, fallen logs, areas where the rain had turned everything into a sucking pit that tried to pull his boots off with each step.
Levi's vision was starting to narrow, tunnel-like. He recognized the signs. Dehydration, infection, and his body was trying to shut down non-essential functions. He needed water, rest, and antibiotics. Preferably in that order.
“There,” Willow whispered.
The medical depot appeared through the trees like something from a fever dream. A cluster of concrete buildings surrounded by a chain-link fence, topped with razor wire. Two guards at the gate, both armed with AK-47s. A truck parked near the main building, engine ticking as it cooled.
“Recent delivery,” Willow murmured. “Supply run from Maracaibo, probably. Which means the depot will be fully stocked.”
“Also means more personnel inside.”
“Yeah.” She was silent for a moment, lost in thought. “We need a distraction.”
Levi felt himself grin, a sharp and feral expression. “Now, you're speaking my language.”
“I was afraid you'd say that.” But she was almost smiling. Almost. “What do you need?”
He studied the compound, fever-bright eyes picking out details. The truck. The fuel tank behind the main building. The guard shack, equipped with a propane heater. Multiple ignition points, multiple vectors for chaos.
“Twenty minutes,” he tried to lick his lips but gave that shit up before adding, “Give me twenty minutes to get in position. When you hear the boom, that's your window. In and out, fast as you can.”
“What are you going to blow up?”
He stared at the compound. “Does it matter?”
“It does if you're planning to level the entire depot.”
“Have some faith, love.” He checked the Glock and made sure he had his demo kit. The familiar weight of it steadied him, focused his thoughts through the fever haze. This was what he was good at. This was home. “I'm very good at controlled destruction.”
“That's what I'm afraid of.”
She grabbed his arm before he could move, fingers tight on his bicep. Up close, he could see gold flecks in her brown eyes, could smell gun oil and sweat and something else. It was wonderful beneath the grime.
“Don't die,” she said. Simple. Direct. Almost an order.
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
“I mean it, Levi. You die, I'm stuck in this jungle with no way out and a very pissed-off cartel. So, don't.”
The use of his name, his real name, not “sunshine” or “idiot,” made something in his chest tighten. Like trust. Like a partnership. Which was something he felt with a very few people.
“I'll be fine,” he said, meaning it. “Been blown up before. Survived every time.”
“That's not reassuring.”
“Wasn't meant to be.”
He moved before she could argue, slipping into the jungle like a ghost. His leg screamed, his ribs burned, but his hands were steady as he worked his way around the perimeter. Twenty minutes. He could stay functional for twenty minutes.
After that, all bets were off.
“What are you doing, man?” Con asked him.
“Blowing shit up,” Z answered. “I need meds. She’s going to go into the depot and get them for me. She needs a distraction.”
Con groaned, “Fuck.”
“Not today, Con. Besides, your wife wouldn’t be happy, mate.”
“Z, the bosses said they’d follow your lead, but I can get a team there. Let me send them in.”
“Nah, mate. Doesn’t make sense. If I’m going to die, they’d be risking their lives for a hunk of flesh. If I don’t, we’re going to be gone, and they won’t find me.” He smiled at himself. “Ha. I made sense.”
“Asshole.”
“Oh, I love you, too,” he said before tapping his earpiece and working his way to the other side of the compound.
Fifteen minutes later, Levi was crouched behind a propane tank, sweating through his shirt and questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment.
The fever wasn’t helping. His hands shook as he stripped wire from the det cord, and twice he had to stop and breathe through waves of dizziness that threatened to send him face-first into the mud.
But muscle memory carried him through. Wrap the cord, set the charge, and attach the timer.
Simple. Mechanical. He’d done this hundreds of times.
Just never while his body was actively trying to shut down.
The guard shack was thirty feet away, close enough he could hear the men inside talking—casual conversation, something about a football match. One laughed, the sound carrying across the compound. They had no idea death was being assembled twenty yards from their propane heater.
Levi checked his work. The shaped charge was positioned perfectly, angled to rupture the tank and send flaming propane straight toward the guard shack. The timer was set for three minutes—enough time to reach the next position but not enough for anyone to find it first.
He keyed the detonator, heard the soft beep that meant it was armed, and moved.
His leg nearly gave out. Pain exploded white-hot through his thigh, and he had to grab a fence post to stay upright. Blood soaked through the bandage, warm and wet, running down into his boot. He could feel it squelching with each step.
Not now. Stay functional. Three more minutes.
He made it to the fuel tank behind the main building, moving through shadows and blind spots he’d memorized during his reconnaissance. This charge was simpler. It was just enough C-4 to rupture the tank, let the fuel spill, and create a fireball that would draw every guard in the compound.
Timer set. Two minutes, thirty seconds. Staggered detonation.
He was moving toward the third position. The truck. It was perfect for a mobile fireball, but that was when his vision grayed. Not darkened, just … lost color. Everything went flat, two-dimensional, like watching the world through a dirty window.
Fever spike. Push through it.
But his body had other ideas. His leg buckled, and this time, he went down. Hard. His hands hit mud, and he felt the impact jar through his injured ribs. Pain bloomed, sharp enough that he couldn’t breathe for a moment.
The timer on the first charge beeped. Ninety seconds.
Move. Get up. MOVE.
He dragged himself behind a stack of pallets, close enough to the truck that he could see the guards at the gate. They hadn’t noticed him. Yet. But the first explosion would light up the whole compound, and if he were still lying in the mud when that happened—
Sixty seconds.
He pulled himself upright using the pallet, biting back a groan.
His hands found the last charge, smaller than the others, just enough to turn the truck’s fuel tank into a secondary explosion.
He placed it by feel more than sight, his vision still doing that disturbing flat thing that meant his brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen.
Timer armed. Thirty seconds until the first charge blew.
He needed to move. Needed to get clear. Needed to—
The world exploded.
The propane tank went up with a sound like God clearing his throat—a deep WHUMP that Levi felt in his bones. Fire bloomed orange and white, rolling up into the morning sky. The guard shack disintegrated as wood and metal flying outward in a perfect radius. Men screamed.
Then the fuel tank blew.
This one was bigger, angrier, a fireball that climbed thirty feet and sent black smoke billowing across the compound. The main building’s windows shattered, raining glass. Alarms started wailing. The screech was mechanical, urgent, and endless.
Levi was already moving, hobbling toward the fence line where Willow should be waiting. His leg dragged, and blood loss was turning his thoughts sluggish. But he could see the hole in the fence now, could see—
The truck exploded.
He’d forgotten about that one. The timer must have been faster than he’d set, or maybe time was doing weird things in his fever-addled brain. Either way, the explosion caught him mid-stride, the shockwave slamming into his back and sending him flying forward.
He hit the ground rolling, training overriding pain. Came up in a crouch, ears ringing, tasting blood and smoke. Behind him, the compound was chaos—fire everywhere, guards shouting, someone firing blindly into the smoke.
Perfect.
He made it to the fence and through the hole Willow had cut. Wait, when had she cut that? He crashed into the relative safety of the jungle. His vision was tunneling now, dark at the edges, but he could see her ahead, moving fast through the undergrowth.
She glanced back, saw him, and her eyes went wide.
He looked down. The front of his shirt was soaked red, and he couldn’t remember if that was old blood or new blood. Probably both.
“Run,” he tried to say, but it came out as a wheeze.
She was already moving back toward him, face set in grim determination. “You’re an idiot.”
“Established fact.” His leg gave out again, and this time, there was nothing to catch himself on. He went down hard, face-first into mud.
Willow grabbed him under the arms, hauling him upright with strength that shouldn’t have existed in someone her size. “Come on, sunshine. Don’t you dare die on me.”