Chapter 32
"Rodrigo!" His name was a blur of panic. "Rodrigo!"
Rodrigo opened his eyes, and the world swam back into focus in fractured pieces: the acrid stench of deployed airbags, the bitter tang of blood in his mouth, the high-pitched ringing in his ears.
He was hanging upside down. Seatbelt straps bit into his shoulder and chest, the only thing preventing his full weight from crushing his neck against the collapsed roof lining. His head throbbed viciously, a drumbeat synced to his racing heart. Nausea churned in his gut, threatening to erupt.
Through the shattered side window, he saw the massive grille of a heavy-duty work truck, its front end mangled from the collision, embedded in the Audi's driver-side door. Steam hissed from ruptured radiators. No movement from the truck's cab.
He made out three men, maybe four. Guns held low and ready. They watched the wreck with the cautious lethality of hunters confirming a kill.
Rodrigo had minutes before they would give up waiting and come look for bodies. "Lupo?"
"Thank god, you're alive." Blood trickled in a dark line from a gash on Lupo's temple, stark against the white powder coating his silver hair. His glasses were askew, one lens cracked. His eyes were sharp, despite the disorientation and pain, as the old soldier came out.
"I'm okay," Lupo rasped. He fumbled with his seatbelt buckle, hanging awkwardly. "You?"
"Breathing," Rodrigo gritted out, already working on his buckle. It released with a click, and he braced his hands against the collapsed roof, carefully lowering his weight until his boots touched the ceiling-turned-floor. The shift in blood pressure made the world tilt violently.
Lupo managed the same maneuver beside him, landing with a grunt, one hand pressed to his bleeding temple.
The approaching footsteps crunched on gravel, getting closer. "Need to check the cab. Make sure."
Rodrigo's hand went instinctively to his hip holster. Empty. The impact must have dislodged it. Fuck.
His eyes scanned the cabin. His gun lay half-buried under crumpled airbag fabric near the shattered rear windshield. Useless from here. His gaze snapped to Lupo. "My ankle holster. Left leg. Take my gun."
Lupo bent, wincing, his fingers probing Rodrigo's trouser leg near the boot. He found the small, secure holster and pulled out the compact Glock 43 Rodrigo kept as a backup.
The old priest checked the chamber with familiar ease, his expression grimly focused. No tremor in his hands. The military training was bone deep.
"Loaded. Safety off." Lupo's voice was a low murmur, all business now. He offered the Glock back to Rodrigo.
Rodrigo shook his head, pushing the weapon back toward Lupo. "You're a better shot under pressure than I am right now. My head's ringing like a fucking dinner bell." He saw the protest forming on Lupo's lips. "No argument. Cover me. We're getting out through the back."
The rear windshield was already a mosaic of cracks. It was their best exit point. The doors were buckled shut or pinned by the truck.
Rodrigo braced his boot against the weakened glass. He took a breath, ignoring the pounding in his skull, the nausea, the sharp pain in his ribs where the seatbelt had bitten deep.
One man is a coincidence. Two men are a pattern. Three men are a plan. Gabriella's cold mantra echoed in his head, but it was Giana's voice he heard. He wouldn't die here, leaving her vulnerable.
Rodrigo drove his boot heel into the center of the cracked rear windshield with every ounce of strength he could muster. The safety glass didn't shatter. It sagged outward in a single, heavy sheet, held together by the laminate. Not perfect, but enough. A jagged opening yawned.
"Go! Now!" Rodrigo hissed, shoving Lupo toward the opening. "Into the ditch! Go!"
Lupo moved, scrambling through the opening with surprising agility for a man his age. He landed with a soft thud in the thick, dry brush lining the roadside ditch.
With more room to move, Rodrigo retrieved his other gun where it had fallen and wriggled through the sharp-edged window, fragments of glass scraping his back. He landed hard on his shoulder beside Lupo in the shallow depression, the autumn-dry stalks scratching at his face.
The sharp crack of a pistol shot split the air, followed instantly by the sound of a bullet punching into the Audi's inverted chassis right where Rodrigo's head had been a second before.
"The car is empty! Targets mobile!" a voice barked.
Rodrigo rolled, pressing himself flat against the cold earth. He peered through the skeletal stalks of dead thistle and bramble.
Three figures were advancing, spreading out in a loose semi-circle, guns tracking toward the ditch. Where did the fourth man go?
"Keep your head down, Lupo," Rodrigo commanded. He sighted on the lead man, a bulky figure moving with cautious steps.
Another shot rang out, kicking dirt inches from Rodrigo's face. He flinched, grit showering his face. He risked another glance. The three were closer now, maybe fifteen meters out.
Then, from Rodrigo's left, Lupo fired. The lead man jerked violently, and a dark bloom flowered high on his right shoulder. He cried out, stumbling back, his weapon dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers. Not a kill shot, but effective. Shattered clavicle. Out of the fight.
"Holy shit, Lupo," Rodrigo breathed, savage admiration cutting through the pain and adrenaline. "Remind me never to piss you off during confession."
A ghost of a smile touched Lupo's lips, though his eyes never left the remaining two attackers, who had instantly dived for cover behind the wrecked Audi and the front fender of the truck.
"I believe 'Thou shalt not kill' has a few asterisks in the current situation, my son," Lupo murmured with a grin, his voice dry as dust. He smoothly shifted his aim, tracking the movement behind the Audi. "Covering fire?"
Rodrigo didn't need telling twice. He snapped off two rapid shots toward the Audi's undercarriage, forcing the man hiding there to keep his head down.
Lupo's shot had bought them a moment, disrupted the advance, but they were still pinned. The ditch offered minimal cover, and there was still that fourth man unaccounted for.
Where is he? The thought was a cold spike of dread. Sniper. Has to be.
A high-velocity round snapped past Rodrigo's ear, so close he felt the wind of its passage. It tore through the brush behind them, sending shredded stalks flying.
The fourth man was set up at range, providing overwatch, waiting for a clean shot. The ditch offered concealment from the ground team, but little protection from a rifleman on higher ground.
Rodrigo scanned the terrain beyond the road. A low rise was just ahead, dotted with scrub and a few skeletal trees. The perfect vantage point.
"Sniper," Rodrigo hissed to Lupo. "Rise to the left. Under the twisted oak."
Lupo risked a split-second glance then ducked as another pistol shot from behind the Audi chipped dirt near his position. "Spotted him."
Another rifle round slammed into the earth just behind them, showering them with dirt. The shooter was adjusting, bracketing their position. They couldn't stay here. The ground team would regroup, flush them out, and the sniper would pick them off.
Rodrigo's mind raced, cutting through the concussion fog with the ruthless efficiency Gabriella had drilled into him. Divide their attention. Create an opportunity. He looked at the overturned Audi and the steaming truck.
"Lupo," he whispered urgently. "I need you to make some noise. Draw the sniper's eye. Use the car wrecks. Move slow, stay low, make him think you're trying to flank the ground team. Just don't give him a clean shot."
Lupo met his gaze. The old priest understood the risk of being bait. He nodded once, his jaw set. "Understood. God go with you, Rodrigo."
"If he's coming, he better fucking hurry up," Rodrigo muttered, already scanning the ditch line to his right.
It deepened slightly farther down, angling toward a denser patch of brambles and a cluster of larger trees that ran parallel to the road, offering a potential covered approach toward the sniper's perch. It was a gamble. A long crawl under potential fire, but it was the only way he could see.
He handed his gun to Lupo. "You'll need both. Make it loud."
Lupo took the second pistol, checking it swiftly. "Go. I'll give you time."
Rodrigo didn't wait. He started crawling, low and fast, keeping his body pressed into the shallow depression of the ditch, using every clump of dead grass and dried thistle for concealment.
The earth was cold and gritty against his palms and knees. Pain flared in his ribs with every movement, and his head throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
A single shot from Lupo's position cracked the air. Then another. Aimed high, toward the rise where the sniper lurked. Bang. Bang. Pause. Bang.
Not trying to hit, just to provoke. Lupo moved cautiously, using the overturned Audi's bulk as cover, drawing fire away from Rodrigo.
The response was immediate. The sniper's rifle cracked again, the round pinging off the Audi's undercarriage near where Lupo must have been. The two remaining ground team members opened up from behind their cover, peppering Lupo's position.
Lupo returned fire sporadically, forcing the ground team to keep their heads down. He was buying time. Precious seconds.
Rodrigo crawled faster, ignoring the tearing sensation in his side, the way his vision blurred at the edges. The dense brambles were close now. Ten meters. Five.
He reached the thicker vegetation and slipped into it, the tangled branches snagging his jacket but offering blessed concealment. He paused for a second, gulping air, listening.
Rodrigo pushed forward, using the trees and thicker brush now as cover, moving parallel to the road but angling steadily uphill.
Rodrigo crested the rise, staying low behind a gnarled, ancient olive tree. The twisted oak was twenty meters ahead, standing sentinel on a slightly higher knoll.
A lean figure in nondescript camo gear was under it and behind a low stone wall that offered perfect cover and a commanding view of the road and ditch below. The man was focused entirely through the scope of his rifle, tracking Lupo near the wrecked cars.
Charging across twenty meters of open ground under the gaze of that rifle was suicide. He needed to get closer. He scanned the terrain between him and the stone wall.
A depression, maybe an old animal track, ran diagonally toward the wall, offering slightly deeper cover. It was a gamble against a trained marksman's reaction time, and Rodrigo wasn't at his best.
No choice.
He dropped into the shallow gully, crawling again, his breath loud in his own ears, every rustle of dry grass sounding like a thunderclap. He focused on the sniper's back, the curve of his spine as he lay prone, utterly absorbed in his scope.
Rodrigo gathered himself, every muscle coiled. He exhaled and ran, fast and silent. He scooped up a fist-sized chunk of weathered sandstone lying near the base of the wall without breaking stride.
The sniper looked over his shoulder, eyes wide with shock.
Rodrigo swung the rock in a short, vicious arc, putting all his weight and momentum behind it.
It connected with the sniper's skull with a sickening, wet thud.
The man's eyes rolled back before he collapsed face-first onto the stock of his rifle.
Rodrigo stood over him, breathing hard, the rock still clutched in his hand, dripping a dark smear. The sudden silence from the ridge was deafening. Below, the sporadic pistol fire had also stopped. He looked down toward the road.
Lupo stood near the ditch, breathing heavily, smoke curling from the barrel of one Glock. The other pistol was trained warily on the two remaining ground team members.
One lay sprawled near the truck, unmoving. The other was on his knees, hands clasped behind his head, a dark stain spreading across his thigh. Lupo met Rodrigo's gaze across the distance and gave a small, grim nod. It was over.
Rodrigo dropped the bloody rock. He knelt, quickly checking the sniper's pulse. Weak, but still there.
He swiftly stripped the man of the rifle, a sidearm, several spare magazines, and a wicked-looking knife. He bound the unconscious man's wrists tightly behind his back with the man's own belt, then his ankles with a length of paracord from a pouch on the sniper's vest.
He straightened, looking down at his captive, then back toward Lupo guarding the other survivor near the wrecks. The Audi was totaled, but they were alive, and he had prisoners.
Whoever the 'Old Man' was, he had made a fatal error. He had attacked Rodrigo on his way back to the woman he loved, and he was very, very good at making people regret their bad decisions.