Prologue #2
Tierney switched off the flashlight as she crept down the corridor, constantly checking each direction before taking another step.
Voices picked up off to the left, another beam cutting through the dark.
She darted forward, nearly tripping when her right leg dragged again, then wedged herself into a small space beneath the stairs, knife at the ready.
Boots appeared a second later as two men walked past, heading for the cellar door.
The scent of earthy mud and cheap tobacco followed after them, blending with the lingering smell of day-old pizza and stale beer.
The hinges sounded above the torrential rain beating the roof, the metal door clicking shut with a dull whoosh.
She cursed. If they found the dead guard…
Blood smeared the floor as she crawled out, limped down the hall and into the adjoining room. A few monitors lined the far wall, the screens reflecting the next burst of lightning. A narrow door opened onto an old, covered veranda, rain blowing past the windows on a forty-five.
She checked her six, then hobbled to the door, wincing when the damn thing squeaked as she eased it open. Another check before she slipped out, staying low as she limped to the far end, looked out across the grounds.
Through the sheeting rain, she spied a cluster of men, one large, imposing figure barking out orders as he waved a flashlight, kicking a piece of equipment out of his way.
He turned, and she swore he stared right at her before pointing at two of the men, sending them racing off.
The guy stared at the sky for a moment, rain streaming down his face and jacket before he headed for the veranda.
She crouched lower, ready to dive behind a bamboo chair when another man shifted out of the shadows several feet away. He didn’t talk, just stood there, watching the other men race across the grounds, looking like an immovable force amidst the monsoon gales.
The first man marched over to him, shaking his head as he stopped, said something she couldn’t make out.
The other man merely nodded, lifting his right hand to his face.
Snick-clink. A spark flashed in the darkness, followed by a flickering flame that illuminated the man’s hand along with the lower half of his jaw.
In the brief burst of orange flame, the light glinted off the Zippo’s metal casing, displaying a polished silver scythe engraved on the matte back cover.
The first guy grabbed the lighter, used it to light a cigarette before handing it back, taking a long draw.
They talked for a while before heading her way.
She ducked behind the chair, praying the heavy cushion hid most of her body as the door flew open, wind and rain blowing in with the men as they sauntered inside — latched the door closed behind them.
The quiet guy shook off the rain, slicking his hair back from his face. “I told you we should have moved her before the storm set in. We'll be lucky if the road doesn’t wash out.” Obviously British, with a hollow tone that sent a shiver down her spine.
The louder guy kicked off a clump of mud, knocking the bamboo chair in the process. She held her breath as it rocked, exposing her shoulder before settling back.
He crossed his arms, water still dripping off his jacket. “Be thankful we have a buyer at all, chum. You nearly blew her leg off in that crossfire.”
Another Brit, only his accent sounded thicker. Harsher.
“She was trying to drag her dead squad leader out of the kill-zone. I had to drop her.” The quiet man pulled the Zippo from his pocket.
Snick-clink. The silver scythe flashed again as he lit his own cigarette.
“Her fever broke yesterday. She’s viable.
By the time the broker takes delivery tomorrow, she’ll be fully transportable. ”
“And if her leg gives out? We guaranteed the buyer an operative, not a cripple.”
The other man smiled, the embers of his cigarette illuminating cold, dead eyes.
“With her file? The buyer doesn’t care if she walks.
He’s paying for the MI6 pedigree and the fact she doesn’t break easily.
He’ll enjoy breaking her himself.” He stopped, his head tilting slightly as he inhaled. “Do you smell that?”
“Antiseptic.” The large guy wrinkled his nose. “And José’s cheap-ass cologne.”
Zippo man snapped the lighter shut, plunging the veranda back into shadow. “It’s too strong for him to just be making exterior rounds. Go down to the cellar. Secure the merchandise. I want her ready to load before first light.”
The larger guy waved the other forward, their steps strong, determined.
She waited until the cellar door opened and closed, their footsteps fading into the rain before scrambling to her feet, rushing outside.
Not worrying if anyone saw her, not with the time quickly counting down before the entire camp knew she’d escaped.
Instead, she limped across the storm-drenched ground, the rain needling her skin, the freezing mud numbing her feet until she couldn’t tell what burned more — her toes or her thigh.
She slipped, tripped onto one knee, mud splashing up her legs and across her face. She took a breath and locked down the pain, as she stumbled upright, pushing ahead. Stones bit into the soles of her feet, but she kept moving, using rusty barrels and overturned crates for cover.
She’d just reached the tree line when the lights flickered, the generator roaring back to life, flooding the yard with spotlights. An alarm sounded inside, the shrill noise drowning out the next roll of thunder.
Men exploded from the house, shouting a mix of English and Spanish. Dogs barked from the kennels, angry growls resonating with the raging storm, as the entire compound mobilized in a coordinated response.