chapter 35
Answer your damn phone, Gabe.”
Muttering, Izzy broke off his latest attempt to rouse either Summer or Gabe. When his pager was equally unsuccessful, he opened the big metal case on the car seat beside him and powered up his GPS, praying they still had their phones.
He’d watched them enter the clinic’s main reception building, then emerge with a woman in a white uniform. From his vantage point in the loading area behind the lab, Izzy had seen them enter the lab building with Underhill. Ten minutes later they still hadn’t reappeared, and a guard had come by, politely but firmly telling Izzy to return to the main parking area at the clinic entrance. Though he’d taken his time, Izzy had complied.
At twenty minutes, Izzy knew things had gone south, because Gabe hadn’t answered his cell phone at the prearranged time. When he’d checked with the receptionist, he was told that Mr. and Mrs. Walker had taken a taxi back to their hotel.
Of course, they hadn’t.
Now with his laptop open, Izzy tried to locate Gabe’s phone. A digital map appeared on-screen, with an arrow flickering inside the lab. So Gabe was still inside.
Izzy sat back slowly. Or was he?
He opened a new screen on his computer, taking a different tack. Senator Winslow had made it clear that the three of them would be on their own here in Mexico. There would be no consular backup, no cavalry charging in with guns blazing.
Izzy’s face hardened.
Not that it mattered. He made a damned good cavalry regiment all by himself.
Summer’s hands were on fire, her skin abraded and raw up to her wrists. Though she was bleeding, she kept twisting feverishly, trying to free the last remaining piece of tape. She felt the truck moving while the motor throbbed noisily beneath them, coughing occasionally.
“How are your hands?” Gabe said, his mouth near her ear.
“I felt another piece of tape break,” she whispered back. “My hands are slippery, which should help.”
“Slippery from what?”
“Sweat.” And blood, Summer didn’t say. She bit back a curse as another layer of skin tore free.
A bump sent them flying a foot into the air, then slammed them back down.
“As soon as I can, I’m going for the driver,” he whispered.
“How?”
The truck backfired, swerving hard. Tree branches scraped the metal body like clawing fingers.
Gabe didn’t answer. Silently, Summer reached up to check her door, but the latch was frozen, rusted all the way through.
No chance of getting out that way.
She felt Gabe shift, then pull his hands apart, slamming her on the chin in the process. “How’d you do that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hammer of the old motor.
“I found a rusted nail on the floor, caught in an old piece of rope. Thank God for garbage.” Gabe dug into his boot, then pressed a knife against her fingers. “Use this. I’m going for the driver.”
Summer gripped the knife awkwardly between her knees. She was still bleeding and the knife slipped, cutting her thumb. Ignoring the pain, she went to work while Gabe snaked his arm around the driver’s throat, squeezing hard.
The driver yelled Spanish curses and the truck twisted. Summer heard a hissing noise, and Gabe’s body went tense as he took a burst of pepper spray directly in the face, but even then he didn’t let go of the driver’s throat. She shoved the knife down again, and the tape on her hands broke free. Gabe was struggling blindly with their frenzied driver. She lunged over the seat, pulled up the driver’s door latch, and pushed open the door. Gritting her teeth, Summer pulled the man sideways, and with a brutal shove from Gabe that knocked the revolver to the seat, they pushed the driver outside.
He hit the road with a cloud of dust and an angry yell.
As the truck kept moving, Summer saw that Underhill was slumped down on the passenger seat, still in his rumpled suit. The driver’s revolver was on the seat next to him. Gabe was still half-blinded by the pepper spray, and the truck was fishtailing wildly as they twisted along a narrow mountain road.
Summer leaned over the seat, grabbing the wheel. “I doubt we’ll see the driver again anytime soon,” she rasped.
“Fine by me.”
Summer managed to climb into the driver’s seat without letting go of the steering wheel. Underhill gasped out a tortured breath and began to struggle, his arms striking her in the head.
Summer tried to dodge Underhill’s flailing arms. “Hold him. He’s waking up.”
Gabe managed to grip the scientist from behind and hold him steady. “Terence, can you hear me?”
The scientist gasped an answer, and the next swerve pitched him hard against Gabe’s arm.
“Blood on the Armani. I hate it when that happens.” Gabe shifted to find a better grip while the scientist twisted, oblivious. “Terence, hang in there, pal.”
Summer tried to decipher Underhill’s guttural ranting. “What’s he saying?”
“Can’t tell. Something about a panda?”
Summer saw a green van racing through the dirt behind them. One of the men in the front seat looked like the driver she had tossed out of the truck minutes before.
The road was dangerously narrow now, with almost no room to maneuver, but the van kept coming, and slammed hard against her back fender.
Summer veered to the left, racing along the very edge of the road, fighting to hold the truck steady with the van right behind her, ramming her bumper.
Below her she saw a flash of silver from the ocean, and then the road twisted sharply. To the north, weathered stucco houses dotted the hillside, and after a steep descent the road split in two.
The van hammered them again. Summer’s head snapped backward and she nearly lost control of the truck. Dust swirled through the window and she coughed hard, spit out a mouthful of grit, then drove the accelerator back to the floor. “Can you see yet?” she shouted to Gabe.
“Still blurred as hell.”
“The driver’s gun is on the seat.”
Underhill was muttering brokenly, but Summer couldn’t look away from the road.
Something struck the rear window, cracking the glass.
“We’re taking fire here. Give it some juice.”
Trying to ignore the van riding her bumper and the sheer drop to her left, Summer floored the accelerator again while Gabe knocked a hole in the cab’s rear window.
Squinting, he squeezed off four shots and then cursed. “You need to hold us straight! I’m guessing here already.”
Summer gritted her teeth. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this road is bumpy as hell.”
“I noticed, trust me.”
A bullet cracked against the roof.
“There’s a split in the road ahead.” Summer measured distances and calculated speed. “Get ready, because I’m turning hard.”
“Hold on.” Gabe’s first shot shattered the van’s windshield, and their pursuers slowed abruptly. As Summer barreled into the turn, a mother and three children walked onto the road, directly in front of the truck. Breathing a silent prayer, Summer jammed the brakes hard and spun the truck ninety degrees. With dust flying wildly, they careened into a skid.
She flipped on the wipers, half-blinded, watching the van roar past her with no break in speed. Amid a stream of curses, the driver swerved into a rock, and the van soared into the air, crash-landing against a huge cottonwood tree.
Before Summer had time for relief, the road twisted sharply to the right and she saw a cement overhang twenty feet away, part of a new irrigation canal. They were headed directly toward the unfinished edge.
Summer stared grimly down the hill, her options fading. “Brace yourself, because this is going to hurt like hell,” she shouted.
Then there was nothing but brown, rocky soil stretching out below her.