“Seat.” His breathing is labored. “Under the seat.”
I don’t have time to dwell on why his voice sounds strange. Whoever shot out our tires is out there. And that kind of shot? It had to be done with night-vision goggles, which means they have a serious advantage on us. We need to mud up. The cool mud layer will reduce our heat signal and level the playing field.
“How far do you think we are from the river?” I ask Garcia while feeling around on the floor for his gun. I locate it wedged between the seat and the console. I place it on Garcia’s lap and twist around. “Ava, pull down the center compartment and reach through to the back.”
“What about you two?” she asks.
“Don’t worry about us.” I take the butt of my gun and smash out the interior lights.
Garcia’s hand is on his door. At my nod, we both roll out of the car, making as small of a target as we can. I duckwalk to the rear and open the car door to grab the pack where we stuck the folders. After sticking my arms through the straps, I army crawl on my stomach over to Garcia, who’s already flat on the ground with his gun up.
Pucallpa can’t be more than a few hundred clicks away. If we have to abandon this car, we’ll find another one that will carry us the rest of the way.
No gunshots greet us. Whoever shot at us must be some distance away. That’s to our advantage. We’ll hear them . . . I hope.
“How many?” I mouth quietly.
“No more than one,” Garcia guesses. “Maybe two? But only one is a decent shot.”
“Only takes one bullet to kill us.”
He grunts quietly.
I tap the ground. “You stay here with Ava. I’ll go forward and see if I can spot the shooter. Snipers don’t like to get close. If I circle around, I might be able to see him.”
“I have a better idea. Be ready.”
Before I can ask him what the hell he means, he jumps up. A slight flare appears as the gunpowder is engaged thirty degrees to the left. Garcia’s body jerks once and then twice. I shut out what I know has happened and run hard toward the pinpoint of light that has already died out. I hear footsteps approaching fast, and drop immediately to the ground. The bullet whizzes over my head. The shooter is twenty-five feet in front of me, standing like a dumbass. I shoot his leg.
The muzzle of his gun swings toward me, and I surge forward and blow the top of his fucking head off. In the gauzy moonlight I see the figure jerk backward and then collapse. I’m on top of his corpse in less than twenty seconds. The sniper rifle lies to his right. I grab it and then sprint back to Garcia.
Ava’s on her knees outside the car and Garcia’s in her lap. She’s using her shirt to sop the blood gurgling out of his mouth. Even in the darkness I can see the stain on her hands, which are clenched over his chest.
“Rafe,” she cries out. “He’s been shot.”
“You dumb fuck.” I crash to my knees beside them. Ava gasps in shock but I ignore her to repeat it. “You dumb, stupid fuck.”
Garcia closes his eyes and makes an impatient huffing noise. “He’d have picked us both off if I hadn’t drawn his fire. Stupid night-vision goggles.”
I throw the pack off and paw through it for the first aid kit. His hand, warm and slick from his blood, stops me. “No,” he says. “It’s not just my lung. I’m gut shot.”
His hand drags mine to his side. When I peel away the fabric, the entry wound pulses as if it’s alive.
“Fuck.” I swipe my hand across my mouth and taste the metallic flavor of Garcia’s life. “No, we’re going to save you.” I wrench open the kit and grab the gauze. “We’ll glue you up and drive into Pucallpa and get the bullet out of you.”
“No,” he repeats. “I’m not going to make it. We both know it. Take her and get out.”
“No man left behind, brother. Not happening.” I twist out of his grasp and press the gauze to his wound. It’s soaked and ruined immediately. The fountain of blood keeps coming.
Ava’s crying but she tries to help, our hands fumbling to pack the wound tight and stop the blood.
“I’m going now. See my girl.” Garcia smiles. “Here, I’m it for her. I can see her.”
He clasps my arm and pulls me close, death giving him strength. “You’re right,” he gasps into my ear, his breath cold when it should be warm. I press harder against the wound even though I know it’s useless. My throat tightens.
“What about?”
“Everything. Her. You. What we fight for. The moment. Savor it.” Each word is labored. I clench my teeth from striking out, from weeping, from running back and putting a dozen more bullets into the shooter’s face.
“I got him,” I say, knowing that’s one thing Garcia would have wanted.
“Never doubted you, Brother.”
And then that’s it. His fingers tighten momentarily against my arm and then he’s gone. No breath, just a dead, lifeless weight.