Still, Tucker ran low, trying to shield as much of his exposed flesh behind armor. Frank kept at his side and pointed toward the building that the tech had indicated. An open garage door led to a ramp heading down, hopefully to the promised motor pool.
They dashed for it—when an ear-piercing whistle, followed by an abrupt explosion, knocked them both to their knees. Tucker initially thought the bomb had prematurely blown, but he craned his neck back. A rocket had struck the roof of the communication nest, silencing the siren. Shattered bricks and glass cascaded down, falling through smoke and fire to pelt the square.
A chopper sped high above the carnage and swept away.
Tucker scowled at it. A parting shot from Captain Draper. De Coster’s man must have clearly been suspicious of that sudden klaxon, guessing something was wrong.
They regained their feet and sprinted the last of the distance.
Tucker reached the sheltering darkness, glad to be out of sight, and rushed down the ramp. They slowed at the foot of it. A few bare bulbs lit the garage ahead. The scatter of light did little to cast back the shadows. The motor pool looked ransacked. The space was large enough to garage a dozen trucks, but there was only one left, sitting sullenly in a pool of light at the back: an old Land Rover that looked more rust than truck and was missing its front bumper.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Tucker led the way toward it, when Frank grabbed his arm and pulled him lower. He pointed up. Tucker suspected what he was going to see and wasn’t disappointed. The roof of the garage stirred with shadows and flapping wings. A mass of bats crawled and hung there, turning the motor pool into its personal cave. Amidst the darkness, flickering glows and phosphorescent streaks flashed down at the trespassers.
Tucker remembered Frank’s earlier ruminations, how the display was likely a warning, the visual equivalent of the shake of a rattler’s tail.
“Move slow,” Frank whispered to him. “We gotta make it to that Rover.”
Tucker knew he was right. All instinct told Tucker to turn and run, but the bats weren’t the only danger here.
A shout rose behind them, coming from the top of the ramp. “We’re taking that truck!”
Tucker dropped even lower, leaning a hand on the floor. He recognized the voice of the radio tech, proving no good deed goes unpunished.
Should’ve shot him after all.
Especially as the bastard hadn’t come alone. A crowd of armed men backed him up. He must’ve gathered them on his way out and led them here, knowing that commandeering a vehicle was the best chance to escape the blast zone.
The men headed down the ramp.
Tucker waved for Frank to keep going, then flicked his thumb toward the approaching group.
Just need fifteen seconds.
By now, the soldiers had entered the motor pool. Rifles bristled. One even hauled forward a machine gun.
To distract them, Tucker pointed a hand up. “Don’t shoot,” he warned softly.
Gazes flicked to the ceiling. Many of the men did double takes or dropped into wary squats. They all knew the danger above their heads. But that wasn’t what they should’ve been watching for. A tiny silver sphere—the one Tucker had flicked toward them a moment ago—bounced and rolled under their feet.
Tucker counted in his head.
. . . twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . .
He shoved Frank forward, all but lifting the man off his legs. “Go!”
They rushed the Rover when the count reached fifteen.
The flash-bang exploded behind Tucker, blinding even with his back turned. The blast pounded his head. Still, Tucker didn’t slow. Screams rose from behind him as the bats crashed upon the noisome threat.
He and Frank slammed into the Rover. Frank got the door open and slid across to the passenger seat. Tucker climbed in and dropped behind the wheel. He searched for the keys in the ignition.
Not there.
Frank reached over and flipped the visor above Tucker’s head. A fob dropped. Tucker caught it with a prayer of thanks. He keyed the engine, only to have it cough and die.
Gunfire erupted across the garage. Rounds ricocheted and sparked in the dark. Men continued to bellow. Several ran for the ramp, only to fall under the onslaught of the bats.
Tucker pumped the gas pedal, turned the key, and begged for the slightest bit of mercy. It was granted as the stubborn Rover coughed again, then growled to life. He popped into gear and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Though the Rover was mostly rust on the outside, its old diesel engine still had some life in her.
The Rover barreled through the chaos, choking a cloud of oily smoke behind it. The grill knocked bodies aside. Tires pummeled over others.
Both bats and men.
Tucker aimed for the ramp, shot up it, and skidded across the square. He headed for the compound’s gates, which had been left open as others heeded the evacuation siren. He did not slow. He kept one eye on the road, the other on the tiny compass spinning at a corner of the goggles, guiding him back to Kane.
He counted the seconds until they were reunited—while another timer ticked down in his head.
Eight minutes to go.
11:52 P.M.
With the siren gone silent again, Charlotte watched the mass of bats settle and return to their wary perches. She felt like Tippi Hedren in Hitchcock’s The Birds, waiting for the winged flock to attack.
Just keep calm, she warned both herself and the horde.
During her vigil, a handful of men had furtively passed through the area, either singly or in small groups. They weren’t patrols, but miners in dirt-caked clothes. They edged through the deserted warren, moving silently, trying not to disturb the lurkers above them. Once free, they all sprinted for the forest and disappeared into its shelter.
They must know what’s coming . . .
“We’re running out of time,” Jameson said at her shoulder. “We should’ve followed those men into the jungle.”
Charlotte stayed silent. Monk had explained the danger. The blast zone would be huge, stretching a mile from the bomb in all directions. If they’d wanted to escape on foot, they should’ve left long ago, especially with Jameson compromised by his broken arm.
Her group’s only hope lay with Tucker and Frank.
Still, how could we possibly clear such a blast in time?
“Someone’s coming,” Monk hissed.
Charlotte glanced over. Monk stood by the entrance to the barracks. He had cracked the door open enough to peek out and watch the rutted streets. He cupped his earpiece, then nodded at Charlotte and Jameson. “It’s them. They say they’ll be coming in fast.”
They’d better be.
“Tucker wants us at the door. He’ll pull in close.”
Charlotte searched out her window. A short ways off, a truck’s headlights bounced toward them, careening through the shantytown. The vehicle bulldozed a corner off of one shack, leaving it in ruins behind them. The reason for such haste was not just the shrinking timetable. A dark cloud pursued and battered at the truck. Its rumbling engine and dancing lights had stirred and attracted the bats, drawing the colony in its wake.
Outside, the nearby bats stirred from their roosts. Several took wing and headed toward the tumult, ready to aid their brethren in the assault.
Monk lifted a flashlight and briefly flashed it through the opening in the door, signaling and confirming their location. He then turned to them.
“Everyone gather up,” he warned. “As soon as they stop, we’re all piling in the back.”
Charlotte swallowed her fear and nodded. She pushed Kane ahead of her. Jameson crowded in with them. He braced his splinted arm tight to his chest.
Through the crack in the door, Charlotte caught fractured glimpses of the vehicle’s wild approach. Once in full view, it raced toward them. She stepped back, remembering the truck sideswiping one of the shacks. But the driver fishtailed at the last second, swinging the tailgate toward the door. The rear bumper came to a stop only a few feet from the threshold.
“Now,” Monk whispered to them.