She nodded.
They gathered everyone and headed to the door. Once outside the hut, Monk guided them away from the fighting toward the less traveled woods.
Before leaving, Charlotte had also recovered one of the rifles. She kept next to Disanka. The young mother staggered alongside her, clutching her child. The woman’s condition was clearly worsening. All Charlotte could do was steady Disanka with a free hand.
They finally reached the woods and slipped into the deeper shadows.
“Keep going,” Monk warned.
Charlotte knew they had no other choice. She clutched hard to the stolen rifle. It was the only way she knew she still held it. Her hands had gone entirely numb. She couldn’t feel her feet. Her head pounded with a pain that narrowed her vision. The tension and terror exacerbated her symptoms.
Still, she forged on, goaded by the firefight behind her.
9:09 A.M.
Wreathed in oily smoke, Frank crouched on the porch with Tucker. The compound’s main square choked with a thicker pall. The wreck of the two helicopters smoldered at its heart. Bodies lay strewn all around. Many were burned, either by the initial RPG strike or by the explosion of two fuel tanks.
Still, many combatants had survived, too many. Soldiers fired at them through the flames and smoke. Rounds peppered the planked sides of the guesthouse, tore through wooden posts, and pinged off the steel bistro table that Tucker had knocked on its side. They sheltered behind it and fired at any shadow that approached too close.
“Ready?” Tucker asked, his upper face hidden behind his goggles. They had recovered their helmets, too.
Frank gripped the tiny silver egg in his palm and nodded.
The ferocity of the firefight had ebbed over the last minute. A majority of the remaining soldiers must have decided caution was the better part of valor and retreated out of harm’s way, waiting to see how matters resolved. But a stubborn contingent remained, firing sporadically at the porch.
It was a stalemate that Tucker and Frank couldn’t wait out. They were running low on ammunition, and they had to worry about Draper slipping away, too. They couldn’t let him escape with that decryption key.
That’s if he hasn’t already.
“Find out if he’s in there,” Tucker said. “And keep him there. I’ll hold the fort and join you when I can.”
Frank nodded.
Tucker lifted and strafed with the rifle. “Go.”
Under the cover of that barrage, Frank ran low for the door. He edged it open and tossed the smoke bomb inside. He heard its muffled pop, waited two heartbeats, then shouldered across the threshold and dove low.
Fresh gunfire erupted outside as the skirmish renewed once again.
Inside, a double blast of a pistol answered two questions. Draper was still inside—and he was a damned good shot. Frank gasped and rolled. A round had grazed the meat of his thigh, burning a fiery line across it.
If not for the smoke, Frank knew he would’ve suffered far worse than a graze.
He rolled behind a mahogany credenza near the door. More rounds chipped the thick wood. The shots had come from the upper landing at the top of the stairs ahead of him. He lifted Tucker’s Desert Eagle and fired blindly through the smoke—which was rapidly thinning.
He peeked enough to see the shadowy form of Draper running low along the railing of the upper arcade, holding the higher ground. The man kept tucked into his Kevlar, turning himself into an armored turtle.
Frank squeezed off two more rounds. Both missed, but one struck the entrance to De Coster’s office. It rang loudly enough to suggest the door was reinforced with steel. Draper must have already secured Ngoy and Nolan inside.
Another pistol blast forced Frank down. Splinters stung his face.
Guy’s good . . .
Frank weighed his options, his thigh burning like a motherfucker. He only had to keep Draper pinned down, keep him from leaving. Once Tucker secured the front of the guesthouse, they could both go after him, flank him, and get that damned key.
Already it sounded like the firefight outside had ended.
Just need to hold out a little longer.
He willed Draper to stay up there, to keep guarding De Coster.
The creak of a wooden stair warned Frank that the captain was not so agreeable to this plan. Draper intended to bring the fight down here.
Why is he giving up the high ground, exposing himself?
Frank lifted his Desert Eagle, ready to drive the man back up. He tilted out and spotted Draper edging down the top stairs, going for a better vantage on Frank’s hiding spot. The man carried a black ballistic shield in front of him. Frank grimaced. He knew such shields could stop even armor-piercing rounds.
Once Draper secured his position, a weapon appeared. The captain had abandoned his pistol and rearmed himself with a bullpup rifle. A larger barrel sat below its usual muzzle.
Grenade launcher.
Crap . . .
Sensing the inevitable, Frank dove out of hiding and rolled across the room—and not a moment too soon. A loud blast was followed by an explosive boom. The massive mahogany credenza shattered apart behind him. Shards pelted his armor and impaled any exposed flesh. The concussion of the blast shoved him even farther.
With his head ringing, he rolled onto his back, skidding to a stop. He had managed to keep his pistol and aimed it past his legs toward the top of the stairs.
He fired wildly.
The rounds ricocheted off of Draper’s shield. The captain braced against the assault and brought his bullpup around, centering his shot.
Frank was exposed on the open floor.
Then glass shattered from a window on the opposite end of the landing. A form came hurdling through, firing a rifle.
Tucker . . .
His partner must’ve heard the ongoing battle inside the guesthouse, after his own skirmish had ended, and sought to outflank Draper by scaling the building. Unfortunately, the captain had heard the tinkling of glass in time to swing his shield around and block Tucker’s assault.
Still, in turning aside, Draper left himself momentarily exposed. Frank aimed for that damned turtle’s soft spot—and fired twice. The first round hit the meat of the captain’s thigh, payback for Frank’s own injury. The other shattered the man’s knee.
The leg collapsed under Draper, sending him tumbling down the staircase. His shield clattered from his arm.
Tucker chased after him, rifle at his shoulder.
Frank gained his feet and came at the man from the other side.
Draper crashed to the floor between them, sprawled facedown. As Tucker and Frank reached him, the man rolled over with a groan. Blood poured from his leg, pumping out in a strong jet. Frank’s first shot must have severed a femoral artery.
“Back!” Tucker hollered.
Focused on the leg, it took Frank a fraction too long to react, to see the grenade roll from Draper’s fingers and land in the spreading pool of blood.
Frank shoved around and ran for the door.
Not going to make it.
The blast deafened and caught him. He was lifted off his legs and slammed into the door, cracking its frame. Dazed, addled, he twisted back around, shocked to be alive and not shredded by shrapnel.
He turned to see Tucker come tumbling down through the smoke, clutching hard to the ballistic shield. He must’ve grabbed the armored buffer from the foot of the steps and smothered it over Draper and the grenade.
Tucker crashed back to the floor at the side of the blast crater. He bounced and rolled farther away.
Frank rushed over and helped him up. They hobbled away together. Frank supported Tucker under an arm. Tucker limped on one leg, his ankle clearly broken, his face bleeding profusely.
Tucker mumbled, but Frank was still deaf and only shook his head as they reached the door.
Tucker coughed and tried again, gasping louder to be heard. He waved weakly toward the smoky ruins behind them, at the bone and gore blasted across the space.
“Don’t think we’re gonna get that thumb drive now.”