A low laugh sounded above him, followed by an amused, “Now this is an interesting development.”
Sweet Jesus. Rawls’s eyes shot to the rifle hanging from the Tango’s shoulders. Pachico had proved repeatedly through the past twenty-four hours that he could manipulate physical objects. If he went for that weapon and managed to knock the safety off and compress the trigger—the resulting ammunition spray would bring all hell down on them.
Son of a bitch.
As though his ghost had read his thoughts, the translucent bald-headed figure advanced on their new camp mate and took a swipe at the dangling rifle. The weapon slammed against the Tango’s hip, and Pachico’s form dimmed. Galvanized into action, Rawls started to shove his way out of the sleeping bag as his unwelcome visitor jolted and turned.
Hell, he wasn’t going to get mobile in time to subdue the bastard before the Tango got that rifle up and the bullets started flying. Except Pachico unwittingly came to his aid. The ghost’s second swipe at the gun went right through it and into the Tango’s side. The man seized up like he’d been pierced with a red-hot poker. Luckily the guy had some top-notch training behind him—rather than squealing and giving his position away, he locked the agony behind tight lips and rode it out.
From experience Rawls knew he had five seconds tops to get out, up, and take the Tango down while he was still occupied.
Rawls was out of the sleeping bag before Pachico removed his hand and blinked back out again. On his way to his feet, he snatched up one of the drier branches beside him and snapped it at an angle so the break was jagged and sharp.
The guy simply teetered there on his feet, his breath coming fast and uneven, before shaking his head and turning toward the sharp crack of the branch breaking. Rawls was on him before he finished the motion. One hand jerked the helmet off and clamped around the compressed mouth, while the other hand drove the jagged end of the stick into the Tango’s neck, right above the carotid artery, and then jerked the stick back out again.
As the poor bastard struggled urgently against his grip, Rawls bore down harder on the hand across the guy’s mouth, ignoring the teeth that dug into his palm, and the blood raining down on the ground. Raw, animalistic sounds, muffled by his hand, grew fainter and fainter. He counted the seconds off in his head. The Tango would bleed out in under two minutes, but he’d fall into unconsciousness in half that time.
Once the guy stopped moving, Rawls lowered him to the ground and knelt to take a quick pulse. Slow and thready. The poor bastard wouldn’t be getting back up again. Locking down regret—God knows the bastard wouldn’t have hesitated to take his life—he stripped the rifle and the pistol along with its holster off the limp figure. Then he quickly unbuckled the knife holster, with its fixed-blade knife, from the guy’s thigh.
The blade would come in mighty handy.
Undoubtedly Pachico would make a play for the weapons upon his return—but it was just one more thing to guard against. He couldn’t afford to be weaponless in the coming battle. Although how he was going to warn his team about the danger of their weapons going momentarily berserk for no apparent reason . . . yeah.
Locking his frustration down, he backtracked to his sleeping bag, shoved his filthy socks into his boots, and laced them up in record time. Then he grabbed the radio. He couldn’t afford to use it yet to warn his team. At least not unless he ran out of options.
Too likely his voice would carry and alert the wrong people. Even if he concealed the message in some fashion, just the fact that he’d radioed from the woods would give the game away and send the rest of the Tangos, who were holding on the perimeter, swarming into camp. What they were waiting for was unclear. Maybe for the entire team to assume positions, or—his mind flashed back in time, to the helicopter hovering over the driveway while Wolf’s Sierra Nevada home exploded.
Alarm lifted the hair on his arms. If the Tango he’d taken out was part of the mop-up team, and a chopper was on the way . . .
Sweet Jesus . . .
He needed to alert his team pronto.
He kept the radio in hand, in case he ran out of time, as he eased back into the woods and silently made his way toward the closest cabin, which happened to be the one he shared with Mac. He could access the structure through his bedroom window. It struck him as ironic that the window he’d left unlatched to facilitate his return or departure from his bedroom in the hopes of avoiding his teammates might just end up saving all their lives.