Chapter Three

The alarm on my watch beeped softly. I turned it off and sat up with a groan. Every muscle in my body hurt. Knowing the Marines would kill any militants or smugglers who showed up, I had slept like a baby.

The sun spilled into the cavern. I quickly ate the two chocolate bars, drank as much water as I could hold and filled my canteen.

“You’ve got a choice to make, soldier. Come out and have a nice hot breakfast or eat a lot of smoke.”

“Fuck off.”

Rodriquez laughed. “She’s got a temper.”

Making sure my Sig Sauers were in working order, I slid them into the holsters and buckled on my gun belt.

“You’ve got twenty minutes to make up your mind,” Sergeant Stone growled.

Good thing Pops had insisted I take free climbing lessons. Slinging the sniper rifle over my shoulder, I scaled the cavern wall.

“Ten minutes, soldier,” Sergeant Stone called.

More than enough time. I braced myself against a protruding rock and pushed my sniper rifle through the gap in the roof.

“Five minutes.”

My muscles quivering from the strain, I climbed through the opening.

“Time is up.” Bang! Smoke filled the cave.

First chance I got, I was putting a scorpion in his bed. It was the perfect payback.

Smoke suddenly poured through the opening. Ugh. When Sergeant Stone realized I was long gone, he was gonna be pissed. Would he look for me on the base? You betcha he would, but he didn’t know what I looked like. As far as anyone knew, I was just a glorified secretary.

Laughing like a crazy person, I grabbed my rifle and ran down the narrow trail. Instead of an eighteen-mile hike in the blazing sun with no food or water, I was going to the village of Tarin Kowt which was known for its groves of date palms. Once I got there, I was going to help myself to some yummy dates and a car. I was driving to the pickup point.

A coyote howled in the distance.

Sonovabitch, they were tracking me.

Thirty minutes later, I paused by the burnt out remains of a mud brick house. It was too damn quiet. There weren’t any workers in the orchards. No children played in the courtyards, and I didn’t see a single woman.

Propping my sniper rifle on a broken wall, I carefully surveyed the village through the scope. There was an old truck parked by a dilapidated shed and a burka fluttered on a clothesline. My best guess was the Taliban had ordered the village men to look for Pops and the Marine.

Keeping to the shadows, I snatched the burka off the clothesline and quickly put it on. It was bulky and restricted my movement, but I needed more water. I crept over to the well, drew a bucket of water and filled my canteen. My gaze fell on the battered truck. The bed had four boxes of dates.

A coyote yipped.

Shit! They were too damn close. I hurried over to the truck. No keys in the ignition, or the glove box, but not a problem. Pops had taught me how to hotwire a car. I pulled out my boot knife and went to work on the ignition.

The coyote yipped again.

I looked up. A Hispanic Marine was staring at me from the top of the hill. How did he know it was me? I gave myself a mental head smack. Duh, my sniper rifle. I twisted my knife, and the truck started. I shoved my rifle across the seat and climbed in. In the rearview mirror I watched the big guy run toward me. Wow, he was fast for someone his size. I put it in gear and took off.

Thump!

Holy hell! He was in the bed of the truck.

His low, gravelly voice commanded, “Stop!”

The hot guy was Sergeant Stone and there wasn’t a chance in hell of me stopping. I increased my speed.

Sergeant Stone reached for the door handle.

I turned the steering wheel sharply and swerved into the groves.

Palm fronds caught the sergeant across the chest and sent him flying. He landed face down in the mud.

I stuck my left hand out the window and gave him a one-fingered salute.

Sergeant Stone erupted to his feet with a roar and pulled his pistol.

Oh, hell! He was going to shoot out the tires. I put the pedal to the metal.

His team surrounded him.

I blew out a long breath. Pissing him off was a stupid move. Sergeant Stone was an apex predator like my father. Anyone stupid enough to challenge them, seldom survived the encounter.

The narrow, twisty road forced me to slow down. I kept checking the rearview mirror. I knew the Marines would steal a car and follow me.

My phone beeped. I pulled it out and read the message. Taliban roadblock three miles ahead.

Shit! I had only cut ten miles off my hike and how in the hell did Pops know where I was? I had removed the tracker from my phone. Was he using a CIA satellite to locate me? Probably. Stopping the truck, I pulled off the burka, stuffed my pockets with dates and free climbed up the rocky mountainside. The Marines weren’t far behind me, and I wasn’t leaving any more tracks for them to follow.

I pulled myself over the edge of an outcrop and lay there for a moment to catch my breath. That had been a tough climb.

A car engine backfired.

Rolling over, I raised my sniper rifle and sighted in on the roadway. Here came the Marines in a piece-of-crap Toyota truck. For some reason, the Taliban loved Japanese cars. I had to admit Sergeant Stone was an excellent driver. I grinned at his furious expression. He didn’t like losing. He slammed on the brakes behind my stolen truck. Would he notice the message I left him on the windshield? I hoped so. I didn’t want them walking into a Taliban ambush.

With a groan, I got to my feet and headed for the pickup location.