Cold Shot (19 page)

No puede ser.

The woman’s boot caught him in his stomach, compressing it into his spine, and the air rushed out of him. Carreño tried to suck in a breath as he fell backward onto the wall. His knees buckled and he slid to the floor. His diaphragm refused to move and he felt like he was choking. He clutched at his abdomen, trying to protect it, helpless.

•    •    •

Kyra drew her Glock and pointed at his head. The man held out his hand, pure instinct, trying to put anything between him and the gun. “
No,
por favor,
” he gasped, looking at her face.

Kyra stared down at him, finally able to stare at his face. Even with the blood gushing from his nose, she recognized him.

Andrés Carreño was lying at her feet.

Cold anger erupted inside her chest, a calm rage that took control of her.

Kyra kicked him in the ribs, knocking him backward. Then she was on him, beating him with the gun. It was stupid, she knew, to engage him again at close range on the floor . . . he could grab her, grab the gun, but she couldn’t control herself, like she was a spectator in her own mind. He tried to block one of her swinging arms, missed, and she caught him in the temple with cold steel. The nausea rose in his gut so fast he couldn’t hold it down. Carreño vomited onto the floor.

•    •    •

“Arrowhead! Arrowhead!” Kyra heard Marisa yelling in her ear. The sight and smell of Carreño’s bile on the floor cut through her fury and Kyra took control of herself, forcing her emotions down. She pulled back and scrambled to her feet, still covering the SEBIN director with her pistol.

“This is Arrowhead,” she said, trying to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding too fast.

“Status?”

“One . . . one hostile . . . incapacitated,” Kyra told her, her chest heaving. “It’s
him.
” The adrenaline was surging through her again, the panic attack starting to rise.

U.S. Embassy

Caracas, Venezuela

The station chief scrolled down the map on her screen. SEBIN soldiers were everywhere and spreading out in all four directions. At least twenty were moving south, only a few hundreds yards from the security hub.

“Understood. Leave him and get out immediately. Do you copy?”

CAVIM Explosives Factory

Leave him?
Carreño was in her sights and she was furious, angrier than she could ever remember being.

There was murder in her heart, Carreño’s quivering body seemed to fill her vision and the Glock was light in her hands, the tritium sights over the barrel glowing a faint white.

The panic was gone, displaced by a cold, dark calm.

U.S. Embassy

Caracas, Venezuela

“Arrowhead, do you copy?” Marisa asked again, her voice more urgent now.

CAVIM Explosives Factor
y

Kyra stared at Carreño’s bleeding face through her sights. The anger was like a living animal, trying to rip control of her hands away from her and make her put a bullet through his brain.

It would be so easy to surrender.

She breathed in deep . . . then moved her finger off the trigger.

It was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

U.S. Embassy

Caracas, Venezuela

It was a very long pause, one that seemed to stretch out time. “Roger that. Understood,” Kyra said, her voice calmer now.

Marisa looked at the screen. “Hostiles approaching your area, three hundred yards and closing on your position. You have ninety seconds. Fall back.”

CAVIM Explosives Factory

Kyra kept the gun on Carreño as she moved to the only exit. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. She took the padlock, threw the latch, and locked Carreño inside.

Her knees quivered, the rage inside her chest turning on her now, screaming at her for fighting it. She felt weak all over, her whole body shaking.

Then she heard the voices, all yelling in Spanish, orders and curses. She looked to her right, north, and saw the line of soldiers moving in her direction. Headlights broke over the low ridge behind the men and jeeps came tearing down the road, sliding side to side on the gravel as their drivers swerved to avoid hitting their own men.

Kyra ran for the fence.

•    •    •

The first bullets hit the ground to her left and she heard some ricochet off bricks and metal. She turned right and sprinted to put the shack between her and the soldiers. A few more rounds hit the building as she threw herself behind it. The adrenaline was making it hard to think now, and to keep her hands steady.

The jeeps were close now, less than fifty yards away. She could hear the engines growling as they approached, at least two of them. She looked around the corner, saw them approaching the security hub, four men in each jeep. She saw her inverted T-cut in the fence. It was ten feet away.

She was out of time. The soldiers were too close now. She’d never make it through.

She had three clips for the Glock, seventeen 9mm rounds each, with one in the chamber—fifty-two shots.

Dozens of soldiers were on foot, running to this position. The men in the jeeps were yelling into their radios, calling for dozens more, all with automatic weapons, thousands of rounds. She wouldn’t even be able to stop them from flanking her on either side.

Her mind went suddenly clear again and she felt a peaceful calm settle over her.

She closed her eyes, then set the Glock on the ground and prepared to step out from behind the shack, arms raised.

I guess I’m going to end up in Los Teques prison after all.

•    •    •

Kyra’s head jerked as she heard the supersonic crack of the .50mm round as it hit the lead jeep in the grille six inches above the bumper. The monstrous round tore a hole in the metal and steam and fluids blew out of the engine in a violent gush. The bullet ripped into the engine itself, cracking the block and throwing shrapnel in every direction under the hood. Only then did Kyra hear the deep boom of the gunshot as the sound wave finally caught up to the supersonic slug. The driver, blinded by the steam, stomped the brake pedal into the floor and the jeep’s last act was to crash to a halt.

The second .50 hit the trailing jeep a few inches below the line where the hood met the grille, killing it as dead as its brother, and Kyra heard that gunshot a moment later. Two more rounds hit the vehicle in quick succession. The passengers got the message, threw themselves out of the vehicle onto the ground and stumbled for cover in any direction they could find it. The other SEBIN officers all did the same, and Kyra heard the first yells of
francotirador!

Sniper.

“Arrowhead, this is Sherlock,” Kyra heard over her headset. “Fall back. I’ll keep your friends occupied.” Another bullet hit the lamppost light to make the point, sending sparks and shattered glass into the grass below.

It was Jon’s voice.

Kyra grabbed her Glock off the ground and sprinted for the cut in the fence.

CIA Director’s Conference Room

The room exploded in cheers and Cooke saw Drescher smiling, the first time she could ever recall the man looking pleased with anything.

“Do we have clearance to fire on the Venezuelans on this op?” he asked.

“No,” Cooke admitted. “But I’ll deal with the president if he has a problem with it.”

“He will,” Drescher said.

CAVIM Explosives Factory

“Sherlock, this is Quiver. Don’t kill anyone if you can avoid it.”

“Quiver, Sherlock. Wasn’t planning on it. Please don’t tell the bad guys.”

“We’re the ones who broke into their facility. I think that makes us the bad guys,” Marisa said.

“Fine by me. Bad guys don’t have to feel guilty about property damage.” Jon pulled the trigger on the large rifle and sent another slug downrange.

He was lying prone in Kyra’s shelter, the Barrett sticking out from the crude woven roof she had lashed together. He kept his eye on the scope and swept the optic over the CAVIM fence line. Kyra had pulled herself through the T-cut and was dragging herself to her feet now. A SEBIN soldier swung his rifle over the tail end of his murdered jeep, trying to line up on the running girl. Jon pulled his own trigger, smooth but quick, and the Barrett yelled at the soldier in the valley below, tearing another hole in the jeep’s hood. The Venezuelan leaped back, throwing himself onto his back, wetting himself as he did. He scrambled behind the jeep, out of Jon’s line of sight.

•    •    •

Kyra ran to her right along the fence line for the edge of the forest. There was no sense running back through the ordnance field now. Five seconds and she was clear of the explosives range, then she turned and sprinted for the hill. She holstered her Glock and accelerated through the brush, ignoring the plants and small trees as they tore at her legs.

•    •    •

“Quiver, Sherlock,” Jon announced. “Arrowhead has cleared the facility. I need a readout on any other hostiles in our area.”

“They’re all headed your way,” Marisa told him. “Everyone is coming to the party. Evacuate the area as soon as practical.”

“Roger Wilco. By the way, now would be a good time for you to make that phone call.”

He pulled the Barrett’s trigger, this time shooting at no one in particular.

U.S. Embassy

Caracas, Venezuela

Phone call?
Marisa asked. Then she remembered.
What are you up to, Jon?
She pulled a cell phone out of her desk and dialed his number.

CAVIM Explosives Factory

“Arrowhead, Sherlock,” he called out over his headset. “Suggest you head straight for the truck. We need to evac this area now. I’ll meet you there. Over.”

“I copy, out,” Kyra said, gasping her response. He watched her turn through the scope, running in a horizontal line along the hill now away from his position. It would still take her another fifteen minutes to get to the vehicles if she could keep up her pace. Jon swung the rifle back to the base. The SEBIN soldiers were still cowering behind every building and car they could find. Jon emptied the Barrett’s clip at them as fast as it would fire.

There was no time to break down the antenna. He pulled the cable out of the satellite transceiver and shoved it under the rock, then threw the antenna into the trees. Then he slung the rifle over his back, drew his Glock, and ran down the hillside.

•    •    •

The tree branches clawed at her face. Kyra knocked them aside but they tore at her, slowed her down, as if they were trying to hold her for the SEBIN soldiers she could hear in the distance. They knew she couldn’t be far. Jon and the darkness were her only allies now.

Her lungs ached, her legs burned. Her boots felt heavy, getting heavier with each step. This wasn’t like racing through the Caracas streets as she’d done the year before. Then the ground had been hard, smooth pavement, and she’d been able to see every obstacle as the SEBIN had chased her. Now she could hardly see the next few feet, the ground was soft and soaking up what little energy she had left. She was close to the truck, another half mile to go, but the terrain was uneven and it would be like running twice that distance.

The soldiers sounded closer now, but it was impossible to judge distance by sound in these hills. She heard dogs barking and wondered if they were wild or if they were SEBIN themselves, tracking hounds that the Venezuelans had called out.

She forced herself up a small ridgeline, then down, around another, and finally she saw the road where she’d left the truck. She couldn’t make out the blind she’d built around the vehicle in the dark, and the moonlight wasn’t penetrating the tree cover well. She felt a second wind rush into her chest and she accelerated, reaching the wide gravel trail and leaving the brush behind.

Kyra turned right and ran down the road a hundred yards until she found the pile of brush and branches that she’d heaped on her ride. There was another truck there . . . the Toyota 4Runner from the embassy garage. Jon must have driven it here, she realized. She looked down and saw the skid marks on the road and the crushed plants that led to the tires. He’d slammed his brakes and slid the truck to its parking spot, then gotten out and run for the woods.

Hurry up, Jon.
She fumbled for her keys, then started the hardest job of the night.

She sat in her truck, the engine off, waiting for her partner as she heard yells and barks from the forest, growing a little louder with every minute.

•    •    •

The smartphone finally rang in Jon’s pocket. “It’s me,” Mari announced.

“We’re compromised,” Jon said, telling her the obvious. She wasn’t the audience for this call. “Contact the other teams and tell them to fall back.” He ended the call and threw the phone into the woods as far as his arm could manage without causing him to break stride.

CIA Director’s Conference Room

“Yes!” Cooke was practically yelling now.

“What other teams?” one of the analysts called out.

“He’s kicking the hornet’s nest, kid,” Drescher told him. “All of them at once.”

“You two!” Cooke pointed at a pair of analysts. “I want satellite coverage of every joint facility in-country that the Venezuelans and Iranians have ever set up, right now! Get NRO and NGA on the phone. If they have an issue with it, tell ’em they can call me.”

CAVIM Explosives Factory

Jon finally came crashing through the trees. Kyra jumped out of the Ford as he ran for his truck, pulling his rifle over his head without breaking stride and setting it in the truck bed. “Got any M67s?” he asked, out of breath.

“Good to see you too.” Kyra turned back to the Ford, leaned the seat forward, and searched behind. She found the grenades hidden under her seat and tossed one to him. Jon tossed his keys in return, pulled a knife from his pants, flipped the blade and cut a strip of cloth from his shirt as he ran to his own truck. He pulled a small oil can from the back, opened it, and doused the cloth in motor oil, then tied the strip around the grenade, knotting it down hard and pinning the spoon to the body.

The yells of the soldiers and the barks of dogs were louder now.