James Rollins - The 6th Extinction

Hold it together , she told herself.

She strained to listen for the approach of any of the armed men, a task made more difficult by the pounding of her heart in her throat. She was lucky to have held out as long as she had, playing cat and mouse among the few remaining buildings that had not yet been torched.

She had only made it to safety now because of the distraction of the helicopter’s lifting off. The sudden departure confused the hunters long enough for her to make a mad dash into the store. But like the others, she was equally baffled by the change in circumstances here.

Why was the helicopter abandoning those on the ground? Or was it merely departing long enough until she was found and dispatched?

A moment ago she had caught a brief glimpse of a lab-coated figure being dragged back into the aircraft’s cabin. The man was plainly a captive, likely one of the researchers from the military base. The distance was too far for her to pick out any details to identify the prisoner. Had the helicopter left to discourage another escape attempt?

She wasn’t buying that.

Instead, something must have spooked the aircraft away.

But what?

She desperately wanted to pop her head up and search for whatever that new danger might be out there, but she couldn’t trust that the armed men wouldn’t complete their assignment. She had already gleaned these were hard men with military training. No matter the risk, these soldiers would stay on task — which meant eliminating her.

The crunch of glass drew her attention behind her and to the left. She pictured the open window on that side. Someone must have climbed through there versus using the front door. Earlier, using the roar of the helicopter as cover, she had shattered one of the antique bottles from the shelves overhead at every point of ingress: two windows and a door.

Using the noise as a guide, she popped up and aimed her only weapon. A shadow crouched ten feet away, silhouetted against the fiery glow outside. She pulled the trigger. A blue spark of brilliance shot from her gun and struck the figure. A sharp cry of incapacitating pain followed as the Taser’s barbs struck home.

She vaulted over the counter as the assailant collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony. She aimed her Taser X3 and fired a second cartridge to silence him. She was taking no chances. Her weapon held a third round, but she knew it wasn’t enough. It was why she had set up this ambush in the store.

She crossed to the man — now unconscious, maybe dead — and relieved him of his rifle. She holstered her Taser and quickly ran her hands over his assault weapon. While she rarely carried a side arm, she had taken the mandatory weapons training. The rifle appeared to be a Heckler & Koch, model 416 or 417. Either way, it was similar enough to the AR-15 she had practiced with on the shooting range.

She hurried to the door, dropped to a knee, and brought up her rifle. She studied the view. The cry of the soldier had not escaped the attention of the other hunters. Through the smoky firelight, men ran low among the burning remains of the ghost town. They were attempting to flank her. She aimed for the closest man and fired a burst of rounds. Dirt blasted at his toes, but one round struck the man’s left shin and sent him crashing to the ground.

His teammates darted for cover. While it wouldn’t stop them, her attack should slow them down. Return fire peppered the facade of the general store. Rounds ripped through the old wood like hot coals through paper. But she was already moving, dashing back to hide behind the thick-beamed counter. She would make her last stand here, intending to take out as many of the others as she could.

Once in position, she rested her rifle on the counter and searched through the night-vision scope for her next target. She kept a watch out both windows and the door. It took her a little time to adjust to the zoom. For a moment, she captured a view of a man in the distance, far out in the meadow. Though he wasn’t an immediate threat, it was his frantic action that momentarily snagged her attention.

He ran toward the ghost town, his rifle tumbling out of his hands; then he fell to his knees. His back arched in a convulsive spasm before toppling on his side in full seizure. She remembered the jackrabbit and suddenly knew what had driven the helicopter away.

That poisonous sea must be rising, starting to swamp the summit.

Her finger trembled on the rifle’s trigger, recognizing the futility of her foolish attempt to make a last stand here. No matter how many of the soldiers she killed, in the end they were all doomed.

She thought of Nikko, hiding under the tractor. She knew he would still be there, obeying her last command, ever loyal. She had hoped her sacrifice would at least protect him, allow him to be found by any rescuers dispatched by Bill Howard.

Nikko… I’m sorry .

A figure appeared through the window to her right. With a burning knot of anger in her gut, she fired a savage fusillade, aiming center mass, and watched with satisfaction as the man’s body was blown out of sight. A renewed barrage of return fire tore through the store. It sounded like a thousand chain saws taking down a forest. Blasted fragments of dry wood rained down all around her.

She ducked lower but kept her rifle in position on the counter. Whenever she spotted a shadow move, she fired at it. At some point she had begun to cry. She only knew it when her vision blurred, requiring her to wipe her eyes.

She sank to her knees for a second, dropping out of view, struggling to comprehend her tears. Was it fear, desperation, anger, grief?

Likely all of the above.

You’ve done all you could , she thought, trying to reassure herself, but the thought brought no comfort.

Kendall sat dully in his seat, strapped again in place. He studied the landscape below, trying to discern where he was being taken. They had finally crossed beyond the pall of nerve gas, leaving the mountains behind. They now appeared to be heading east over the Nevada desert. But the dark terrain below was featureless, offering no landmarks.

The large man seated across from him had been in a gruff conversation with the pilot for most of the flight. Kendall tried to eavesdrop as well as he could while feigning disinterest, but much of their communication had been in some obscure Spanish patois. Some phrases he could glean; others were gibberish.

If he had to guess the team’s origin, he would plant a flag somewhere in South America. Colombia, maybe Paraguay. This conclusion was perhaps biased because of the assault team’s appearance. They were clearly paramilitary, all of the same nationality. To a man, they were small of stature, with rounded faces and pinched eyes, their pocked skin the color of dark mocha with some freckling. The exception to this was their leader. He stood close to seven feet, a giant for any nationality.

From the conversation, Kendall was fairly certain the man’s name was Mateo, while the pilot was Jorge.

As if drawn by his thoughts, the scarred man turned to him. He brandished a knife. Kendall quailed back, fearing his intent, but the man grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and turned him enough to slice free the plastic ties from his wrists.

Once his hands were freed, Kendall gladly rubbed the raw skin, wincing at the tenderness. He considered going for the rifle resting on the far seat, but he knew how fast the other could move. Any such attempt would likely only earn him another blow to his skull, and his head still ached from being butted by that rifle earlier, a lesson well learned.

The pilot reached back and handed Mateo a cell phone, which he in turn passed to Kendall. “You listen. Do as told.”