He’s waiting for us, she thought. Waiting to take them down the Rio Blanco, away from Palmira, away from the people who depended on her. What would Ernesto and Dolores do when they realized she wasn’t coming back? How would they cope with the sick, the wounded, the dying?
Quinn threw up his hand and waved at the captain of the Evita. The man grinned, exposing two gold front teeth. He waved and motioned for them to come aboard. When they reached the edge of the pier, Quinn hoisted Victoria onto the deck, then jumped on board.
“We must hurry,” the captain said in Spanish. “I want to be downriver before—”
A bullet whizzed past the captain’s shoulder and pierced the metal bucket hanging on the pole to his right. Within seconds a squad of soldiers sprung out of the woods and descended on the pier.
“Get this tugboat moving,” Quinn hollered to the captain as he shoved Victoria flat on her face to the deck. “Stay down!”
She lay flat on her belly, but lifted her head enough to see what was going on around her. Fear ate away at her stomach like a powerful acid.
A barrage of gunfire pelted the boat. A shot hit a crewman, who yelled as he dropped overboard into the river. Crawling across the deck several feet, Quinn eased his M-16 over the edge and aimed it at the oncoming soldiers. With the ease and precision of a highly trained mercenary, he mowed down the soldiers before any of them could board the boat. But within minutes another contingent of rebels emerged from the woods—twice as many men, with twice as many guns. If the captain didn’t get the boat moving immediately, not even Quinn McCoy could hold off that many attackers.
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