Page 5

CHAPTER 5

Rusty

Rusty skidded to the edge of the gaping hole. “Sienna!” His voice vanished into the volcanic tube Sienna had fallen into. No response.

Twenty feet below, maybe more, Sienna lay crumpled on her side, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath her. In the dim light, he couldn’t see her face, only the unnatural stillness of her body.

Beside him, Pickle crept to the edge, releasing a high-pitched whine that pierced Rusty’s chest like a knife. Soda pressed against Rusty’s leg, trembling with barely restrained energy, her coiled muscles waiting for his command.

“Sienna.” His voice cracked, raw with blind fucking rage.

Gunfire erupted behind him, rounds snapping past his head, kicking up volcanic debris around him and the dogs. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His focus was locked on Sienna below, his mind screaming the one thing he couldn’t let himself believe: She can’t be gone.

“Motherfuckers.” He rolled to his side and squeezed two shots toward the ridgeline where two of the shooters cowered behind buckled lava. Another gunman used a fallen ohia trunk for cover. Their wild return fire confirmed they were amateurs, but they had him pinned in the open, one lucky shot away from being meat.

His back throbbed where two rounds had slammed into his vest. Good thing he’d been paranoid enough to wear his Kevlar today. Soda had gotten lucky, too. A bullet had bounced off her Kevlar rather than penetrating her center mass. Still had her fighting mad, though. She would rip out their throats when he gave the command.

He was looking forward to that.

The next volley of bullets chewed rock inches from his head. Fragments stung his face.

“Sienna!” He pressed flat against the edge of the hole, calculating the distance to her. She’d fallen into a massive lava tube that was big enough to swallow a truck.

“Sienna. Move your hand if you can hear me.” Nothing. Just darkness swallowing his words.

His throat tightened.

Blood streaked the crumbling rim where she’d fallen. Her story about the body in the tarp came back. The detailed description of the killers’ tattoos, their heights and builds. It was too specific to be bullshit, but he’d dismissed her anyway, triggered by his old wounds.

Guilt burned the acid in his gut. He’d been wrong. Dead wrong. And now Sienna was paying for it.

Damn fool. Should’ve believed her. Should have called for fucking backup earlier.

He pulled his phone and typed a message: Under fire. Lava tubes N of Makapu’u. 3 shooters. Track phone.

Send.

Error.

Retry.

Error.

Fuck!

A bullet ricocheted off the lava ahead, showering volcanic grit into the air.

Pickle yipped and skittered sideways. “Come here, boy.” He tried to reach the crazy mutt, but Pickle dodged his hand.

A barrage of bullets thundered behind him. Rusty counted their rounds, mapped trajectories. Seven shots from the left, five right. Semi-auto fire, probably 9mm. They were still fucking hopeless. Maybe they were dumb kids and not Yakuza. If they were kids, then he’d got fucking lucky.

Maybe they were laying cover fire, making a move. He rolled onto his back, weapon steady in a two-hand grip, waiting for movement. His pulse hammered but his hands stayed combat-calm. His mind entered that place where time slowed and instinct took over.

The man on the flank broke cover from behind the fallen tree and was silhouetted against the sky as he sprinted to a mound. Amateur mistake.

Rusty aimed and squeezed the trigger. The bastard was fast, but Rusty mowed him down with three bullets. Hip, gut, and throat. Not clean, but effective.

A howl of rage burst across the distance followed by a barrage of wild bullets.

Somebody’s pissed. Good. That’ll teach them for messing with me. Dumb fucks.

A shadow detached from the buckled lava.

Son of a bitch!

Rusty had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. The first flanker was bait. The real threat had used the distraction to close the distance.

He only had four bullets left and no spare mag. The second flanker would have an angle on him in under two minutes. Time to extract.

His finger tightened on the trigger, but incoming rounds forced him to stay down. Any other day, he would have stayed and made them pay, but Sienna was down there bleeding, and the dogs were his responsibility. Rolling onto his stomach, he studied the darkness below. The angle was bad, the depth uncertain, but he had no other way to get down there.

The tube offered cover from the bullets, but it was also a potential death trap.

Staying up there was a definite one.

But how the hell do I get down there?

Pickle pressed against him, shivering but alive, and flaring those big black, trusting eyes that didn’t deserve what Rusty was about to do.

“Sorry, boy.” He seized the dog’s scruff and before his conscience could protest, he dropped him into the void. Pickle released a startled yelp, then a thumping impact on Sienna’s back, followed by something better than silence—a human cry of pain.

“She’s alive.” The words came out like a prayer. “Thank God.”

He tested the edge of the hole with his fist; it was solid enough to withstand his weight and Soda’s. Hopefully.

“Soda, down. Come.” The command came out combat-sharp, and Soda belly-crawled forward, all soldier.

He unclipped her lead and reattached it to a hook on her Kevlar harness. She offered no resistance as he lowered her by the leash, fast and controlled, into the hole. The silence behind him screamed a warning. Were they restocking their weapons? Mourning their asshole mate?

Calling in backup?

When the length of leash ran out, he swung Soda like a pendulum and let her go. Soda landed on all fours and ran straight to Sienna.

“Soda, pull her back.”

Soda grabbed hold of Sienna’s shirt and dragged her lifeless body into the darkness.

“Good girl, Soda. Stand guard.”

My turn.

Rolling onto his side, Rusty scanned for the shooters but couldn’t see them. What are they doing?

Aiming at their last known location, he emptied his magazine, then slid his lower body into the hole. His descent exposed his upper body.

Two rounds cracked past his face, way too fucking close for his liking.

Rusty controlled his descent until it was just his white-knuckled fingertips keeping him in place. Gunfire peppered the crust above him as he let go. Years of training kicked in, and he made a perfect three-point landing despite the crappy angle. His knee twinged, thanks to an old Baghdad souvenir. He combat rolled out of the afternoon sun that knifed through the darkness and dashed to Sienna, but Pickle intercepted, barking and baring his teeth.

“Stand down, you psychotic furball.” He lowered to his knee at Sienna’s side. “Hey, can you hear me?”

Pickle licked her cheek, but she didn’t stir.

Blood slicked his fingers as he traced the jagged gash hidden in her hair, but her steady breathing promised hope despite her unconsciousness.

Shadows slashed through the shaft of sunlight above—movement, multiple targets.

“Shit.” He scooped Sienna up and curled her over his shoulder. Her dead weight and silence confirmed she was out cold. “Pickle, Soda, heel.”

As he melted into the shadows with the dogs, gunfire exploded behind them, sparking off volcanic rock and transforming the ancient lava tube into a combat zone. Each shot echoed in the tunnel, making a booming symphony that was loud and clear—these assholes wanted him and Sienna dead. No . . . not just wanted, they needed us dead. And that meant Sienna really did see something she shouldn’t have seen.

“Fucking hell!” The killer’s roar of frustration echoed as loud as his bullets.

Rusty moved deeper underground, and the lava tube ceiling dropped lower as another shot echoed through the tunnel, farther away, but the sound bounced around the walls like a metal ball.

He checked his phone again. No signal and no way to know if his team got his message.

As he marched deeper into that volcanic throat, the dogs’ pale shapes ghosted ahead into absolute darkness. The tunnel curved left, and as it plummeted into depths that devoured light, a new dread clawed at his gut.

Did our situation get better or worse?