Page 43 of The 9th Man

Luke slammed against a boulder.

Which hurt.

He rolled himself toward what he guessed was the riverbank, trying to find a handhold. He groped until gripping an exposed root. Then clung on hard. Which stopped his forward progress. The man’s limp body swept past and into the main current, along with the rifle, both disappearing away, while Luke clutched the root against the flow. He needed to get out of the water. So he hauled himself up using the roots and grabbed a foothold, climbing onto the bank. He sat for a moment and savored a few breaths. Thank goodness the river was deep or he would not have survived the fall off the cliff, and his gun was gone.

Where was Jillian?

This definitely qualified as separated, so he needed to head for the rendezvous point. Above him, higher up the embankment, tires squealed on pavement.

Which grabbed his attention.

About thirty feet of trees and foliage led up to what was apparently a road. He sought cover behind thick clumps of brush. A car door opened, then slammed shut. A figure appeared at the top of the ridge.

“You see any way across?” he heard someone call out. “To the other side?”

“No,” came the reply.

“Find one, I’m going to walk the road.”

“I got one of them,” a new voice shouted. “I got her.”

Oh, crap.

Jillian.

He started climbing.

18

LUKE FORCED HIMSELF TO PAUSE AND TAKE STOCK. BLINDLY RUSHINGto Jillian’s aid could worsen the situation. Still, waiting went against his every instinct. What would Malone say? Focus. Make a plan. Act on it.

Good advice.

He was uninjured. Amazingly. Which went into the plus column. So he carefully made his way up the wooded bank and saw there was indeed a road and a parked vehicle. Along with another Asian man holding a radio.

“I’m here. Nothing yet. Still looking.” A pause. Someone was speaking through the earpiece. “Where are you taking her?” Another pause. “Okay, send me the airfield’s GPS coordinates. I’ll head that way shortly.”

The guy walked off in the opposite direction.

The chop of helicopter rotors returned, filling the afternoon air. He craned his neck until he pinpointed the sound. The helo from earlier streaked by in the distance, heading northwest. He watched until its navigation lights disappeared over the trees. He completed the crawl up the slope until he was a few feet from the shoulder berm.

He paused to listen.

Where are you, pal?

He did a half push-up so he could see over the top. A Range Rover, its exhaust steaming in the cool air, idled in park ten feet away. He glanced left, saw nothing, then looked right. Twenty feet away, his back toward Luke, a man walked the shoulder, studying the foliage down the slope toward the river. Crouching, he crested the berm and scuttled behind the Range Rover.

Thirty seconds passed.

Footsteps crunched on loose gravel.

Closer. Keep coming.

The man appeared around the corner of the vehicle.

Luke sprang and wrapped his right arm around the guy’s neck, then clamped his left hand on in a tight vise. He closed the windpipe and kept the pressure until the body went limp. Not enough to kill. No need.

He released his grip and helped the limp form down to the asphalt. Then he caught the guy’s collar and dragged him toward the vehicle. A quick frisking turned up a passport, a cell phone, a set of four zip-tie cuffs, a sound-suppressed semi-automatic pistol, and two spare magazines. He used two of the cuffs to hog-tie the arms and legs, then opened the Range Rover’s rear hatch and wrestled the guy inside.