Page 21 of The Tracker
Fox shielded his eyes from the glare. “Zak, you beautiful bastard,”
Zak emerged, jogging through the thick smoke, grin feral. “I used all the C4.”
Women scrambled into the jeeps. Harper counted heads, redirected where necessary. Pav stayed on the perimeter, rifle up.
The guards at the gate were recovering. Three turned back toward the barrack, rifles coming up.
Pav fired—short, controlled bursts. Two went down. The third dove for cover. Return fire stitched across the barrack wall behind him, wood exploding.
“Hustle!” Zak shouted, already in one of the jeeps, the engine running.
Harper was crouched in the snow beside a woman on her hands and knees. The girl’s face was gray. Blood soaked her shirt.
Pav crossed to them. “No time. Leave her.”
“She’s been shot.” Harper spun, eyes blazing. “We take everyone. Including Sasha.”
His breath fogged between them. Past Harper’s shoulder, the girl shook so hard her teeth clicked. Blood soaked the front of her shirt.
He hissed air between his teeth, then slung his rifle and scooped the woman up. She weighed nothing—bones and terror wrapped in fabric. Fury moved through him, cold and razor-sharp. These bastards had done this.
Gunfire chattered, and a round slammed into the barrack wall close enough that the air pressure whispered against Pav’s skin. He boosted the woman into the jeep. Hands reached out—caught her, pulled her in, wrapping her in blankets.
Pav turned back for Harper.
“Fox, we have contact!” Zak yelled from the driver’s seat. “Multiple hostiles closing from the east!”
“Fucking hustle.” Fox slid into the passenger seat beside Zak.
Pav caught Harper’s arm and pulled her into motion.
“Don’t—” she snapped, stumbling.
“Contact rear!” Zak threw his jeep into reverse, spinning the rear end wide. Through the smoke a truck barreled toward them, men hanging from the windows, rifles ready. “Multiple hostiles inbound.”
“Go, go, go!” Fox hammered the door with his fist.
“In.” Pav bundled Harper into the passenger seat of the other jeep, one hand shielding her head from the frame.
She came up swinging, shoving his shoulder. “Jesus Christ—warn me!”
“I did.” He grabbed her seatbelt and secured her, close enough for her breath to hit his jaw. He vaulted into the driver’s seat, foot crushing the accelerator. The jeep’s rear fishtailed. Pav corrected without thought and aimed straight for the compound’s rear gate.
Bullets stitched across the hood from his right.Incoming fire. New angle.The windshield spider-webbed.
Harper ducked with a sharp cry, then twisted in her seat. “Heads down!” she yelled over the engine’s roar. “Everyone down! Hold on to each other.”
Pav tracked Zak through bedlam. The rear gate loomed ahead—steel, chained, designed to keep people in.
Zak didn’t slow. His jeep hit the weakest post at speed. Metal squealed. The gate tore free and exploded outward in a spray of sparks and debris. The jeep bounced once and kept going.
Pav followed. The jeep lifted. For one weightless second, there was nothing under them. Then it came down hard, suspension bottoming out, the impact driving through his spine and throwing Harper against her seatbelt.
Through.
“Split up,” Fox’s voice snapped through the comms. “Regroup at the airbase!”
Zak peeled east, taillights vanishing into the snow almost immediately.
