“I try,” she said with a strained smile. She kicked her horse into a gallop.
They rode for most of the day until they came to a copse of trees. Chry slowed and pulled out a compass from her pocket. She consulted the dial and looked off into the distance. “Here,” she said, dismounting.
After consulting the compass again, she paced off, found some sturdy bark, and started digging. Several grimy minutes later she pulled up a long chest. She grabbed a rock and broke the lock, opening it. 2-Stroke watched over her shoulder as she took out a wad of cash, some American, some Bosnian marks, two handguns, ammo, and a slip of paper with a key attached to it. “Okay, we’re in business,” she said.
They headed back to the horses. Moonlight cast long, faint shadows through the trees, and off in the distance, a lone wolf howled. Chry shivered. The call was answered, then answered again, carrying for miles on the cool, clear air. She paused and, in the distance, she could see the bright lights of Banja Luka. They were almost there. They mounted again and started off.
They had only gone a few paces when in the distance there was an unmistakable sound, but this time it wasn’t a wolf. The distinctive whop-whop of chopper blades cut through the cold night. They wouldn’t make the city before dawn, and with the trees thinning up ahead of them, they would be caught out in the open.
She pulled together her courage. They had only one small hope: they had to make a run for the river.
8
Saint fixed the spring-loaded camming device in the crack and pulled the mechanism down, too aware that hanging on a cliff with a sheer drop below wasn’t exactly the best idea. In addition, it had been drizzling for most of the day, leaving these rocks slippery as hell.
The five of them had used the Nap-of-the-earth method to fly to just ten miles from the logging camp that the NSA satellite had pegged as the probable place where 2-Stroke and Chry were being held prisoner. NOE was a type of very low-altitude flight allowing the aircraft, a chopper usually, to avoid enemy detection in a high-threat environment. Choppers were the best aircraft to use because they had lower speeds and more maneuverability, so flying very low to the ground was a piece of cake.
The pilot, a good friend of Striker’s and a former air force pilot, had flown the chopper, keeping below enemy air defense radar and using hills and valleys and folds in the terrain to break the line of sight. They had been completely successful, fast roped out of the helo, and were now working their way up this hill to flatter ground, bypassing the valley below and all possible minefields.
The SLCD gripped the rock. He’d done this many times in training and on missions. Aella was above him, moving easily and confidently, Iceman just below her with Striker on Saint’s left, and Preacher was below them, staggered to the right between Saint and Iceman.
He threaded the loop and clipped, careful not to back-clip the carabiner, then tugged the rope tight. He reached for the fissure, fingers gripping, then searched for the footing. Ten feet left as he looked up to see Aella had made the top.
The sound of displaced rock and a grunt told him someone was in trouble. He looked up to see Iceman holding onto the edge of one of the rocks. Aella bent down over the top of the cliff and grabbed his wrist. With a mighty heave, she pulled. He helped her by scrambling up the rest of the precipice to safe ground.
Saint was so damned impressed by this woman. She was like a freaking SEAL. Always in the battle and tough as hell…mentally as well as physically. Too bad there was no chance in hell of anything but one hot night, maybe two. When they finished this mission, she was headed back to DC and he would go back to San Diego. He intended to make sure he was skin to skin with her before she left for good. He was going to need all his Southern charm.
Too damn bad.
He didn’t miss the way Iceman looked at her. He had a reputation as a ladies’ man in his unit. Saint supposed the women went for that racy blond hair and those icy blue eyes of his. He had a brooding bad boy look about him. There was one thing Saint couldn’t refute: The man was a bona fide door kicker, one of the best ever minted. But from what he’d seen with Aella, it took more than a Tier One operator to impress her. He also liked that about her.
Ten feet and he’d be at the top. He looked at his dive watch and saw they had been at this for fifteen minutes. He hoped like hell they would find 2-Stroke and Chry up there.
The crescent moon gave off enough light to make this a little easier, especially with night vision goggles. He reached, slipped, then searched again, finally getting more footholds, and the last few feet went fast.
When the rest of them made it to the top. It was clear Iceman was sweet-talking Aella. She already had all her climbing gear off and had stowed it.
Her automatic was slung off one dark shoulder, her tac vest looking good on her. All her gear was neatly arranged and convenient for usage.
Once they were all ready, they started toward the forest. It was dense and dripped with moisture, the ground cover just as wet, clinging to his boots. The trees towered above them with heavy branches.
Iceman took point like he was used to it and Aella fell into step behind him, with Saint behind her, then Striker, with Preacher bringing up the rear and watching their six.
He checked their bearing on his watch. Slow and dangerous they moved like wraiths through the cold, wet air.
“We’ve got movement,” Striker said, his deep voice gone to a rumble through the mic.
Aella adjusted her night vision lens. Saint took position beside her. She searched for the movement, then nodded, pointing off to her right. They crouched.
“Guards,” Iceman said. “No patter, grouped up.”
“Ice, take them out…quietly.”
“Gotcha,” Iceman said and disappeared into the deep brush.
Saint looked at the sky. Timing was crucial with the advancing storm. The winds were pushing it faster. If they missed their window, they would be hoofing it out of here through some dangerous territory.
“Job’s done,” Iceman said through the comms.
The five of them advanced but encountered very little resistance. A couple of guards.
“This looks like a skeleton crew,” Preacher said.
“Copy that,” Striker said.
They moved silently past the logging camp that was now completely deserted. Looked like Darko had shut everything down.
The house stood out like an anomaly in the dense forest surrounding it. The mansion looked like it belonged in Hollywood. There were no lights on, but there was a guard posted at a door that looked like it led to a basement.
Without hesitation, Saint took him out with one suppressed shot. They approached the door. Iceman grabbed the keys off the dead man and passed them over to Striker.
“Ice and Preach, security.”
They broke off and melted into the night. Striker went down the stairs and opened the door. He brought up his weapon and stepped inside, sweeping left and right. Saint and Aella followed. They moved swiftly down a hallway and soon discovered a locked door.
Striker also unlocked this one and they were through. Saint could see a row of cells. “This looks like the place,” he murmured.
They moved forward, then stopped as a slim figure stirred on a bunk. He turned to look at them, and Aella said, her voice laced with anger, “It’s just a boy.”