For one thing, he hadn’t shot anybody in his life—not even during two deployments. He and Damien were pilots. Not fighter jet pilots—transport or reconnaissance pilots. They didn’t kill people; they got people where they needed to go. In civilian life, that had been the hospital more often than not, but it didn’t change the fact that they were wily, they were resourceful, they were good with guns, and they were not killers.
Of course, he thought grimly, if this guy threatened his life enough that might change. But he wanted to try option B first.
The turret towers were identical—approximately eight feet by eight feet, with a door cut in the center. While Glen waited for Barron to get to the top, he crouched down to the side of the opening, pistol in hand—but not ready to fire.
More like it was ready to be used like a brick.
He gave Barron enough time to get almost into the turret. He’d picked Barron’s left side, relying on the fact that most Americans looked to their right first, like they were merging into traffic. And there he went, look to the right, look to the le…
And Glen lunged, clocking him on the head as he heaved his body inside.
Barron moaned and sagged, his hand going automatically to his belt for his gun, and Glen tackled him sideways, trying to wrestle the gun out of his pants. He managed to get it, but as he was pitching it through the port, Barron rolled underneath him, and Glen almost went out the same way.
He dropped Barron’s gun, which slithered out of the turret and bounced off the ladder, and his own gun thunked heavily to the floor of the tower before he stopped himself on the frame of the port and used his core strength to arch back into the tower.
He and Barron tumbled for a moment, their momentum carrying them to the far side of the cell-like room, and Glen was busy enough trying to keep the gun out of Barron’s grasp to catch the first roundhouse right on the temple.
He saw stars for a moment and grunted, throwing his knee into Barron’s solar plexus.
Barron gasped and doubled over, one hand still extended feebly for the gun. Glen shoved himself to his feet and staggered after the weapon, not feeling quite so many qualms about shooting the guy now. In the back of his mind, he registered a mechanical sound, a whump-whump-whump that comforted him somehow.
But right now he was too busy to think.
He lunged for the gun, knocking it from Barron’s fingertips, and they both gasped as it skittered off the platform and down to the ground below.
“So,” Glen said, dropping to a fighter’s crouch and circling. “Two guys, no guns. That could be a porn video, you know.”
Barron recoiled. “That’s disgusting!”
“And shooting someone isn’t? Yikes. I’m glad we lost both guns!”
Barron’s head dropped to one side and he rolled his eyes—and Glen took the opportunity to kick him in the kneecap.
“Oh my God, you suck!” Barron howled. “Who in the hell are you, anyway?”
“A friend of one of your kids,” Glen said, knowing it didn’t really matter which one. “I know you think they’re all friendless—or stupid. But sometimes you do dumb things when you’re a kid. You forgive them and help them move on!”
“Bullshit!” Barron pulled his fists up, like a boxer, and Glen adjusted his fighter’s crouch. Together they circled the claustrophobic space, and while Glen was glad the guns were out of the equation, he really wasn’t sure how he was going to beat this guy without pushing him over the side.
The whump-whump-whump was getting closer, but Glen didn’t feel like looking yet. Barron was watching him for any weakness. Of course Glen’s mouth was his strength.
“So, you know who that is, don’t you?” Glen had no idea, but distracting Barron was the object. “That’s the Baja authorities. Do you know how many tax and environmental codes you’ve violated?”
Barron’s mouth fell open. “The hell? This is Mexico—they don’t care!”
And Glen had to work to keep his mouth from falling open. “Do you know how hard they’ve worked to reclaim this area? Dude—you’ve been shooting sea lions for sport! Who does that?”
Barron turned his head and spat blood. Glen had gotten a couple of good shots in. “That wasn’t me,” he said. “Some of my guys, they’re a little—”
“If they’re your guys, it was you.” God, five years in the military—that’s what Barron’s jacket said. Had nobody taught him chain of command? “And why wouldn’t they think it’s okay to torture animals for sport? What have you been doing here?”
“Oh, these kids aren’t tortured.” Barron threw out a jab and Glen dodged easily. “They’re so spoiled they don’t know which drugs to take and which ones to quit. If they think I’m the one to tell them, who am I to turn down all that money?”
“You would fleece little old ladies for their denture money, wouldn’t you?” Glen asked flatly. He threw a punch—wide on purpose—and Barron barely dodged. His reflexes were slowing down, but Glen’s weren’t much better. Glen had climbed two of these fucking nightmares, and he’d already had sort of a day.
A little more talking and Glen would take him out. For a moment, there were the two of them panting, Barron sweating, and the whump-whump-whump, curiously intimate. The helicopter sounded both close and… quiet? Small? And—
“What in the hell?” Barron dropped both fists and stared behind Glen, but Glen wasn’t buying it. He clocked Barron hard in the jaw and watched his knees wobble. He went over backward—right out the portal of the damned tower.
“Fuck!” Glen lunged for him, catching his shirt front as Barron struggled to pull himself inside. But his momentum was too great, and Glen clung to the side of the tower, raw-wood splinters digging into his hand, while he tried to wrestle Barron through the portal. “C’mon, you lazy asshole, help me!”
Barron’s struggling was going to kill them both—dammit! Glen pulled, one hand rooted in safety, one hand holding the deadweight that was going to drag him to his death, but a sudden gust of wind made the decision for him.
Barron flinched from the downdraft that came from over the tower and yanked himself out of Glen’s hand as—improbably—Cash called Glen’s name. Glen stared in horror as Barron tumbled to the ground, bouncing off the slightly angled ladder on his way down. The body didn’t move when it hit, and Glen wobbled as he stared down below him. That… that wasn’t….
“Glen! Glen, look up!”
Glen was still struggling to get his balance when Cash literally flew across his field of vision, clinging to a rope.
And Glen’s heart stopped, and then his adrenaline surged, and then he was pissed.
“I’m dead,” he shouted. “I must be. The fuck are you doing?”
“Came back to get you!” Cash shouted back. “Now grab the damned rope. The rest of the goons are on their way!”
Glen looked out across the lawn and saw them—the same assholes he and Cash had zip-tied, but now with more guns.
“Alrighty, then,” he called, getting his legs under him and getting ready to leap. “You start, I’ll follow!”
Cash grinned fiercely and started clambering nimbly up the ropes. Glen sighted the ladder and gave himself a couple of rocking starts for momentum. One. Two.