Читать книгу Murdock's Last Stand - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 8

Sweat dripped off his forehead and down into his eyes, blurring his vision. Using the back of his hand, he swiped away the moisture. The oppressive heat coated his body, filled his lungs and dulled his senses. He had been in some bad situations before, endured sweltering temperatures just as deadly and lived to tell the tale. But his gut instincts warned him that this time was different. From the minute he and Lanny arrived in Zaraza, he’d had an uneasy feeling that their luck had finally run out. He’d known that sooner or later fate would catch up with them and they’d wind up paying with their lives. He just hadn’t thought it would be this soon. Hell, he was only twenty-six. He was too young to die. Besides, wasn’t there an old adage that said only the good die young? If that were true, he’d live to be a hundred.

“No way we’re both going to get out of this alive, Bubba,” Lanny said.

Murdock lifted his gaze from the tip of his M-16 to his old buddy’s dirt-streaked face. Lanny McCroskey was a good ol’ boy from Tennessee, who had lost his soul back in Nam and had been searching for it ever since.

“We’ve been outnumbered before. We’ll figure a way to get out of this one.” Even as the denial came from his mouth, Murdock knew Lanny was right. They were trapped! And even for a couple of highly trained mercenaries like them, it would take a miracle for both of them and Sabino’s troops to all escape.

“The information has to get back to Burdett.” Lanny opened his canteen, then lifted it to his lips. After taking a hefty swig, he recapped the canteen. “One of us has to hightail it out of here, while Juan and his boys keep Ramos’s men occupied.”

“Whoever stays is a dead man,” Murdock said.

“You go. I’ll stay.” Lanny chuckled. “We both know that I’ve been living on borrowed time ever since Nam. You’re different. You’re a young man. You’ve still got a chance to have a normal life, if you get out of our line of work.”

Before Murdock could reply, before he could protest leaving his former army sergeant behind, a barrage of enemy gunfire exploded around them. As the ragtag band of rebel soldiers retaliated against the Zarazaian troops, Juan Sabino crawled through the thicket and eased up beside Lanny.

“We can hold them off for a while longer,” Juan said in his native Spanish. “One of you must go now, if there is any hope of getting that information to Burdett.”

“Murdock’s going,” Lanny said.

“Sì. He is younger and stronger than you and has the best chance of getting through.” Juan’s large, dark eyes gazed directly at Murdock, the look a mixture of fear and hope and pleading. “Vaya con Dios, amigo.”

Murdock opened his mouth to protest, but stopped short of uttering a word. He knew that Lanny and Juan were right. And he didn’t have time for long farewells. No time to tell Lanny what the man already knew—that he cared for him like a son cared for his father.

While Juan’s battered and bruised teenage soldiers held the mighty Zarazaian army at bay, Murdock slipped into the thicket of vines and gnarled trees that led into the jungle. He didn’t think, didn’t feel and didn’t look back. On his belly, he made his way over the rough forest floor until he knew he was out of sight and out of range. Just as he rose into a crouching position, a thunderous explosion rocked the earth beneath his feet. He froze to the spot. His heartbeat drummed in his ears. His blood ran cold.

Murdock retraced his path, racing toward the men he’d just left. Pausing briefly as he neared the site, he breathed deeply and pleaded with God. But it was a prayer he already knew wouldn’t be answered. Finding shelter and a modicum of safety behind a stand of massive carnauba palms, Murdock forced himself to face the truth. Billows of black smoke rose into the sky where the explosion had hit. Pieces of trees mingled with body parts. There was nothing he could do to help Lanny and Juan or the boy soldiers.

Lanny! Murdock cried silently. Lanny was dead!

Murdock’s eyelids flew open. He shot straight up. Moisture coated his body as if he’d just returned from the Zarazaian jungle a few minutes ago instead of twenty years ago. Kicking the wrinkled, tangled covers off his feet, he slid out of bed. He padded on bare feet across the wooden floor as he made his way out of the bedroom, down the hall and into the living room. What he needed was a shot of whiskey.

He retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the makeshift bar on the sofa table by the windows that overlooked Locklin Street. After pouring himself a liberal amount of the liquor, he flopped down in his favorite chair, a brown overstuffed leather seat. As he lifted the glass to his lips, he stretched out his long legs and rested his feet on the huge leather ottoman.

Why the hell had he dreamed about Lanny? About Juan and his soldiers? After twenty years, why couldn’t he forget the past?

Liking the taste of the whiskey, he savored it in his mouth a few seconds before swallowing. The liquid burned a trail down his throat and hit his stomach like a ball of fire, warming his insides.

For the first five or six years after his escape from Zaraza, he’d had the dream on a regular basis, but as time went by, the dream had become less frequent. This particular nightmare hadn’t awakened him once during the past ten years. So why tonight?

An uneasy feeling gnawed away at him. Something was wrong. But what? He was a man who had survived by taking heed when his gut instincts warned him. When he’d been a green kid of eighteen, he had come through the final days of the fighting in Nam without a scratch. He had survived over twenty-five years as a mercenary and a freelance CIA operative by a combination of good instincts and being a damn lucky son of a bitch.

There had to be a reason why he’d dreamed about the last day he had seen Lanny McCroskey alive.

Murdock’s hand accidentally brushed the television remote control. His nerves zinged. That was it! On the world news he’d watched right before going to bed last night, there had been a report about the twenty-year war in Zaraza and how the rebel army had grown in size and strength over the years. The journalist had said that the old regime, controlled by General Ramos, was in a panic. For the first time since the beginning of the civil war, the rebels had a real chance to take over the government.

Murdock downed the last drops of whiskey, set the glass aside and closed his eyes. Lanny, Juan and a bunch of teenagers masquerading as guerrilla soldiers had sacrificed their lives that day—for the cause. And by dying, they had saved Murdock. Saved him to deliver a message to their CIA contact, Rick Burdett.

In the dark, lonely moments when a man questioned what his life had been worth, Murdock asked himself why he’d been the one spared. What made him so all-fired special that God had let him live when better men had died? But he’d never found the answer.