Читать книгу The Hunted - Эль Кеннеди, Elle Kennedy - Страница 8

Eight Months Ago

Corazón, San Marquez

The gunfire finally came to a deafening halt.

Silence.

Captain Robert Tate ignored the ringing in his ears and swept his gaze across the village. It was like looking through a gray haze. The smoke filled his nostrils and stung his eyes, the odor of burned flesh making his stomach roil. Orange flames continued to devour what used to be the church, the only structure left intact. Everything else had been reduced to ash—the ramshackle homes, the schoolhouse, the dusty village square … nothing but ashes.

He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and looked around, doing a quick head count. Sergeant Stone was bending over the bullet-ridden body of a rebel. Second Lieutenant Prescott was wiping sweat and soot from his brows. Lafayette, Rhodes, Diaz and Berkowski. Where was Timmins? There, maneuvering his way through heaps of charred flesh and mangled bodies.

Tate released a ragged breath. Miraculously, all of his men were accounted for. Despite the thick smoke choking the air, despite the stifling heat from the flames, despite the shootout with the rebels, they’d managed to— Wait. Where the hell was Will?

His shoulders stiffened. “Stone,” he shouted. “Where’s Will?”

Through the smoke, he made out the younger man’s bewildered expression. “Haven’t seen him, Captain. I think he—”

Tate held up a hand to quiet his men. Then he listened. The trees rustled and swayed. Flames crackled. Birds squawked. The wind hissed.

Footsteps. There. Through the brush.

Raising his assault rifle, he broke out in a run, nearly tripping over the body of a raven-haired woman burned beyond recognition. One of the villagers.

Later. Think about the villagers later.

As his heart drummed in his chest, he slowed his pace and moved stealthily through the canopy of smoke toward the tree line. His ears perked. Footsteps. He glimpsed a dark blond head, a flash of olive-green. The silver glint of a blade.

“Don’t move,” Tate ordered.

His prey froze.

With his finger hovering over the trigger, Tate took a few steps forward, just as the rebel holding the knife turned.

Tate’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.

“Drop your weapon, amigo.” Hector Cruz’s voice was soft, soothing almost.

An uncharacteristic vise of terror clamped around his throat. He couldn’t tear his gaze from the knife. From the resigned expression in Will’s green eyes.

The rebel tightened his grip on Will, digging the blade deeper into his prisoner’s neck. “Drop the weapon,” Cruz said again. “Drop it, and I’ll let him go.”

“Don’t do it,” Will burst out. “Don’t do it, Captain.”

“Shut up,” Cruz barked at his hostage.

Tate swallowed. He stared into the black eyes of the rebel, seeing nothing but dead calm reflected back at him. The knife sliced deeper into Will’s throat.

Fingers trembling, he lowered his rifle a fraction of an inch.

“That’s it,” Cruz said in encouragement.

“No!” Will shouted. “He’ll kill me regardless.”

The rifle dipped lower.

“For the love of God, shoot the bastard.” Agony rang from Will’s voice. “Forget about me, Robbie. Forget—”

Tate tossed the gun onto the warm brown earth.

Triumph streaked across Cruz’s harsh features. Followed by a grin that lifted his lips. “Bad call,” he said lightly.

And then the rebel slit Will’s throat.