Manhunt. Lisa Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ they were in place and ready. After he said, “Over,” he nodded to Ames, who called the office on his cell phone and confirmed they were ready to begin the transfer.

      Ames hung up the phone. “Green light.”

      “Let’s get this show on the road.” Parker accepted his rifle from Ames, who’d been holding both weapons.

      “Seriously, that’s the best you can come up with?” Ames asked. “‘Let’s get this show on the road?’”

      Parker sneered. “Excuse me if my mental faculties are otherwise occupied.”

      “Yeah, it must be tough to have to concentrate on walking the orange jumpsuit from here, to down there.” Ames pointed down the runway.

      “Let’s just go, okay?” Eric was apparently determined to be the voice of reason, but Hailey didn’t mind.

      She said, “Agreed. If we’re going to get drenched anyway, then I’d rather get out now and get on with this.”

      Parker turned to them, his eyes on the prisoner. “Let’s move.”

      They climbed out and walked to the runway as the four corners of a square, with Steve Farrell in the center. The downpour drowned out all sound except rain hitting the concrete and her jacket. In the distance, the airplane’s lights came into view, high in the sky.

      Rain poured off the sides of her helmet as Hailey scanned the area, keeping her senses open in case Farrell tried something. Her clothes had gained fifteen pounds of water that penetrated through to the tank top underneath. Even her socks were wet in her boots. When she took off her helmet later, her hair was going to be a giant red fuzz ball.

      Out here in the middle of the night Hailey wasn’t an individual, but part of a team made of four marshals guarding one fugitive. They had to get the man onto the airplane, and nothing else mattered beyond that, their most important objective. Any help they could call in was half an hour away.

      * * *

      “Go!” On Parker’s command they speed-walked the prisoner to the runway. There was no hanging around. This wasn’t about any of them. Except in the case of a debilitating injury, each marshal just had to do his or her job. It was a far cry from WITSEC, but getting his cover blown as an inspector for witness protection—by a reporter, no less...well, that hadn’t been in the plan either.

      Two months now. Two months of his life being upside down. Two months of fugitive apprehension and prisoner transfers. Two months on a team with Hailey Shelder.

      He’d denounced romantic relationships altogether after his fiancée had been paralyzed. Because while Eric would have stayed with Sarah forever, she’d pushed him away and refused to believe he still loved her. He’d tried to get her to listen, but eventually he’d been forced to face the fact she didn’t want him anymore.

      Eric risked a glance across the huddle as they strode to the plane. Hailey was all business, just one of the guys, dressed in the same bulky outfit they all wore. Her gun wasn’t even trembling, not like the tiny shift of his. Wasn’t she scared? His whole body was shaking, but if asked he’d have claimed it was the rain and the cold. Oregon seasons were killer to a guy who’d lived in Phoenix almost his whole adult life.

      Parker yelled, “Let’s go! Pick it up!”

      They had to get Farrell on that plane.

      Eric’s earpiece crackled. A voice came on, male. The man instructed the pilot there was a problem and he shouldn’t land. The wording was precise, using a code they only employed when there was an imminent threat.

      The team shifted. The only one who didn’t falter was Parker. “Hold.”

      The pilot radioed back. “Confirmed.” The plane banked left and circled around, flying away from them.

      “Huddle up.” On Parker’s order, they closed in and turned outward. Anyone who approached would have to face one of them, no matter what direction they were coming from.

      Ames said, “What’s going on? Who was that?”

      Parker, the former SEAL, shouted over the pounding rain. “We’re going back to the vehicle. On my—”

      Something bright cut through the darkness, barreling through the air from the tree line.

      Their SUV exploded.

      Eric choked on his gasp. He could see Hailey was itching to run. The fugitive, Farrell, began to laugh.

      They were cut off until someone could get there to assist them.

      Eric scanned the darkness, but he saw nothing. Even with the light of the SUV engulfed in flames, there was no sign of the threat in the deluge of rain.

      The fugitive bobbed from one foot to the other. His orange jumpsuit was drenched and his bulletproof vest was dripping, but he was still a beacon in the night. Someone out there had their eyes on the target. Whoever it was didn’t want Farrell on that plane. But were they here to kill him, or help him escape?

      A canister hit Eric’s foot, and gas began to pour out in a cloud of smoke. “Gas!” Eric called out the warning, but they couldn’t get to masks they didn’t have. They couldn’t even move from their positions.

      Two more canisters were tossed at the edges of their huddle and more smoke chugged out of them. The cloud cut off what visibility they’d had and Eric’s lungs protested the noxious smell of tear gas. How long could he hold his breath? Hailey coughed, and then Ames did, too. Parker looked like he was still breathing normally. What did they do to SEALs in their training?

      Then there was nothing but smoke.

      Parker yelled, “Hold!”

      Deputy Marshal Ames hit the floor.

      Something slammed into Eric’s neck. It felt like a tiny rock. He tried to suck in a breath, but the floor swept up and hit him. Gunshots. Parker and Hailey both fell, too.

      Eric touched the side of his neck and pulled his gloved hand back, but there was no blood. He could barely breathe. It felt like the time he’d been winded playing paintball. The bruise had been on his sternum for weeks.

       Beanbag rounds?

      Booted feet crowded around them. He tried to move. The team was all down and the fugitive was laughing full out now, a sickening sound.

      Steve Farrell stepped on Eric’s stomach on the way over his body. Still laughing, he walked away. Their assailants looked like a swarm of cockroaches to Eric’s blurred vision. He wiped away the tears streaming down his face—a product of the gas—and tried to focus.

      The assault team was going to disappear into the darkness with an escaped fugitive.

      Eric grasped about for his weapon, grabbed it and managed to aim at the man in orange.

      One of his teammates fired.

      Eric fired, too.

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