Oath of Office

Dovzhenko had climbed out and now looked down through the open door, the Uzi slung around his neck. “Pass the girl to me! The engine is burning. You need to get out now.”

Jack braced himself against the seats and helped Ysabel up. She looked at him in horror.

“You are bleeding,” she said.

“I’m fine,” Jack said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

She looked back at him, terror in her eyes.

“No,” she said. “You are not.”

Ryan pressed up with his legs, pushing on her buttocks while Dovzhenko pulled her up and out.

“We have to hurry,” the Russian yelled. “The motorcycles are returning.”

“I’m right behind you,” Ryan said.

Caruso was only half conscious. He moaned, looked at Jack as if he understood, and then closed his eyes.

“Come on, buddy,” Jack said through clenched teeth. He squatted low and looped Caruso’s arm around his shoulder, pressing with his legs to drag Caruso up toward the door. “Dovzhenko!” he hissed. “A little help here!”

Nothing.

“Dovzhenko!”

Caruso stirred, his head lolling sideways to look directly at Jack. His eyes were dazed, unfocused. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” Jack said.

“No,” Caruso said. “I don’t think so, buddy. You should see yourself…”

“I said I’m fine.” Ryan called for the Russian again, then Ysabel, to no avail.

“I can’t lift you out of here by myself,” he said. “You still got that pistol?”

Caruso shook his head. “Nope.”

The sound of approaching motorcycle engines growled above the wind outside.

Jack lowered Caruso gently to the seat. This wasn’t working. He cast his eyes around the interior of the van, searching for another way out. He could crawl over the backseat and maybe kick open the rear doors, but Caruso was little better than deadweight.

The clack-clack cyclic of the Uzi ripped outside, followed by the distinctive crack of AKs. Acrid smoke began to pour in from the dash as the magnesium engine caught fire. Ryan knew they had maybe a minute before the van would become fully engulfed, less if the heat reached the fuel tank.

“Dom,” Jack said, heart racing now in near-panic mode. “We have to get you out of here.”

Caruso pointed at the ground. “Here.”

“I’m telling you we can’t stay here.”

Caruso shook his head, squinting now as the initial surge of adrenaline gave way to pain from his injuries. “Here!” He stomped on the window. “We’re on a ditch. Crawl out.”

Jack saw the butt of the Beretta now, jammed between the side of the seat and the passenger doorframe. He leaned Caruso against the backrest and traded places with him so he was on the bottom. It would be much easier if he went first and dragged his cousin out. The alternative would be like pushing cooked spaghetti. Jack grabbed the pistol and, bracing his feet on the metal frame, put a single round through the window. Fortunately, the van had shatterproof glass and it broke into a thousand tiny squares rather than deadly shards.

They’d come to rest with the wheels on the edge of the road and the roofline resting on the far bank, straddling the ditch. Gun in hand, Jack scrambled through the broken window, feetfirst, sinking immediately to his chest in muddy water. Caruso came behind him, gasping and becoming more animated from the surprise of hitting the muck.

“Can you keep your head up?” Jack asked.

“I’m good,” Caruso groaned. “My head feels like shit, though.”

“Looks it, too,” Ryan said, relieved that Dom seemed coherent enough to assist in his own rescue.

“Oh, yeah,” Caruso said. “Just wait until you look in the mirror…”

Jack shrimped backward, his back scraping the van, his body submerged up to his neck in the soupy muck. Dom’s brother, Brian, had been killed doing this job. Jack wasn’t about to lose another cousin. Caruso faced him, crawling along as well as he could, coughing and sputtering from smoke and muddy water.

Jack was vaguely aware of more shots outside, but they were in front of the van. He had a vague plan of staying as deep in the water as he could as he worked his way out feetfirst while making certain Caruso didn’t drown or burn to death.

“Stay with me, D—”

Strong hands grabbed Jack around both ankles. He kicked and twisted to try and get away, but, caught on the tunnel-like space between the ditch and the body of the van, he was robbed of any real power. He heard muffled voices and then felt more hands grabbing him, one person on each leg now, dragging him out through the mud. The image of his cousin seared into his brain. His dazed eyes, the crooked jaw, flames licking the van above him.

46

Ding Chavez pressed his spine against the trunk of a gnarled olive tree. He held his short shotgun at low ready. Grasshoppers flew up each time he took a step, wings clicking on the hazy evening air. Birds chirped in the branches. A dead man lay in the shrubs fifteen feet away. It was probably a sentry and whoever had killed him was somewhere uphill, between Chavez and the house.