The Bodyguard Contract. Donna Young

sat on the ground, her back against the boulder and considered her next move. Three men. Less than she expected from Novak.

      After checking her utility belt, she twisted the silencer onto her Glock and glanced once more over the top of the boulder. Assured no one had moved, she slid her ski mask into place and took a deep breath.

      Using the shadows for cover, she maneuvered through the sparse cover of boulders and brush until she reached the back of the semi’s trailer. Easily thirteen feet in length, it could carry millions of dollars worth of illegal arms.

      A cough echoed in the night air. Harmless. Still, she waited a scant few seconds before tugging the swing doors’ lever. Locked. Not surprised, she tucked her gun into her waistband, grabbed the hinge and boosted herself onto the bumper.

      The top of the trailer was a good four feet above her own five-seven height. She took a deep breath and jumped. Her fingertips snagged the edge of the steel roof and she shimmied up to the top of the trailer.

      Flat against the top, Lara’s quick scan told her no one had moved. She tugged a rope free from her belt—a long cable of solid, moldable acid. Quickly, she placed it in a tight circle on the steel roof then reached for a small plastic bottle with the activating solution. She attached a climbing suction cup in the middle and poured the solution over the rope.

      Soon acid ate through steel. The smell, only slightly pungent, lost its fierceness in the desert wind.

      With a quick tug on the suction cup, Lara broke the steel free.

      A chopper sounded in the distance and Lara swore. Hastily, she slid down the side panel of the truck, then hung by her fingers on its edge and waited.

      The helicopter landed a hundred feet from the front of the diesel engine. The blades kicked up sand and debris, forcing Lara to turn away.

      Using her arms, she pulled herself back to the top, wincing when steel scraped against her belly.

      The copter’s blades slowed. Two men jumped to the ground, both in suits, one carrying a briefcase—a large enough case to hold quite a bit of cash—while a younger man with black hair and a beard carried a machine gun. The pilot, she noticed, stayed in the helicopter.

      A man, in his midthirties, stepped out from the sedan. With a cigarette hanging from thin lips and sporting short, blond tipped hair—spiked like a David Bowie wannabe—the man waved a casual hand in greeting. Novak.

      Shifting for a better view, she slowly drew her miniature binoculars, trying to get a read on the faces, the movement of their lips. Her frown deepened. Nothing.

      Suddenly, Novak slapped the buyer on the shoulder and nodded toward the big rig driver.

      The trailer door banged, sending a shock wave rippling through the steel beneath her. Lara pulled out her silencer pistol.

      She listened, heard the laughter, recognized the underlying tone of satisfaction. Novak and his buyer climbed into the trailer, leaving the two bodyguards outside.

      Lara scowled, but didn’t waste time on the slight glitch. She grabbed the gas canister from her utility belt, pulled the release and dropped the cylinder through.

      Swiftly, she covered the hole. Shouts of alarm penetrated the trailer walls. The Uzi guys came running, each taking a side. Lara aimed, fired, taking down the buyer’s man with a bullet in the throat. With a cry of pain, he grasped his neck, the blood already gurgling between his gasps of breath. Lara ignored him, knowing the man was already dead.

      Steroid Boy was much smarter. He dropped, rolled, then came to his knees and fired.

      A rapid spray of bullets hit the air, pinging the steel beneath her. Lara twisted, grabbed the trailer’s opposite edge and dropped. She scrambled under the rig. Exhaust and the scent of gasoline thickened the air beneath. Nausea roped through her belly. Ignoring it, she aimed at the booted feet and squeezed the trigger. An agonized scream tore through the air. The man dropped, both ankles shattered by bullets. One more to the chest took him out of the picture.

      The copter pilot fired its machine gun. Bullets kicked up the dirt between the car and trailer, catching the semi’s driver in their path. He jerked once, then fell to his knees. With eyes frozen open, he landed facefirst on the ground.

      “Nice aim, idiot,” Lara murmured, then rolled back into the open air and fired. The helicopter’s windshield exploded and on its heels came another agonizing scream of pain.

      Lara dropped her clip and shoved in her spare. Using the tires for cover, she waited two slow minutes. Bit by bit she crept around the back, knowing one or more of the men could’ve made it out before the gas rendered them unconscious.

      She levered herself up, checked the darkness for signs of movement, then maneuvered around the stacked crates.

      Both Novak and his buyer lay slumped on the floor—the briefcase at their feet.

      Lara grabbed the case and straightened. Almost instantly, a bullet punched her chest. She flew back, her shoulder slammed against the wall of the rig.

      Pain exploded from chest to chin. It knocked her legs out from under her. One of the men tackled her, sending them both out of the trailer and onto the dirt.

      Before she could stop him, Novak reared back and whipped off her mask.

      “Well, look what we’ve got here.”

      “Surprise.” She rammed her knee into his crotch. Novak went down gasping. Lara jumped up, grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Placing the gun just under his jaw.

      “Okay, Tony. I don’t have time for any guessing games. So for each correct answer you get to stay healthy. Each wrong answer, you get a bullet in a vital organ. Got me?”

      “You realize who I am?” His eyes narrowed, but she noticed he still gasped out the words and took a great deal of pleasure in it.

      “Well, after you get done being my bargaining chip, I’ll ask you for an autograph. How’s that?”

      “Bargaining chip?”

      “Later.” Lara took a quick glance around. “How many of your guys are watching from the sidelines?”

      “None,” he denied, his tone artificially friendly. “Armand and I have been doing business for years. This was to be simple. In, out. No surprises.”

      “Yeah, and I’m Moses looking for the right desert—”

      A gun clicked behind Lara’s ear. “Drop your weapon, Moses. Or lose your head.”