we kick it open. Take Young down there and get out. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.” Their blows were already causing the heavy wood to shudder.
“I can’t just leave you here,” Sarah said, mouth twisted.
“I’ll be right behind you. Get moving.”
“But...”
One booted foot punched through the wood and slammed against the metal file drawers, the impact vibrating his spine. It was probably the time for calm reasoning and diplomacy, but he had none to offer. Besides, in his experience the best way to combat fear was a commanding officer barking orders at you. “Now, Sarah,” he thundered. “Go now.”
Sarah and Juanita threw a bag of supplies together and loaded Young onto a stretcher, strapping him onto the canvas frame. Juanita heaved open the trapdoor in the floor and crawled down first, guiding the stretcher into a near vertical position with Sarah on the other end.
“Jett...” Sarah said, green-gold eyes wide with fear. He could see now that her hands were shaking. Badly.
“Go on,” he said, trying for a gentler tone that was still persuasive. He wasn’t sure how hard he should push her, how strong she was after being in the hospital so long after the accident that killed her father, but there wasn’t much choice at the moment. She’d always been a strong person, and he had to hope that was still the case. “I’ll be right behind you.”
He could see her jaw muscles tighten. She flashed him a determined, almost defiant look—which he loved—before she climbed into the hole with her end of the stretcher. It couldn’t have been easy, but she managed the thing. Sarah Gallagher, you still got your spunk.
He shoved his back against the file cabinet to make the inevitable breach take as long as possible. The metal slammed against his shoulder blades, nearly taking him off his feet. As much as he longed for a rematch, he was not going to win another fight against these three, not now, when he was still bruised and sore from their last encounter. The thought rankled him. He was going to lose. Again. He detested losing, always had.
Fine, he thought. If he was going down, at least he’d buy time for the women to get out with their patient. He looked around for something, anything useful. No weapons, no tools. What he wouldn’t give for a baseball bat or a shovel.
The jug of hand sanitizer. He smiled. Alcohol based, classified as class I flammable liquid substance with a flash point of less than one hundred degrees. Not as satisfying as disposing of small arms ammo with copious amounts of gasoline and thermite, but it might gain them a few minutes. Of course, Sarah would never condone the damage it would cause, but lives were more important than property and beggars couldn’t be choosers.
He seized the jug and a handful of towels. Throwing the towels down on the center of the floor, he dumped on the gel, two gallons of it. Then he grabbed a box of matches and lit it. It took a few seconds for the alcohol in the gel to catch. When it flamed to life, he dumped on a pile of paper towels, just for some extra oomph, and soon the smoke filled the small building, tickling his nose and stinging his eyes. Excellent.
He heard the creak of metal as their boots finally crashed through the door and started to work on shoving the file cabinet aside. In the back the sound of splintering wood indicated Sarah’s barricade was near failing. One more minute and Beretta’s men would walk right into the wall of smoke. His nerves were dancing with adrenaline. Fire, smoke, danger, risk. Good times.
Enjoy the campfire, gentlemen. With one last smile, he raced to the trapdoor and let himself down into the darkness, closing it firmly behind him.
* * *
Sarah felt like her lungs would explode in her chest as she and Juanita bumped through the damp earthen basement with their stricken patient. They tried their best to sync their steps to avoid jostling him too much.
Please, God, don’t let the exit be blocked.
She strained to hear the sound of running feet above her. Fear coiled like a live snake in her stomach. Jett was battered, alone with three men, and he had the same superhero attitude he’d had all his life. It was the same attitude that caused him to take a dare one stormy evening to jump a riverbed on his motorcycle. That hadn’t ended well. She still remembered her fear at seeing him there in the hospital bed, still and unresponsive. What had she been thinking leaving him in the clinic by himself? But how could she abandon her patient?
“Juanita, I can’t hold the stretcher much longer,” she panted.
“Here’s the door.” Sweating and gasping, they eased past stacks of boxes. Juanita heaved a heavy wooden bar aside and swung the door open. Brilliant June sunlight nearly blinded them, wrapping them in the sizzling heat of a Mexican afternoon.
They stepped out to find themselves in the weed-filled space that doubled as a parking lot for those few who were fortunate enough to have a vehicle. Incredibly, the doctor’s old, battered truck was there. He’d opted to walk to the nearby village to save the cost of the fuel. Sarah almost cried with relief.
“Quick,” she said. “We’ll load him in. Then I’m going back to help Jett.”
“No,” Juanita said, frightened eyes opened wide.
Sarah did not listen. Instead she helped Juanita ease Young into the bed of the truck. Juanita got behind the wheel and fingered the visor where her father always left the keys.
“Start it up,” Sarah commanded. “Drive a mile down the road and wait. If we don’t come in ten minutes, take him to your father.”
Juanita’s lips pinched with fear. “Beretta’s men will kill you both.”
Sarah steeled her spine against the wild fear. “I’m not going to leave Jett. He’s our patient, too.”
Juanita clung to her hand until Sarah pulled away. Juanita started the engine, and Sarah prayed the attackers would not hear the noise.
She raced back to basement, noting the smell of smoke in the air.
She wanted to yell for Jett, but she was afraid of attracting any attention, so she crept on, stopping every few feet to listen. The tang of smoke was stronger now, which hastened her pace toward the ladder. They wouldn’t dare burn down the clinic, would they? In the back of her mind, she still could not believe someone was intent on murdering Del Young.
So naive, Sarah. Your father was murdered. Why not Del? Why not you? It had been a mere six months since the car she was driving was forced off the road and her detective father was killed. It had required a full four weeks in the hospital for her body to recover from the injuries she’d sustained in the accident. Justice had been served, thanks to Marco and her sisters and it had given her a desire to earn her detective license while she lay in the hospital recovering. But she’d insisted on fulfilling her promise to do her final missionary service in Playa del Oro. Would she pay for that decision with her life? Forcing herself to move beyond the paralyzing terror, she’d just put her hand on the first rung when a calloused palm sealed off her mouth. She thrashed her arms and tried to clamp her teeth on her assailant.
“Stop biting and don’t scream,” Jett breathed, holding her tightly. “Or they’ll be down here in two seconds.”
Relief made her knees go weak.
He eased his hand away, and she could not help wrapping him in a tight hug. His hands went reflexively around her waist, and he chuckled softly. “You won’t think I deserve a hug when you find out about my little diversion,” he whispered, lips grazing her ear. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
Her good sense returned, and she shoved him away. “I was just...relieved that you weren’t dead.”
“You and me both,” he said, taking her hand and urging her back toward the exit. “That would have ruined my whole day. Keep moving. We don’t have much of a head start. Where’s your helper?”
Sarah told her the plan she’d concocted.
“That