Read Online Black Ops Chronicles: Dead Run by Pepper O'Neal - Free Book Online
Authors: Pepper O'Neal
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the men shout and run up the aisle. Concealment now moot, she jumped to her feet, scrambled down the rest of the stairs, and tore out the door.
Gunfire erupted behind her, shattering the afternoon quiet. Bullets whizzed by, plowing into the ground around her as she vaulted over a fence. Expecting to feel the slugs slam into her back at any second, she fled to the cover of the houses on an adjoining street and ducked in between two buildings.
She stopped to catch her breath, glancing behind her. No one there. But she didn’t believe for a minute they weren’t coming. They just hadn’t followed on foot. Not surprising, considering the men Nick usually hired. She hadn’t met any of these four before, but they reminded her of the employees she had met—all street-smart, city dwellers. The simple dirt streets, sidewalks, and backyards of this little desert village must’ve intimidated them all to hell. Since Nick wasn’t here to complain, they would probably search for her by driving around. At least that’s what she hoped.
While her mind scrambled to form an escape plan, she wove her way through the village, creeping from house to house, taking cover at the first sound of a vehicle. Three ancient pickup trucks and one Volkswagen bus later, she was crouched behind a wilting bougainvillea next to a clothesline in someone’s backyard, when she spotted the Jeep.
Windows down, the men drove past at a crawl, their hard eyes scanning four different directions. Cursing her wretched luck, Tess drew farther back into the shadows of the shrubbery. But she couldn’t stay there. The neighbors might see her and start asking questions. She needed some camouflage or—a costume, she thought, glancing at the laundry hanging on the clothesline above her.
Rising, she inspected the clothes: children’s and still wet. She sank back down to a crouch and moved on. From the clothesline next door, she secured a tattered dress. She felt like slime for stealing from people who had so little, so she left a handful of Mexican coins piled on the back doorstep, hoping it’d be enough to cover the theft.
She slipped the dress on over her jeans. It was still slightly damp and four sizes too big. Several inches bunched around her feet. Pulling a pocketknife from her backpack, she cut a piece of excess rope from the end of the clothesline and used it as a belt, cinching the skirt up around her waist so she could walk without tripping.
As she worked, the mouthwatering aroma of enchiladas drifted to her, reminding her she hadn’t eaten all day. She could hear a woman’s voice, floating through an open window, and music playing on a radio. A child cried. Someone murmured soothing words—tiny glimpses of life being lived as it was supposed to be, far from the edge of constant fear.
Tears pricked Tess’s eyes, but she fought them back and pressed on.
At another house, she found a large tablecloth. Though faded and frayed, the heavy material was sturdy. Leaving more coins, she pulled it from the clothesline. She folded it in a triangle and draped it around her head and shoulders like a shawl, shadowing her face, hiding her hair and pale skin. The clothes made her feel hot and bedraggled, but she figured she could pass as a native. At least from a distance.
A group of young people came down the street, talking and laughing. Perfect cover . When they passed, she slipped from the shadows and fell in behind them. Knowing the biggest part of wearing a costume effectively was body language, she slumped her shoulders and bowed her head, trying to look like a worn-out mother of ten—the way Pablo’s mother looked.
Tess followed the teens across the street and through the square. When they reached the other side of the plaza, she slipped off down a side street and worked her way through the rest of the village, one house at a time.
At the outskirts of town, she hid behind the tortilla shop and waited, the scent of the hot, fresh tortillas making her
Gunfire erupted behind her, shattering the afternoon quiet. Bullets whizzed by, plowing into the ground around her as she vaulted over a fence. Expecting to feel the slugs slam into her back at any second, she fled to the cover of the houses on an adjoining street and ducked in between two buildings.
She stopped to catch her breath, glancing behind her. No one there. But she didn’t believe for a minute they weren’t coming. They just hadn’t followed on foot. Not surprising, considering the men Nick usually hired. She hadn’t met any of these four before, but they reminded her of the employees she had met—all street-smart, city dwellers. The simple dirt streets, sidewalks, and backyards of this little desert village must’ve intimidated them all to hell. Since Nick wasn’t here to complain, they would probably search for her by driving around. At least that’s what she hoped.
While her mind scrambled to form an escape plan, she wove her way through the village, creeping from house to house, taking cover at the first sound of a vehicle. Three ancient pickup trucks and one Volkswagen bus later, she was crouched behind a wilting bougainvillea next to a clothesline in someone’s backyard, when she spotted the Jeep.
Windows down, the men drove past at a crawl, their hard eyes scanning four different directions. Cursing her wretched luck, Tess drew farther back into the shadows of the shrubbery. But she couldn’t stay there. The neighbors might see her and start asking questions. She needed some camouflage or—a costume, she thought, glancing at the laundry hanging on the clothesline above her.
Rising, she inspected the clothes: children’s and still wet. She sank back down to a crouch and moved on. From the clothesline next door, she secured a tattered dress. She felt like slime for stealing from people who had so little, so she left a handful of Mexican coins piled on the back doorstep, hoping it’d be enough to cover the theft.
She slipped the dress on over her jeans. It was still slightly damp and four sizes too big. Several inches bunched around her feet. Pulling a pocketknife from her backpack, she cut a piece of excess rope from the end of the clothesline and used it as a belt, cinching the skirt up around her waist so she could walk without tripping.
As she worked, the mouthwatering aroma of enchiladas drifted to her, reminding her she hadn’t eaten all day. She could hear a woman’s voice, floating through an open window, and music playing on a radio. A child cried. Someone murmured soothing words—tiny glimpses of life being lived as it was supposed to be, far from the edge of constant fear.
Tears pricked Tess’s eyes, but she fought them back and pressed on.
At another house, she found a large tablecloth. Though faded and frayed, the heavy material was sturdy. Leaving more coins, she pulled it from the clothesline. She folded it in a triangle and draped it around her head and shoulders like a shawl, shadowing her face, hiding her hair and pale skin. The clothes made her feel hot and bedraggled, but she figured she could pass as a native. At least from a distance.
A group of young people came down the street, talking and laughing. Perfect cover . When they passed, she slipped from the shadows and fell in behind them. Knowing the biggest part of wearing a costume effectively was body language, she slumped her shoulders and bowed her head, trying to look like a worn-out mother of ten—the way Pablo’s mother looked.
Tess followed the teens across the street and through the square. When they reached the other side of the plaza, she slipped off down a side street and worked her way through the rest of the village, one house at a time.
At the outskirts of town, she hid behind the tortilla shop and waited, the scent of the hot, fresh tortillas making her
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