Read Online Shadow Agenda: An Action Suspense Thriller by Sam Powers - Free Book Online
Authors: Sam Powers
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me,” he said. “Watch yourself as we go down the steps.” Brennan had prepared for quick exit; beyond the tree line on their side of the compound, a small path ran down into the neighboring valley, where a de Havilland Beaver float plane was tied up and waiting. “We’ve got to move quickly beyond the tree line, okay? You’re going to have to be able to run on your own.”
“Okay,” Lang said. He didn’t ask what the alternative was; both knew they’d only have minutes before Villanueva’s men caught up to them. The pair staggered down the steps; Lang stumbled and fell, then regained his feet; a moment later they were crawling through the hole in the fence.
They were at the tree line when the spotlight caught up to them, the light blinding for a split second; voices were raised, calling after them, yelling. Brennan pulled the machete from his pack and started to quickly hack a path into the overgrowth. Walter followed closely, squinting to keep view of his friend, bullets zipping through the leaves around them, crisp, green, disintegrating flotsam floating around them, shouts becoming louder, frantic voices in Spanish. At the fence, the guards had discovered the clipped hole and were inspecting it; a trio climbed through the hole to follow immediately.
The machete was taking too long and Brennan gave it up, tossing it aside and pulling his way through the overgrowth. He looked back; Walter was barely keeping up, stumbling just to stay standing. “About two hundred yards,” Brennan said, anticipating the question that Walter was too tired to ask. A few moments later Brennan pushed the foliage aside, revealing a steep hill down to the stream, a hundred and twenty degree drop off. It was checkered with rocks, scrub brush and thorny bushes. Another bullet whizzed by and a leaf by Lang’s head disappeared. “This is going to really suck, so make sure you bundle yourself up in a tight ball…” Brennan said. He took his jacket off and put it over his friend’s shoulders. “Wear this. It might help.”
Lang looked down the hill, to where he could just make out the moon glinting off the plane’s white wings. It looked about a half-mile away. Then he heard the voices, almost on top of them. “We’re out of options, I guess,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Brennan, taking off his pack and discarding it. “After you.”
Lang closed his eyes and dove down the hill. He did as suggested, tucking himself into a ball, but it didn’t help either man avoid the rocks, logs and brush, and they bounced painfully throughout the trip. At the bottom, Lang uncurled himself, feeling every jab and stone, lying on his back to get his wind.
A hand reached down and grabbed his. “We have to keep moving,” Brennan said, hauling Lang to his feet. Above them the guards were trying to clamber slowly down the hill; it was too steep to stay upright and fire accurately at them, but the odd shell whistled in from nearby and thunked into the muddy bank by the stream. The plane was only twenty yards away now, the engine firing, spitting gasoline and spluttering for air, prop beginning to rotate, pistons whining. The pilot, Eddie, was an agency freelancer, a veteran hired hand. He climbed out of the cockpit and stood on the pontoon to hold open the passenger door as they clambered first onto the float and then up and inside.
“Get us out of here, Ed!” Brennan yelled over the prop noise.
Their exit ticket jumped back into the cockpit and into the pilot’s chair. The plane taxied ahead on the water, the grizzled pilot pushing the engine to its limit. Bullets skipped through the water as the guards tried to bring the plane down, and one ricocheted through one side of the hull and out of the other, just as Eddie managed to pull the yolk back fully. The plane shuddered as its pontoons escaped the surface tension of the river in a shower of water; it began to gain altitude, a chorus of tracer bullets accompanying it into the night
“Okay,” Lang said. He didn’t ask what the alternative was; both knew they’d only have minutes before Villanueva’s men caught up to them. The pair staggered down the steps; Lang stumbled and fell, then regained his feet; a moment later they were crawling through the hole in the fence.
They were at the tree line when the spotlight caught up to them, the light blinding for a split second; voices were raised, calling after them, yelling. Brennan pulled the machete from his pack and started to quickly hack a path into the overgrowth. Walter followed closely, squinting to keep view of his friend, bullets zipping through the leaves around them, crisp, green, disintegrating flotsam floating around them, shouts becoming louder, frantic voices in Spanish. At the fence, the guards had discovered the clipped hole and were inspecting it; a trio climbed through the hole to follow immediately.
The machete was taking too long and Brennan gave it up, tossing it aside and pulling his way through the overgrowth. He looked back; Walter was barely keeping up, stumbling just to stay standing. “About two hundred yards,” Brennan said, anticipating the question that Walter was too tired to ask. A few moments later Brennan pushed the foliage aside, revealing a steep hill down to the stream, a hundred and twenty degree drop off. It was checkered with rocks, scrub brush and thorny bushes. Another bullet whizzed by and a leaf by Lang’s head disappeared. “This is going to really suck, so make sure you bundle yourself up in a tight ball…” Brennan said. He took his jacket off and put it over his friend’s shoulders. “Wear this. It might help.”
Lang looked down the hill, to where he could just make out the moon glinting off the plane’s white wings. It looked about a half-mile away. Then he heard the voices, almost on top of them. “We’re out of options, I guess,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Brennan, taking off his pack and discarding it. “After you.”
Lang closed his eyes and dove down the hill. He did as suggested, tucking himself into a ball, but it didn’t help either man avoid the rocks, logs and brush, and they bounced painfully throughout the trip. At the bottom, Lang uncurled himself, feeling every jab and stone, lying on his back to get his wind.
A hand reached down and grabbed his. “We have to keep moving,” Brennan said, hauling Lang to his feet. Above them the guards were trying to clamber slowly down the hill; it was too steep to stay upright and fire accurately at them, but the odd shell whistled in from nearby and thunked into the muddy bank by the stream. The plane was only twenty yards away now, the engine firing, spitting gasoline and spluttering for air, prop beginning to rotate, pistons whining. The pilot, Eddie, was an agency freelancer, a veteran hired hand. He climbed out of the cockpit and stood on the pontoon to hold open the passenger door as they clambered first onto the float and then up and inside.
“Get us out of here, Ed!” Brennan yelled over the prop noise.
Their exit ticket jumped back into the cockpit and into the pilot’s chair. The plane taxied ahead on the water, the grizzled pilot pushing the engine to its limit. Bullets skipped through the water as the guards tried to bring the plane down, and one ricocheted through one side of the hull and out of the other, just as Eddie managed to pull the yolk back fully. The plane shuddered as its pontoons escaped the surface tension of the river in a shower of water; it began to gain altitude, a chorus of tracer bullets accompanying it into the night
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