Fields' Guide to Abduction - - (best sales books of all time txt) 📗

I took aim and shot a tree between them.

The male lion, the one on the left, roared.

Great. I’d made him mad.

What now?

The female, the one on the right, crept toward me. I shot at her paws.

Now she roared.

I should pull the trigger—shoot them.

But I couldn’t.

The male lion slunk forward.

Surviving meant doing things I couldn’t do.

I raised the gun.

Yip.

Consuela appeared and took a combative stance between me and the giant cats—as if she believed she was a Rhodesian Ridgeback and not a Chihuahua.

The lions blinked.

The little dog growled.

“Consuela, no.” She’d be an amuse bouche before their main meal. Me.

She danced on her paws—they’d have to catch her first.

Another roar, in the distance.

Another lion? How lucky could one girl get?

Except the roar was steady and growing louder.

A helicopter.

A searchlight cut through the trees. Blinding me. Blinding the lions. Blinding Consuela.

Yip! Yip, yip, yip! Consuela was near hysterical.

The female lion had inched closer. Close enough for starlight to gleam on her teeth.

Shooting her felt like a terrible crime but I raised the gun—

A bright light hit me right in the eyes.

I pulled the trigger. And missed.

Was the helicopter pilot trying to get me killed?

At least the lioness retreated.

The light swung from me to the cats. They liked the glare even less than I did.

With a roar of displeasure, the male lion melted into the trees. With a lick of her lips that promised she’d be back, the female followed him.

My back slid down the tree—mainly because all the strength in my knees disappeared with the lions.

Consuela ran to me, nudged me, reminded me with a nip that staying still meant death. The helicopter and its lights would return any second now.

I pushed myself of the ground. “I’m glad you’re here.” I told her. “You were very brave.”

She preened. Yip.

I stepped onto the trail and a scream split the night. A man’s scream. A shock and terror and agony scream. A scream that send shivers skittering down my back and raised the hackles on Consuela’s back

“I think the lions found dinner,” I whispered.

An unfortunate man had just died an unthinkable death. Probably a sicario. And since sicarios seldom traveled alone, there were probably others out there—one or two or ten. Were they looking for me? Were they Zetas or Sinaloans? And now that Ignacio was dead, did that matter?

My steps were long and fast and purposeful—get down the mountain, find a phone, call for help. I ignored the pain in my feet, the weakness in my knees, and the deep-rooted desire to curl up in a little ball. Consuela trotted to keep up with me.

There! The road—such as it was. I could have called it a pair of dirt ruts leading to Ignacio’s hacienda. Better yet, a pair of ruts leading away from Ignacio’s hacienda.

I dared not walk in those ruts—a truck could overtake me in seconds. Instead, I used the ruts as a guide. I tripped through the woods, falling often. Bushes grabbed at the fabric of my skirt. Sticks and stones tried to break my frigid and bare toes. The backpack and rifle weighed more with each step. And the Glock in my hand felt heavy—almost too heavy to lift.

But the worst was the helicopter. It passed overhead every few minutes, its light freezing me beneath the overhang of branches. I couldn’t help but think it was looking for me. Had Javier guessed that I’d stolen Ignacio’s account numbers? Was he searching for me? Or, was it Jake?

And what of the sicarios the lions hadn’t killed? Were they searching the woods? Looking for me?

Get down the mountain, find a phone, call for help. I repeated those words like a litany.

Get down the mou—I froze. The helicopter was back.

A voice crackled over the helo’s loudspeaker. Jake’s voice. “There’s a poppy field a klick down the road.”

If the sicarios were looking for me, they’d know where to find me. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they’d think the DEA was going after one of their poppy fields. Either way, that klick down the road promised peril.

I leaned against the nearest tree and thought. Jake knew the mountain was lousy with killers. Had he really meant to send them all to one spot? And me too?

I rested my face in my hands.

Unless there was a platoon on that helicopter, we could all be killed.

What choice did I have?

Consuela yipped softly and I raised my head. There were men on the road. At least a dozen. Men with automatic rifles, fierce expressions, and bloodied hands. I stepped farther back into the shadows and held my breath.

They streamed past me. Zetas? Sinaloans? They wore plaid shirts. Did Zetas wear plaid? Or, was that a strictly Sinaloan fashion statement?

When the last man had disappeared, I ventured out of the trees.

Twelve men. Automatic rifles. The smell of death trailing after them. And Jake wanted me to follow them.

I looked at Consuela.

She looked at me.

We both shrugged and began walking.

Another turn. The side of the road rose but the road did not. If I followed my current path, I’d be above the road. The other choice was one of the ruts—easier walking but more dangerous in every way that counted.

I climbed, my thighs burning, my ruined dress twisting around my ankles like a snare.

Up. And up.

Yip. Consuela’s tongue hung out of the side of her mouth.

“We’re almost to the top.”

Below us the road snaked through the darkness.

Above us the stars shined like beacons.

We climbed.

At the crest, we stopped. I slid the gun and backpack off my shoulders, opened a bottle of water, drank deeply, then cupped my hand and poured water for Consuela.

She drank from my palm, her little pink tongue lapping thirstily.

When she’d had her fill, I stood (my knees and back and hips objected) and walked to the edge of the ridge, searching for a break in the trees, a place where Jake and his team might land a helicopter.

The night gave up no secrets.

“At least going down will be easier.”

Consuela did not look convinced. Not then. Not when I put on the backpack. Not when I picked up the rifle.

I took four steps on the down slope. Four steps until a rock shot out from under my foot. Four steps until I landed on my hiney. Four steps until I slid down the side of a mountain on a hiney covered only by a silk dress and La Perla panties. Four steps until the rifle was ripped off my shoulder by a sapling.

A herd of elephants would have been stealthier.

I sat at the bottom, covered in pine needles, cuts, abrasions, and dirt. The couture dress wasn’t fit for use as a rag.

Yip?

“I’m okay,” I lied.

I pushed off the ground (it was getting more difficult each time I did it) and rolled my neck. At least I still had the Glock and the backpack.

I stood and listened, dreading the footsteps that surely must be coming. People in Mazatlan had probably heard me descend that ridge.

I heard nothing. “Let’s go.” We had a rendezvous at a poppy field.