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

I wanted to shoot Jake. Lots of them. This moment was not one of them. Jake and his helicopter represented my best chance of getting out of Sinaloa alive.

I scanned the woods.

Twelve men had walked past me. Where were the other eleven?

Above us, the helicopter circled, the whir of its engines and rotors loud enough to drown out all other sounds.

The sicario’s gaze was fixed on the field.

My gaze was fixed on the sicario. I stood. Slowly.

An arm wrapped around my neck, tightening into a head lock. The scents of tobacco and sweat and blood filled my nose.

For an instant, panic froze my limbs. Then ten years’ worth of martial arts classes took over. I dropped my left knee to the ground.

The man who’d grabbed me rolled over my back.

Crack.

He thudded against the uneven earth.

I drew a ragged breath and pointed my Glock at his heart.

He just stared at me.

And stared.

And didn’t move.

I dared at quick glance at Consuela. “You could have warned me.”

She just looked at me with an I-tried-but-the-helicopter-was-too-loud-and-you-weren’t-paying-attention expression on doggy face.

I returned my gaze to the man on the ground. He still hadn’t moved, still hadn’t reacted at all.

I shifted my weight away from him.

Had I knocked him out? No. His eyes were open.

He hadn’t even blinked. Not once.

I tapped his cheek (slapped his cheek).

Nothing.

I sat back on my heels and stared at his sightless eyes.

My hand covered my mouth and the moan rising from deep in my soul. I’d killed him. And not just him. My tally for the night stood at three. Three men who wouldn’t return to their wives or children because of me.

I wrapped my arms around my waist and rocked back and forward.

Consuela rubbed her head against my thigh. Yip. A pull-yourself-together yip.

But I couldn’t. With shaking fingers, I reached behind the man’s head and found a rock. A wet rock. I yanked my fingers away but it was too late. His blood, warm and horrifying, was literally on my hands.

I wiped my hand on my ruined dress and choked on a sob.

Yip. Consuela regarded me with narrowed eyes. She had no patience for guilt. Not when there were still eleven sicarios lurking in the darkness.

I glanced at the sicario at the edge of the woods. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t heard a thing. The helicopter’s roar had hidden the sounds of his comrade’s death.

That roar grew louder as the helicopter descended, close enough to whip my hair around my face. Close enough to blow Consuela’s lips away from her gums.

The sicario stared down the barrel of his rifle.

When the helicopter landed, he’d shoot at the people who’d come to rescue me.

Dammit.

I gripped the Glock and snuck toward him. My heart, in its attempts to jackhammer its way out of my chest, was louder than the helicopter. My mouth was so dry my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. My hands shook.

Closer.

Closer until I stood behind him.

I screwed up my face (and my courage), lifted my arms high, and brought the Glock down on the back of his head.

He collapsed onto a pile of dead leaves. Dead or unconscious?

Please, please, unconscious.

I didn’t check. I couldn’t bear another death. I just bent, picked up his rifle, and backed into the cover of the trees.

In the field, the helicopter’s landing skids were just feet from the ground.

The skids touched and men wearing body armor leapt from the cargo area, crouching as they hit the ground.

The first shots came from my left, explosions of white light and deafening sound.

The men in the field dropped to their bellies and returned fire.

I dropped to my belly because my knees gave way.

Consuela huddled next to me and I pulled her close.

Deafening. So many guns. So many bullets. The woods were on fire with flashes. How could anyone get through this alive?

There was no way I was walking away from this. We were all going to die, ripped apart by indiscriminate bullets.

There were so many things I’d wanted to do—publish a book, fix my relationship with Chariss, make a difference. Dying in Sinaloan woods, caught between DEA agents and sicarios, was never part of the plan.

Gradually the barrage slowed.

When the guns finally stopped, the silence was loud—a whiteness pressing against my ears.

One by one, the men in the field stood. Body armor and training had prevailed.

I pushed myself to my hands and knees and stood. Slowly.

Yip. Consuela looked up at me with wild eyes.

I stuffed the Glock into my coat pocket, bent and gathered the little dog into my arms.

The two of us staggered into the field.

“Halt!”

I halted.

“Put your hands up!”

With Consuela in my arms, I couldn’t. I simply stopped walking.

“Poppy?” The voice belonged to Jake. “Poppy is that you?”

Who else? “It’s me.” My voice was raw.

Three men approached with their guns drawn.

I didn’t move a muscle.

“Poppy?” Jake lowered his gun. “What happened to you?”

I stiffened. “I had a rough night.” Maybe I didn’t look my best. I’d nearly been incinerated, faced down lions, killed three (maybe four) men, slid down a mountain on my backside, and crawled through the woods. There wasn’t a woman in the world who’d look fabulous after all that (except Chariss).

Jake stared for an eternity, his mouth hanging open. He shifted his gaze to the dog in my arms. “What is that?”

Consuela growled.

“This is Consuela. She’s coming with me.”

“All right.”

“Can we go? Please?”

“Yeah.” He shook his head as if he’d just remembered we standing in a poppy field surrounded by dead sicarios. “Let’s get you to the helicopter.” He reached his hand toward my elbow and Consuela’s growl deepened.

“It’s okay,” I crooned. “He’s a frien—he’s here to help.”

Consuela wasn’t convinced. Her lips drew back from her bared teeth and her eyes narrowed.

Jake ignored the four-pound threat in my arms. “Do you need this?” He pulled at one of the backpack’s straps.

“Yes!”

His brows rose but he left the backpack in place.

Instead, his arm circled my waist and he helped me limp to the helicopter.

A man in body armor pulled me inside. “Let’s get you strapped in, miss.”

Then he pulled at my backpack.

“I need my purse.”

“What?”

“In the backpack, there’s a purse. I need it.”

He opened the pack and looked inside. “No purse in here, miss.”

“It looks like an amethyst.”

“A what?”

“A purple rock.”

He dug around inside the pack then handed me the Baker Street bag. With the bag clutched in one hand and Consuela nestled in my other arm, I allowed Jake to tuck a blanket around my legs and buckle me into a seat.

Someone else clamped headphones onto my ears.

With a whir of rotors, the helicopter took off.

I awakened in a hospital room. Sterile. White. Scratchy sheets. The beep of a monitor. And the blessed sound of American voices outside the door.

The door opened and Jake stepped into the room. “You’re awake.”

“Where am I?” Every inch of my body hurt. Even my hair. And the effort it took to keep my eyes open was ridiculous.

“A hospital.”

I lifted my head and glared at him. “What country?”

“The United States.”

I let my head fall back on the pillow. “Where’s Consuela?”

“She’s in a kennel.”

“She won’t like that.”

“No kidding.” He held up a bandaged hand.

“You didn’t hurt her?” My voice wavered.

“Of course not. The little dervish is fine.”

Thank God. “Where’s my purse?”

“Right there.” He pointed.

I turned my head. The Baker Street bag glinting in the sunlight on the window sill.

“That must be quite a lipstick.”

“What?”

“To drag that bag through the mountains, I mean.”