Page 63 of Rebel Protector
Plan B involved a firefight—the most likely outcome. The guards would retaliate, people would get shot, and Markov and Federico would be captured in the chaos, if they were still breathing.
Plans C, D, and E covered contingencies in case Markov or Federico escaped into the jungle or the sugarcane fields, or if they took hostages. Other plans accounted for the possibility of losing any Blackthorn operators or the key players themselves.
Federico handed Markov the tablet. “Transaction complete.”
Let’s go!
It was time.
Ghost, who was unarmed, backed into a corner where a rusty, unused tractor stood gathering dust. Taped to the underside was a handgun he’d need when the bullets started flying.
The floorboards above him creaked, and a loud voice rang out. “Put down your weapons. You’re under arrest!”
Immediately, the two armed men at the door aimed high and opened fire, bullets slamming into the underside of the loft and ricocheting off the metal platform where the operators lay. Pat, Blade, and Cole fired back, focusing on the guards, not Markov or Federico.
Ghost threw himself behind the tractor and slid beneath it, tearing the gun free from its hiding spot. He checked the chamber. Loaded.
He rolled onto his stomach and fired at Federico, but the Colombian was already being hustled out by two of his men. One fired behind them into the barn, while the other created cover outside. They weren’t amateurs.
An all-out firefight erupted. Bullets flew from the edge of the jungle, and the cartel’s militia fired back from behind the truck.
There was a yell as Ramirez took a hit to the shoulder, followed by another to the gut. The shots came from Federico’s men, as far as Ghost could tell. Ramirez dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach, blood pooling around him. Ghost thought about pulling him to safety but figured with a gut wound like that, it probably wouldn’t matter.
Markov sprinted for the exit, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets from above, and took off across the clearing into the sugarcane. Somehow, he avoided getting hit.
“Cover me!” Ghost shouted, running after him.
Pat, Blade, and Cole immediately provided cover fire, sliding down the ladder from the loft like firemen on a pole. Their rapid fire created a gap, allowing Ghost to sprint to the cane field.
The cartel’s small army was now trapped, shooting wildly in all directions as they fended off incoming fire from the Colombian military advancing through the jungle, as well as the two FBI agents and the Blackthorn operators in the barn.
Ghost left them to it and raced after Markov.
Shit.
He had to catch him before he gave Carlos the kill order.
There was no doubt in Ghost’s mind that Carlos would execute Becca. He just hoped that in the chaos, Markov hadn’t managed to send the message yet.
Ghost scanned the path splitting the sugarcane field but couldn’t spot the arms dealer. Markov must’ve veered off into the dense cane, where he could stay hidden but would also be slowed down.
Ghost looked for broken stems or disturbed plants—anything that might show where Markov had entered the field. He couldn’t hear him running, thanks to the gunfire behind him.
Time’s running out.
Desperation sharpening his focus, Ghost retraced his steps and peered into the thick cane.
There!
Several stalks had recently been broken, sap still oozing. The ground beneath was flattened and disturbed. Markov had gone in there.
Ghost plunged into the field, grateful for his ankle-high army boots. The bastard he was chasing was wearing loafers, which would make running through this mess a nightmare. It wasn’t hard to follow the trail as Markov bulldozed his way through the cane, falling every few yards.
“Markov!” Ghost shouted.
The arms dealer turned, twisting his body to fire a shot in Ghost’s direction.
Ghost ducked as the bullet embedded itself in the cane. Close, but he’d been expecting it. He didn’t fire back. He needed Markov alive.