Page 240 of Red Marked

66

Flint

Most of the lights are out at the center when the four of us walk up to the back of the SUV.

I parked it on the other side of the lot, away from activity but also close to some thick bushes. It isn’t far to the back of the kitchens from here.

Getting him out and the few seconds that follow will be a little risky, but after that we should be okay.

I pop the trunk.

Jett hasn’t moved. He’s still on his side between the two duffels. Still trussed up good and proper. His one good eye is closed. Then it isn’t. It opens a slit, rolls, and closes again.

“He’s coming out of it,” Brian says. “We can’t have that.” He uncaps a syringe, finds the vein in Jett’s neck, and pushes. Jett’s eye opens all the way this time, and then he’s fast asleep again.

Perfect.

“That’ll do it.” Brian pockets the syringe and shuts the lid on the empty case. “I’ll see you gentlemen on the pad at eleven. Don’t be late.”

He leaves, hands in his pockets, whistling under his breath. We watch him until he’s around the corner of the kitchen block.

Atlas looks at the male in the trunk, then at me. “This is the prick who hurt Star?”

“Yep.”

Atlas grunts.

Dane takes the legs. Atlas gets an arm under the shoulders and lifts, and Jett comes out of the trunk like a rolled carpet. I gently close the lid and go ahead.

The gravel strip runs behind the kitchens and along the east fence to the point where two floodlights overlap and leave a seam of shadow ten feet wide. It’s the same route Star and I took a few weeks ago. It feels like longer.

We take it slow, stopping and listening. Timing things just right.

At the fuel depot, we swap. Atlas goes ahead to watch the corner, and I take over from him. Jett’s head lolls against my forearm; his hair is stiff with dried blood. He’s heavier than he looks.

Dane grunts. “Do we have to be gentle with him?”

“No.”

“Good.”

We keep going, making steady progress.

The chain-link fence is three times my height, with wire coiled along the top. Atlas goes up first, hooks a leg over the bar beneath the coils, and sits there. Dane and I get Jett upright, then vertical, and push him straight up the links with our hands under his backside like we’re loading a sack into a truck. Atlas gets both fists into the cord and hauls. For a second, Jett hangs over the top with the wire an inch from his face.

Then Atlas lets go.

He lands on the other side hard, on his shoulder, in the dirt.

Dane and I are over in ten seconds. We drop into a crouch on the jungle side and wait a few beats to be safe. Then we lift him again and carry him into the trees.

A hundred yards in, there’s an open patch. It’ll be easy for me to pick him up on our way out. If a stray feral happens upon him and decides to finish him, then so be it. The chances are small since they don’t come in this close to the clinic. Atlas turns him onto his side so he doesn’t accidentally choke and pulls a fern over him.

We go back the way we came. It’s easier without the dead weight. We finally make it to the side door by the debrief room and go inside.

Dane lets out a breath.

“Let’s get our asses to the pad,” I tell them.