Before it could get very far, the gondola lurched to a stop, swinging from its overhead tracks for a frightening breath. Harrington worked the red lever, trying to get them moving again.
“What’s wrong?” Gray asked.
Harrington glanced back in the direction they had traveled. “Dylan Wright. He must have reached the control box.”
“Can you get us moving again?” Gray asked.
Without his laying a hand on the controls, the gondola began to run backward, returning slowly toward the base.
Wright must be trying to reel us back in.
Harrington reached overhead to a red plastic handle and pulled hard. A loud grinding pop sounded and the gondola swung to a stop again. “I disengaged us from the pulley cable.”
The professor’s eyes shone brightly with terror.
They were now dead in the water.
20
April 30, 8:18 A.M. AMT
Boa Vista, Brazil
Panicked at the sudden ambush, Jenna huddled behind an overturned table as gunfire ripped apart the café.
A moment ago, a trio of masked men had burst out of the kitchen, rifles at their shoulders. At the same time, the front plate glass window had shattered behind them, blown out by someone shooting from the street.
It was only because of Drake’s fast reflexes she was still alive. As the first shots rang out, Drake had kicked the chair out from under her, then caught her as she fell and rolled her body under him. One of his fellow Marines—Marlow—tipped the heavy wooden table on its side, giving them temporary shelter. His partner, Schmitt, fired at the assailants.
“Painter . . .” Jenna gasped.
The director was still out on the street.
“On it,” Drake said. “Stay here.”
He shoved up, trying to get a fast glance through the blown-out window. Out on the street, the sudden staccato retorts of a pistol blasted away, in contrast to the louder rifle fire.
Has to be Painter putting up a fight.
“Looks like he’s hurt, pinned down,” Drake reported as he ducked back down. “Malcolm, Schmitt, cover me and hold the fort.”
Not waiting for a response from his teammates, Drake leaped out of hiding. Both Marines kept up suppressive fire as the gunnery sergeant dove headlong out the window.
Jenna reached to her pack, to her own weapon, preparing to help.
As her fingers tightened on her pistol’s grip, the firefight both inside and outside grew more intense. One of the gunmen toppled over a table; the other two dropped behind a counter, firing from a well-protected spot.
Malcolm swore, ducking back into shelter, his ear bleeding.
Jenna rose up and took his place, knowing any sign of weakness, any lessening of return fire, risked the enemy gaining the upper hand and overpowering them. She fired her Glock, driving back a gunman who had been starting to rise.
She took that fraction of a second to survey the café. Bodies littered the floor, blood spreading over the tiles. She noted a few small movements. Some of the half-dozen patrons and waitstaff were still alive.
But it was another movement that held her full attention.
A mirror behind the counter had been shattered by the first volley of rounds, but in the fractured reflection in the remaining pieces, she saw one of the enemy on his knees, reloading his rifle.
There won’t be a better chance . . .
She fired again toward the position of the first gunman. “Now!” she yelled to the two Marines.
She didn’t have time to explain more, so she simply dashed from behind the table and sprinted for the counter, hoping they would understand.
They did.
Malcolm and Schmitt flanked her, firing at the rifleman who was still an active threat. Under such a sustained volley, a bullet ricocheted off a rim of a metal chair and struck the assailant, knocking him back.
Jenna reached the counter and vaulted high, feetfirst, sliding her hip through the broken plates and scattered utensils on the top. All the while, she kept her gaze fixed on the reflection of the hidden enemy. He had already finished reloading and was rising up to go to his partner’s defense.
As he popped into view, she already had her left leg cocked and snapped a boot heel into his masked nose. His head cracked back with a satisfying crunch of teeth and bone. His body collapsed limply, out cold.
To the side, Schmitt placed a round through the other enemy’s ear as the gunman tried to bring his rifle around.
The sudden cessation of gunplay inside the café left only the ringing in her ears, muffling the firefight outside.
Malcolm stalked low to her side as Schmitt poked his head and shoulder into the kitchen, leading with his pistol.
“All clear back here!” he called out, falling back to them.
Red-faced with fury, Malcolm lifted the muzzle of his weapon toward the cold-cocked man on the floor.
“Don’t,” Jenna said. “We may need him to talk.”
Malcolm nodded.
She kept her Glock on the downed man. “I’ll watch him. Go help Painter and Drake.”
From the escalation of rifle fire out there, they were in trouble.
8:20 A.M.
“They’re flanking us,” Drake said.
Painter recognized this, too. He crouched shoulder to shoulder with the Marine behind a metal trash bin. The shelter barely offered enough cover for the two men as they fired from either side at the trio of gunmen across the road.
Unfortunately, the enemy had a distinct advantage. A row of cars lined the far sidewalk, offering plenty of cover and maneuverability. Their side of the street was a no-parking zone.
Still, if Drake hadn’t come flying out the café window, Painter would likely be dead already.
The gunnery sergeant’s sudden and opportune arrival drove the three assailants from the street and into cover behind the parked cars. But now those three had begun to split up. Two men ran low behind the vehicles, heading left and right along the street, while the third kept up a continuous barrage, the rounds ringing and ricocheting off the trash bin.
Trapped, Drake and Painter could barely move. It would take only another few seconds before the two flanking gunmen reached positions far enough along the road to get a clear, unobstructed bead on them.
“I’ll cover you,” Painter said, slapping in a fresh magazine. “Get back inside. Try to make it out the rear with the others.”
Painter noted it had gone quiet inside the café—but was that a good sign or a bad one?
Then fresh gunfire erupted, blasting out from the shattered window of the café and strafing the row of cars across the street.
Caught off guard, the gunman to the left took a round through the neck, spinning away with a spray of blood. The assailant on the right suffered a similar fate, taking a bullet to the forehead.