If We Survive

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

After that, there was nothing but fear and gunfire.

The three remaining rebels unstrapped their weapons and ran toward us.

Jimshouted, “Go, Will!”

And I didn’t hesitate. I leapt up from behind the grave and dashed forward, dodging like a running back through the headstones toward the cemetery’s edge. The sound of the rebels’ AKs rattled through the quiet jungle. Birds exploded out of the trees, screaming. Clots of mud leapt into the air as the bullets dug into the earth.

I was running across the open field, the mud squelching under my sneakers. I saw the three guards racing toward me, their rifles spitting flame.

But then I saw Palmer step calmly out of the trees in front of me. He had a machine gun now too—the skinny guard’s weapon. He opened fire and, at my back, I heard another coughing blast as Jim jumped up from behind the gravestones and starting shooting as well.

I only got a panicked glimpse of the onrushing guards as I made my crazy dash across the field—but so help me, if the situation hadn’t been so insanely lethal, the looks on their faces would have been hilarious. One second they were all murderous intensity, rushing toward us like angels of justice ready to deliver the killing blow from their AKs. The next second they realized that we were armed as well, that we—Palmer and Jim—were actually shooting back at them. And the ferocity instantly went out of their expressions to be replaced by wild-eyed looks of terror.

The three rebels scattered. Two of them hurled themselves into the cover of the jungle on their left. The third, the squat one, waddled quickly behind the cemetery wall to his right.

I put on an extra burst of speed, trying to reach the cover of the trees before the rebels could start shooting again.

But that was a mistake. Just as I reached the spot where Palmer was standing, the ground seemed to fly out from under me. Like Meredith, I had run too fast and slipped. I went down—all the way down—landing hard on my shoulder, sliding through the mud.

The guards poked out from their blinds and started shooting again, trying to riddle me where I lay. Palmer and Jim returned fire, trying to keep them pinned down. I struggled to get to my feet—and as I did, Meredith rushed out of the jungle to help me.

“No!” I shouted. “Stay back!”

But she kept coming—crying out and flinching as bullets pounded into the mud between us.

She rushed to my side. I leapt to my feet. She grabbed me to help me stand, and I grabbed her to push her back into the trees. Holding on to each other, we ran behind the firing Palmer until we were back in the cover of the jungle.

“Get in the plane!” Palmer shouted to us.

But the second he glanced back over his shoulder at us, one of the rebels leapt out of the trees and drew a bead on him.

Palmer faced forward just in time and fired. The rebel flew backward, dropping into the mud.

The squat guard seized the moment, jumped up from behind the cemetery wall, and took aim.

Palmer fired once and the squat guard ducked—but the next moment, Palmer gave a cry of frustration. His magazine was empty—he was out of bullets.

He threw the rifle into the mud and drew the six-shot revolver from his belt. He fired a single shot to keep the squat guard pinned down. He waved his free hand urgently at the cemetery across the way.

“Let’s go, Jim! Let’s go!”

Jim leapt up from the cover of the graves and let loose a burst from his AK. I heard a scream from the jungle and thought he might have hit another of the guards, leaving only the squat one left.

We’re going to make it, I thought. We’re going to get away!

But in the next few seconds—the next few terrible seconds— all our hopes seemed to unravel in awful slow motion.

I was in the trees with Nicki and Meredith. My hopes rising, I was shouting at the girls to get in the plane. I had my hands on their arms and we were all turning away from the gunfight, turning toward the edge of the jungle to where the Cessna was waiting.

I don’t know what made me glance back, but I did.

I saw Palmer fire another shot from his revolver. Then I heard a burst of answering machine-gun fire. I saw a line of blood shoot out of Palmer’s arm. He dropped into the mud, the pistol flying out of his hand.

“Palmer!” I screamed.

Then—still in the horrible underwater slow motion of a bad dream—I turned back for him. I took a step toward him out of the trees. He was already rolling to his feet, the wound just above his elbow spilling blood down over his forearm and wrist.

I broke out of the cover of the trees and grabbed his other arm to help him—and as I did, I saw a jeep screaming up to the checkpoint, turning off the road onto the open field, and racing straight toward us over the muddy ground. There was a rebel behind the wheel and another in the passenger seat.

I saw at once that this second rebel was Mendoza.

Now, as I helped Palmer into the trees, Jim made his move. He broke out of the cemetery, shooting wildly, and rushed toward us across the field. The jeep swerved to get out of the way of his fire. Its tires lost their grip on the mud. It slowed as it spun round toward the jungle and then I heard the crunch of metal as its fender went into the trunk of a tree.

But Jim was out of bullets now too. He threw his rifle to the ground and started running toward us.

He got two steps before the squat guard rose up from behind the cemetery wall and shot him down.

The machine-gun bullets raked across Jim’s legs. Jim cried out and threw up his arms and tumbled face-forward into the mud.

I didn’t think. I let go of Palmer and ran to get him.

I dashed across the field and slid to Jim like a runner going into home plate. I grabbed his arms.

“Go!” he said. “I can’t walk! I’ll be all right! Go!”

But there was no way—no way—I was going to leave him there. I wrapped both hands around his arm and jumped to my feet, trying to haul him up with all my strength. He screamed in pain.

“I can’t!”

“You have to!”

I saw the squat guard take aim at us and pull the trigger. Then he cursed and tore the magazine off. His gun was empty too. He fished a fresh magazine from his belt. I kept trying to pull Jim up.

And now Palmer rushed to us, bloody as he was. He grabbed Jim’s other arm. Ignoring Jim’s screams of pain, we both dragged him to his feet. We draped his arms across our shoulders and began carrying him across the field toward the trees while his useless, wounded legs trailed through the mud behind us.

A troop truck was now barreling up to the checkpoint, rebels already pouring out of the back. I thought we might make it to the plane before they reached us. I even thought we might make it into the cover of the trees before the squat guard could reload.

But there was no way we were going to outrace Mendoza.

The rebel leader had leapt out of the crashed jeep. He had drawn his pistol. He was running toward us, screaming wildly in his desperation to stop our escape—in his determination to bring down Palmer Dunn.

As Palmer and I dragged the wounded Jim toward the jungle cover, Mendoza got close enough to take his shot—a good shot. He planted his legs. He lowered the pistol. He aimed straight at Palmer. No way he was going to miss at that distance. No way we could make the trees before he fired. No way we could escape if Palmer went down, leaving us no one who could fly the plane, and yet there was also no way Palmer could save himself—not while he was helping me carry Jim to safety.

I saw the wild rage for vengeance in Mendoza’s eyes and I thought all hope was gone.

Then Meredith stepped out of the trees. In one swift and weirdly graceful motion, she bent down and swept up the pistol Palmer had dropped in the mud. She stood very still, very straight and tall, and took careful aim at Mendoza.

How long did she hesitate before she pulled the trigger? Some fraction of a second maybe? Even with all our lives on the line, I couldn’t blame her. To kill a man, to send his soul to judgment—it’s a terrible thing to do, a terrible thing to have to live with afterward, a terrible sacrifice to make even when you have no other choice. I knew that.

And Meredith did hesitate. And Mendoza saw her. And quickly he shifted the aim of his pistol from Palmer to her.

And Meredith pulled the trigger.

The blast of the pistol was loud even in the open field. The powerful recoil made Meredith’s arm fly up into the air and even pushed her backward half a step.

Among all the crazy racing images around me, I saw Mendoza’s face go blank with surprise as a black wound appeared in the center of his chest. I saw him lower his pistol and stagger where he stood. He gave Meredith a look—a look, I thought, of incomprehension—as if he couldn’t for the life of him understand how she could ever do something as nasty as that to a sweet guy like him.

Then he toppled over—like a falling tower—and his body thudded into the mud.

The next moment Palmer and I had carried Jim into the cover of the trees and Meredith was with us, pale and grim, and Nicki was beside us and we were all racing through the jungle together, racing to the plane.