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“That’s what separates the rock stars from the groupies,” McCarter snapped.
He turned onto the hill road at the Y-intersection, going fast enough to fishtail sideways. Hawkins checked his passenger-side mirror.
“I guess you’re right,” he said, voice droll. “Because the French team just took the valley road.”
THE SUN SLID RAPIDLY toward the horizon, bringing on a rapidly gathering twilight.
Monica Fischer swore.
She fought with the power steering of the big Suburban chase vehicle as they drove flat out in an attempt to keep within striking distance of McCarter and Hawkins. Beside her in the passenger seat Manning was downloading a weather report from a commercial satellite service.
“Damn,” he muttered. “We’re getting a build up of nimbi in the highlands.”
“Nimbi?”
“Rain clouds. We have a pressure system stacking up against the mountains. There’s going to be rain before the night is out.”
“Great.” Fischer laughed. She glanced at her dashboard, then added, “We’re running low on fuel.”
Manning looked up from his screen. “Fine. Pull over and we’ll gas up while I tell David about the weather change.”
Monica pulled the heavy steering wheel to the side and guided the SUV off the road and under the slight protection offered by a grove of acacia trees. She shut off the engine and hopped out as Manning finished relaying the weather information to the racers.
Walking around back, he stepped up next to Monica as she pulled open the rear cargo doors. He hesitated as her arm brushed his. He could smell her very clearly next to him. It was a good smell. They both reached for the same jerrican of fuel.
“I got this, muscleman,” she teased. “You check the oil, we don’t want our engine temp to spike.”
“Sure,” Manning agreed, feeling slightly flustered. “Use the strainer,” he reminded her.
“This isn’t my first rodeo, cowboy.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
While Monica put the strainer in place over the nozzle as an extra protection against dirt clogging the fuel line and injectors, Manning popped the hood. Stuck behind the hood as he was he didn’t see the accident—just the results.
Monica lifted the end of the jerrican and the greasy metal slipped in her grip. The jerrican dropped to the ground hard, knocking the strainer cap free and splashing high-octane fuel up in a spray.
Some of the gas splashed onto the still hot exhaust pipe and instantly ignited. The spilled gas lit in a flash with a small explosion, and Monica screamed in agony as she was burned.
Manning came around the side of the SUV in a rush. He saw Monica stumbling backward as flames began racing up the spilled gas on her jumpsuit. He struck her with a shoulder and knocked her to the ground.
Instantly he was on top of her, using his own body to smother the flames. The industrial jumpsuit, not unlike the kind worn by military pilots, was made of flame-retardant material, helping his attempts to put her out.
“Monica, Monica!” Manning demanded, voice on the edge of frantic. “Are you okay?”
“My arms, my hands,” she said, teeth gritted against the pain.
She held her hands up for Manning to inspect and despite how red and puffy they looked, he was amazed the damage was so minimal. Despite this his practiced eye realized that soon, perhaps within minutes, the skin would first blister, then crack.
Such open wounds in the African bush were a guaranteed invitation to infection. On top of this, they had little in the way of pain medication in their medical kit. The chances of her slipping into shock were great, putting her life in danger.
“Hold on,” he said.
Hurriedly he got the med kit from behind the driver’s seat and began applying antiseptic cream to the wounds before wrapping them in loose, dry bandages.
“Gary, I’m so sorry.”
“Shut up.”
“But the race—”
“I said shut up,” Manning repeated. “To hell with the race. I’ll get you back to the checkpoint in the village we passed. We’ll have you airlifted out to Nairobi in no time.” He looked down the road and into the rough African terrain now cloaked in darkness. “Besides,” he continued, “if anyone can finish this race without a chase vehicle, it’s those two jokers.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Nissan pickup driven by David McCarter rattled like dice in a dryer as the Briton hammered the vehicle through the course. He and Hawkins were feeling the effects of so much vibrational trauma sapping their endurance.
Both men were silent for a moment after Manning had relayed his situation and intention to take Monica for medical help, leaving the racers without a chase vehicle. Hawkins looked up from his GPS device.
“Screw it, David,” he said. “We’re past the point of no return anyway. We might as well finish the race because it’s just as short a distance to Nairobi as to turn around.”
McCarter nodded. “Agreed. Tell Gary we’re pushing on.”
Hawkins relayed the information and for the next five minutes carefully calculated how far the fuel they carried with them would let them race.
“We don’t have a choice.” He looked up from his calculations. “We’re going to have to risk the shortcut. Our fuel reserve is just too tight.”
“Who Dares Wins,” McCarter replied, using the motto of his old unit, the British Special Air Service.
Up ahead a lone baobab tree appeared in the Nissan’s bouncing headlights and Hawkins immediately sat up.
“That’s it!” He pointed through the dust-smeared windshield. “That’s the marker for the shortcut.”
“All right, mate,” McCarter replied. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
He slowed, downshifted, took the fork and gunned the vehicle back up to speed. Inside the cab the two Phoenix Force drivers were bounced against their safety harnesses like pinballs.
“Holy crap,” Hawkins swore in his Texas drawl. “I didn’t think a road could get worse than the one we’re on, but this son of a bitch is tearing us up.”
“It’ll save us twenty minutes,” McCarter reminded him.
“If it doesn’t rip apart our axle,” Hawkins shot back.
“You want to go back?”
“Just drive!”
For the next fifteen minutes the Nissan bounced across the open country course, leading them out of the foothills. Once a lone elephant standing calmly in the middle of the road appeared in their headlights.
McCarter swerved up out of the tire ruts and bounced across a rocky berm to avoid the multiton animal, then snapped the pickup back on the road before a pile of rocks almost tore off his front end.
Finally their first river crossing appeared in front of them.
Mexico
“THE AZTECS USED TO sacrifice about two hundred and fifty thousand of their own people every year,” Schwarz said. “They would cut out their hearts while they were still alive.”
“Okay, that provides us with a template on how to deal with this guy Chavez,” Lyons pointed out.
Blancanales nodded from behind the wheel of the black Dodge SUV. Around them a rambling shantytown sprawled