Failed State: A Prosecution Force Thriller (The Prosecution Force Thrillers Book 4) by Logan Ryles

Author:Logan Ryles [Ryles, Logan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn River Publishing
Published: 2023-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

37

Venezuela

The gunfire faded as the patrol boat roared into the jungle. Black water washed against the bow, and the sheet metal skin of the vessel shook with each turn up the curving waterway. The river was narrow, with low-hanging limbs trailing the water and leaving a pathway only about ten yards wide to navigate through. As Reed eased back on the throttle, he heard a soft scrape of sand and rock against the bottom of the boat and looked back to see muddy water kicked up by the propeller.

The river was growing rapidly shallow. It wouldn’t be long before they were forced to ditch the boat altogether and return to the jungle.

“Everybody okay?” Turk appeared from the bow, his shirt clinging to his sweaty chest as he extended a fist toward Reed.

Reed bumped it, then tilted his head toward the back of the boat.

“Stewie’s hit. Take over.”

Turk accepted the controls, and Reed moved to the stern, kneeling next to the motor where Stewie was stretched out in a shallow pool of blood. He’d taken a round to his left thigh—a steel-core 5.45-millimeter slug, probably, the standard diet of an AK-12. It was a vicious and destructive round, capable of mass damage on impact.

Stewie was lucky—Reed felt an exit wound on the back of his leg as Corbyn wrapped her belt just above the wound and cinched down, her flashlight held in her teeth. Stewie grunted in agony, his face a little pale.

The blood flow subsided, and Corbyn tied off the belt.

“Enough whining,” Reed said. “Damn Pats fans. Rough life without Brady, am I right?”

Stewie’s eyes bulged. “This wasn’t what I signed on for!”

Reed thumped his leg, and he cried out. “The bullet missed both your arteries and your femur. Count your blessings.”

The boat shuddered as it scraped bottom again. Muddy water sprayed over the stern, and Turk worked the throttle. The motor surged into reverse, but the boat didn’t move.

They were grounded.

“Time to bail,” Turk said, looking over his shoulder. Reed traced his line of sight deep into the trees and wondered how far they had traveled. The boat moved at a good clip for much of their journey inland. Ten minutes? Fifteen?

Maybe a couple miles, and he already knew there weren’t many roads serving this region.

“Was there another boat?” Reed asked.

“There was,” Turk said, cutting the motor and retrieving his SCAR. “Not anymore. I hit it with the fifty on our way in.”

“Hoorah,” Reed grunted. “Nice job.”

Corbyn took the flashlight out of her mouth, dropping the mag on her SIG. Reed noted only four rounds remained as she slammed it back home, tucking the weapon into her belt-less pants.

“You Yanks sure know how to make a mess,” she said. “Are we trying to kick off a world war?”

Turk was busy sifting through a locker built beneath the boat’s steerage controls. He dumped out a tangle of old rope and a rusty machete before coming up with a first aid kit and a single bottle of water.

“Painkillers?” Stewie rasped.

“Sorry, bud,” Turk said.

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