Page 78 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest
“Five tangos advancing,” MacD called out as bullets shattered the big glass behind him. He tossed the Glock to Cabrillo.
“We move, now!” Juan shouted, leading the way.
MacD stood and ripped a couple of short bursts. Two of the tangosspun and dropped. The remaining three continued advancing with practiced precision.
Juan and the others dashed in a low crouch toward the open French doors leading back into the dining room, the twin girls shielded by Linda and Olmedo. Bullets whizzed past them, smashing stucco, tiles, and glass.
Inside, another presidential guard raced into the dining room from the kitchen door, his carbine at high ready, breathing hard, his face red with anger. Gunshots rang out in the rest of the house.
“Qué está pasando?”
Juan shouted at him in Spanish. “We’re under attack. Get the president and his children out of here.”
As if on cue, three armed men burst through the doorway Olmedo had first appeared in. The guard fired without hesitation, putting rounds into the lead attacker. Juan fired his Glock and dropped the other two, then darted to the fallen killers and snatched up two suppressed rifles—AK-74s.
Sporadic gunfire echoed around the grounds. Some of the guards were still putting up a fight—and losing.
Cabrillo shoved one of the rifles into Linda’s waiting hands, then asked the guard, “Is there a secure route out of here?”
“The service corridor. It leads to the rear of the property and a safe house. Follow me.”
“Let’s move.”
Cabrillo led the way behind the guard with Olmedo hustling his girls along, his arms sheltering them.
Linda followed just behind, gun up, with MacD covering the rear. He ripped off a couple of short bursts before retreating after them.
The desperate parade raced through the big gourmet kitchen and into a butler’s pantry, where a steel door with a keypad stood. The guard keyed in the passcode and flung the door open.
A spray of bullets stitched up his torso and into his face, killing him instantly.
Cabrillo reached his gun around one-handed and emptied the magoutside the door, then pulled his Glock. He glanced around the corner. The guard’s killer clutched his throat, drowning in his own blood.
Juan dropped the empty AK, reached down, and grabbed the fallen guard’s loaded SIG, took another look outside, then turned around.
“How far to the safe house?”
“A kilometer, slightly less,” Olmedo said.
“Wait for my signal.”
“Aye,” Linda said as Cabrillo made his way out into the yard.
“Where are the rest of my guards?” Olmedo asked. “They should be here.” More shots echoed around the estate.
“Dead or dying.”
A second later, a sharp whistle rang out.
Linda took point—and dashed out the door. She saw Juan in a line of trees some twenty yards away, on a small dirt path no wider than a footstep leading up to it. The others followed behind her.
They all crossed into the trees, their faces scratched by the low branches crowding the narrow trail. No one cared. The dense foliage was providing them cover. Juan stayed behind, protecting the rear, and ordered MacD to push on through.
Cabrillo trained his weapon on the open door and the dead guard still blocking it open. No one came.
Satisfied, he turned and raced away.
They all ran as fast as they could along the crooked trail. Seven minutes later, they arrived at a small stone building.
