33
Drake would have laughed if he’d had the breath. He’d been able to match Nikita on a treadmill, barely. Over open terrain he was flat out when she was still in graceful-gazelle mode, carrying the rifle that was almost as long as she was and weighed twenty-five pounds to his M16’s nine with the ease of a relay racer’s baton.
“What direction will they be coming from?”
Not able to spare the breath, he pointed the M16 due west. That was the direction of La Ceiba military base.
Nikita veered in that direction and he followed her.
They’d been racing toward the helicopters parked near the shack that covered the entrance to the underground offices. Now they were running west. Fifty meters, a hundred, two hundred.
“This should do it,” she spoke as if she was finishing a morning stroll, not
