Page 11 of Into Hell: Prelude (Holding Cell: Return to the Island)

W e were tracking Robert Shafer,” Javier Alvarez told the men.

“It wasn’t an easy trail, as we’re pretty sure the name is just an alias.

The trail went cold, and we thought we’d hit a dead end until an anonymous tip led us to the island off the coast of Costa Rica.

” He looked at Clint and Cochise. “Your island—where your loved ones were abducted and taken.”

“Anonymous tip?” Clint frowned. “Any idea where it came from?”

Javier shook his head. “Maybe someone on the inside who knew we were looking for this man. They wouldn’t want to risk exposing themselves. Other than that, I don’t know. But their tip was solid.”

Cruz Santiago said, “We shut that place down. Got rid of all the bastards running the hunting grounds and trafficking operations. The place should be dead.”

“Should be,” Alvarez agreed. “But it isn’t. There’s a new human trafficking compound up and running. It’s massive. Too big for us to handle alone.”

“You were there?” Clint frowned. “ On the island?”

“Yes. We went in from the rear side of the island, up the cliffs, the same as your team before.”

The gangsters exchanged a glance. “How much did you see?” the cowboy asked. “Did you get inside the compound?”

“No. Too well guarded.”

“How do you know it’s a human trafficking ring? It could be a cartel smuggling drugs or guns through the area, a good out-of-the-way spot to avoid detection.”

Alvarez shook his head. “No. They’re trafficking people. Mostly kids.”

“How do you know?” Cruz asked.

Agent Athens, who had ridden shotgun with the Egyptian’s team to Canada, answered, “We rescued some kids who had escaped the compound.”

“Based on what the kids told us,” Alvarez continued, “it looks like a kind of holding cell for trafficked victims, a place to keep them, possibly for processing, until they’re auctioned off or subjected to whatever other horrific plans they have for them.”

Javier recognized the looks that passed over the men’s faces, that realization rising all over again that the horrors never stopped, no matter how many “monsters” were stomped out or killed.

There were always more… and more. It seemed there was a bottomless well of soulless beasts in the world, as if somewhere on the planet, in some deep, dark hole, was a doorway to hell that constantly released these demonic creatures onto the earth.

Javier Alvarez wasn’t a particularly religious man. Still, the more he pursued these monsters and became immersed in their cruel, depraved world—the more he started to believe they were actual demons masquerading as men; soulless, vicious, merciless, and evil.

“Any idea how many trafficking victims are being held there?” Sanchez asked. Sanchez and Athens had formed a bond of friendship during the Canada job, working in sync with the Egyptian to safely transport their precious cargo to the sanctuary across the northern border.

“We don’t know,” Alvarez admitted. “We can’t know until we get into the cells. I don’t know how long the compound has been up and running, but I’d guess it’s been there for a while. It doesn’t appear to be a new operation.”

Clint cleared his throat. “We’ll need an extraction plan in place ahead of time—a way to get the victims off the island. There’s likely a lot of them.”

Alvarez nodded. “We’ll need a cargo plane,” he said. “Or a boat. A big one.”

“Something this big…” Clint said, “… we need someone with the proper connections.”

“Do you have someone in mind?” Alvarez asked.

The cowboy looked at his large Egyptian friend, who nodded once.

“Some friends who helped us on our last mission to the island,” Clint said.

“They run an organization called The Base upstate. They specialize in combating human traffickers and have rescued many children. They were a huge help last time, in more ways than one. I think we should ask for their help again.”

“I agree,” Cruz said. “The right connections could prevent a whole lot of headaches.”

Alvarez nodded. “That’s the kind of help we can use. The more precise our mission, the less chance of fucking up and losing people.”

Cochise glanced at the younger Spaniard who had come in with Cruz and Sanchez, who went by the name Rodriguez. “We’re not losing fucking anyone,” the large Egyptian muttered.

Javier remembered the young man well; the kid had lost his boyfriend during the Canada mission.

By the look on his face and the lingering haunt in his eyes…

he had yet to come to terms with it. Javier couldn’t fault him for his ongoing grief—if he had lost Luciana or Pedro during their trek to America, or Pedro within the prison, he would have mourned for the rest of his life.

And from what his agents told him… Rodriguez’s boyfriend was shot right in front of him and died in his arms. No one recovers from such horrifying trauma in just a few months, maybe never.

Cochise felt relieved when he saw that Alvarez and Athens were the only two agents to arrive at the mansion.

Agent Renley would likely be involved in this mission, but Cochise would handle that later.

He didn’t want to admit Clint was right about his changed perspective of the young agent during the Canada trip.

Still, he couldn’t deny his unease about facing the man again and finally hearing his story—a tale that was sure to rip up the carefully laid bedrock sealing Cochise’s past in the past.

His thoughts had shifted as Rodriguez entered the mansion with Cruz and Sanchez. What was he doing there? The kid had gone on the last island mission shortly after Greco’s death, and the island was the last place he’d needed to be.

If he hadn’t gone, he wouldn’t have met Shane.

The Egyptian wasn’t convinced that anything would come of it.

According to Cruz, there had been no interaction between Rodriguez and Shane since they returned from the island.

Cochise would have preferred the alternative, as Shane seemed to have genuine affection for the young man.

But having lost a love of his own a few years earlier, Shane knew that grief wasn’t something to be rushed.

Cochise suspected the man was waiting patiently, biding his time until Rodriguez decided when, where, or if he wanted to reconnect with Shane.

No one pushed or even nudged the kid in that direction; it had to be his choice alone.

A little while later, the two agents left the mansion, with Clint agreeing to contact them as soon as he talked to Ardan MacNamara from The Base. The men at the mansion stayed gathered in the lounge.

“We need to assemble a team,” Clint said. “If Ardan agrees to join us, he’ll bring a team of his own. And there will be five or six of the agents. Separate teams on the ground, spread out across the island, each taking a different route to the compound.”

“We’re in,” Cruz said, nodding at Sanchez. “We can recruit a few of our guys as well.”

Clint seemed to hesitate.

“What?” Cruz frowned.

Cochise knew what. Clint had been right there with Rodriguez when Greco was shot, lying under the bus with him while the young man held his dying boyfriend in his arms, crying and begging him not to die, as some part of him understood he’d already lost him.

Greco’s death had nothing to do with Clint, yet the cowboy shouldered some of the weight of his loss, as he was a team leader on that mission and wasn’t aware of the ambush until chaos erupted around them.

The Egyptian had also been a team leader, and he carried that responsibility with the cowboy. It was nobody’s fault but the bastard who pulled the trigger, but it wasn’t always easy to see it that way—not when a comrade and friend falls… and another is nearly taken out by grief alone.

Cruz sensed the cowboy’s fears and pulled him aside.

“I know you think we lost Greco on your watch,” the Spaniard murmured, “but it was our watch, too. None of us saw that ambush coming. Even if we suspected there might be one, we didn’t expect them to strike so soon and so suddenly.

” He reached out and gently squeezed Clint’s shoulder, his voice softening.

“You carry too much blame as it is, my friend, for things that were equally not your fault—don’t carry this, too.

And don’t let it prevent us from joining your team.

We were there with you on the island last time, and we all made it back.

And we’ll all come back again this time as well. ”

When the two men rejoined the group, Jax stepped forward. “I’ll go. I had intended to help last time, before things went awry.”

Awry. That was a gentle way of putting it.

They had planned for Jax to be their plant, to infiltrate the underground fight club and find out who was buying the fighters and where they were taken.

Maddy—Angel’s sixteen-year-old brother—had intervened, planted himself in the club, and then disappeared without a trace, ultimately ending up on the island.

Cochise liked Jax. He had integrity and could be relied on to have one’s back when it mattered most. Clint had built a strong bond with him during their time in prison and wouldn’t hesitate to fight alongside him.

The cowboy nodded at Jax.

“I’m going, too.”

All eyes turned to Rodriguez.

“No,” Cruz immediately objected. “We got it covered. You and Matteo stay at home. I’ll feel better if there are men I trust watching over the family.”

Rodriguez didn’t buy his excuse. “I’m going.” The determination in his eyes and voice indicated he wouldn’t back down easily.

Cochise looked at Clint; the cowboy didn’t want to take him, not because the kid wasn’t capable, but out of fear that something might happen and they would lose the other half of the dynamic pair fractured by Greco’s death.

Cruz had been overly protective of Emilio Rodriguez ever since they lost Greco.

Taking him on the first mission to the island was a tough choice, especially since Emilio was still hurting so deeply.

Looking back, except for the moment when the young man met Shane, it was the wrong call.

Even though several months had gone by, Rodriguez wasn’t in much better shape than he was then.

His recovery was barely moving forward, if at all.

He managed his daily duties fine, better than when the tragedy first struck, but his eyes remained empty, lacking life and joy.

Cruz missed the spirited, confident young man he used to be and prayed that someday he would find his way back to them.

Taking Rodriguez aside, Cruz spoke to him privately. “I need you at home.”

“I need to go,” Rodriguez countered, his voice slightly catching.

“Why?”

“Because…” Rodriguez’s face clenched as his jaw tightened. A flicker of moisture appeared in his eyes. “I need to be away from… home… for a while. I need to do something.”

“Emilio…”

He shook his head, swallowing hard. “He’s still…

there,” the young man whispered. “Everywhere I look, I see him… hear him… smell him.” He blinked, struggling to hold back the pain.

“If I don’t get away, focus on something else…

I’m not…” His throat worked, and tears welled.

“... I’m not… gonna make it, Cruz.” He shook his head, wiping at his eyes.

“I’m not.” His chin trembled. “It feels like it happened yesterday… it isn’t fading… it still hurts so fucking bad.”

Cruz exhaled slowly, his eyes burning; he felt the same mix of emotions.

He gently cupped the back of the young man’s neck with brotherly affection.

“You can come.” He wrapped his arm around the kid and pulled him close, kissing his head.

“It will always hurt, losing him,” he whispered.

“But someday… someday you'll look back on your life with him and smile, even laugh. Remembering the good times will soften the hurt.” He pressed his lips to his hair and held him a little tighter. “It will.”