Page 31

Dawn broke over Bogotá with no fanfare whatsoever. Low-hanging clouds kept the streets dark longer than normal—a few measly street lamps tried and failed to beat back the oppressive grayness, their yellow glow dampened by the light morning fog, making for excellent cover. Gabe couldn’t have asked for a better morning, though he could do without the persistent, drizzling rain that froze him to the bone.

Then again, maybe that icy cold was from the conversation—argument—whatever he’d had—with Audrey in the hospital.

No, he couldn’t think about that. He had to stay one hundred percent focused on the here and now. Block out the pain in his heart, the pain in his side, the throbbing in his foot. Focus on the bite of cold, thin mountain air filling his lungs; the manicured lawn cushioning his body as he crawled toward the house; the earthy scents of mud and wet grass stodgy in his nose; the rifle’s familiar feel in his hands; the easy rhythm of his heart in the muffled silence of the morning.

Easy, at least, until he heard the trilling whistle of a bird call and his heart kicked up. Harvard, acting as lookout, had found a hide in a tree in the side yard that provided a perfect eagle-eye view of both the front and the back of the house. The call signaled trouble.

Gabe looked toward Quinn and Jesse, lying belly to the ground at his right, Jesse’s medical bag a dark lump between them.

They waited.

Harvard gave another call. Three short trills.

Someone was coming. Or, more to the point, three someones. Then, five more whistles from Harvard indicated five more approaching. Eight total, which tipped the scales a little too much for Gabe’s liking. Ten baddies, including Rorro and Jacinto, to his six undertrained men.

Shit.

“Hold,” he whispered into his radio, indicating they should all stay where they were—Marcus in the woods bordering the south side of the property, Jean-Luc on the north side near Harvard, and Ian in the southwest corner.

“Stonewall.” Marcus’s voice crackled from his radio. “We’ve got two more vehicles incoming.”

Gabe’s jaw clenched. “Acknowledged.”

Quinn scooted across the foot of grass that separated them and put his lips close to Gabe’s ear. “What are you thinking?”

Gabe shook his head. “Don’t like these odds.”

“You wouldn’t think twice if these guys were SEALs.”

“Yeah, but they’re not.” And, God, how he wished they were. “We’re moving to plan bravo.”

Plan B was a blitz attack, using the element of surprise to their advantage. Overwhelm the tangos, distract them by making them think more soldiers waited in the woods than there were, and slip Bryson out from under their noses while they panicked.

It involved more inherent risk, which was why it was their backup plan. But with the arrival of the new tangos, Gabe calculated it had a better chance at succeeding than their original stealthy plan to slip in and out unnoticed while Jacinto and Rorro slept.

Quinn’s lips thinned. He glanced over at Jesse, who gave a grim nod, then met Gabe’s stare again. “We can still?—”

“Negative. Too risky.” Especially for Quinn and Jesse, and they both knew it. Even though he wasn’t going to let it happen, it did him proud that they were willing to stick to the original plan and take that risk. He patted Quinn on the shoulder to get his attention, then reached for his weapon. “Go in hot on my signal.”

“Hooyah,” Quinn said.

* * *

Gabe moved fast, staying low as he flanked the north side of the house and made a beeline for his linguist’s position. Jean-Luc, lying in a stand of bushes, raised an eyebrow in question when Gabe settled in next to him but didn’t say a word, which was probably a first for the Cajun.

Gabe took a moment to survey the situation from this angle. The eight new bad guys had arrived in two vehicles. They looked like members of a local gang, dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and bandanas, carrying Uzis, most of them barely old enough to take a legal drink. And that was saying something since the legal age in Colombia was eighteen. Jacinto probably recruited them in preparation for the ransom exchange.

Four of the men now stood around in the driveway talking, while a fifth headed toward the front door with purpose in his stride. The other three still sat in the closer of the two vehicles, smoking something. From the sweet scent in the air, he’d guess pot. That helped even the odds out some, but still not enough for his liking.

“We need to take out some of these guys,” he whispered. “Can you get to that car?”

Jean-Luc nodded and drew a wicked-looking knife from under his jacket. “Gotcha. I’ll go have a nice chat with our friendly Colombian gangbangers.”

“Don’t get killed.”

“Wouldn’t dream of depriving the world of my charm and good looks.”

Damn, but you couldn’t dislike like the guy. Gabe smirked and watched Jean-Luc crawl toward the car before turning his gaze to study the four men still standing in the driveway. He calculated several options and discarded them all with no small amount of frustration. A flashbang would be great right about now. So would hands-free radios.

He glanced back toward Jean-Luc, who was close to reaching his destination. Gabe motioned for him to wait. In that brief pause, he decided on a distraction.

He picked up a sizable rock located next to his boot and eyed the largest of the four men in the driveway. The man’s attention seemed divided between the younger members of their group and the entrance of the house.

“Go,” Gabe mouthed, and with a powerful launch, he tossed the rock. It made an arc in the air before smashing into a window on the second floor. The shattering noise echoed throughout the property, drawing shouts in Spanish from all the men.

In those moments of confusion, Gabe saw Jean-Luc spring into action. The Cajun moved swiftly, pulling open the car door and yanking the shocked gangster out of the vehicle. His blade flashed in the dim light, cutting into the neck of his opponent and silencing him before the others could react.

In an instant, he was inside the car, overpowering the other two occupants. There was a flash of steel, a stifled cry, then a sudden thud as one body slumped over lifelessly. The last gang member didn’t have time to react before Jean-Luc’s knife found its target.

Jesus, who knew the good-natured Cajun was such an efficient killing machine?

Gabe lifted his rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and put a bullet through the neck of the next closest man. Even before the dead guy collapsed, the others peppered Gabe’s hiding place with bullets and forced him to hit the ground behind the bushes for cover. He felt the heat of one round zing alarmingly close to his temple, and Audrey’s voice whispered through his mind.

Promise me you’ll come back safe.

“I will,” he vowed into the dirt.

Better late than never.

Gabe rolled away from the shower of bullets, gained his feet, and took off in a zigzagging sprint toward the back of the house as Jean-Luc and Ian engaged the remaining tangos. Their window of opportunity to get in, secure Bryson, and get out was now very, very slim. They had to go now, while everyone’s attention held firm on the firefight out front. He calculated fifteen minutes, max, before a neighbor alerted the authorities, and all hell came crashing down. Once the authorities knew, the EPC would know. If they were involved, they’d send in reinforcements. Even if they weren’t involved, they might still send reinforcements solely because of Jacinto’s family ties to one of the head honchos.

Gabe hoped to be long gone—with Bryson Van Amee in tow—before that happened.

With a series of quick hand movements, he told Quinn and Jesse to go. In the original plan, he was supposed to stay outside and keep the backyard, their evac route to the helo, secure. Couldn’t do that now. The danger inside the house while they were in the basement was too great to leave the door unprotected, so he made eye contact with Marcus and motioned him over to the patio.

“Keep this area clear,” he ordered over the bursts of gunfire. Marcus nodded and took up the position as Gabe ducked into the house.

The kitchen reminded him of a morgue—vast, with a lot of cold stainless steel and black marble. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see a wall of drawers on the other side of the endless center island, but there was only a heavy door with a massive padlock holding it closed. Quinn hunched over the lock, muttering between his teeth as he tried to finesse it open.

Jesse stood to one side, medical bag slung across his chest. He peeked around the wall into the corridor that led to the action at the front of the house. “How we doin’ back there?”

Quinn cursed and smacked the lock. “Can’t get it. We need Marcus.”

“No,” Marcus, standing half in the kitchen, half on the patio, said. “Ian will do it faster.” And he sprinted across the yard.

Quinn straightened away from the door and grabbed his rifle. “You got this?”

Gabe nodded. “Go help the men out front.”

Weapon raised, Quinn sprinted down the hallway off the kitchen.

A moment later, Ian came running, stumbling as a stray bullet ricocheted off the patio table and nailed him in the shoulder. Gabe laid down cover fire, and Ian scrambled inside. He leaned on the island for a second, holding his shoulder, his lips pulled back in a grimace of pain. Jesse took a step forward to help, but Ian waved him away.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Okay?” Gabe asked.

“Yeah.” He straightened. “You needed me? Sir.”

Gabe ignored the contemptuous tone—for now—and motioned to the lock. “Blow it.”

Even with blood dripping down his arm and his mouth still drawn tight in pain, Ian eyed the lock like it was a woman hewanted to lick from head to toe. “With pleasure.”

He made short work of it, taking a brick of C4 from his pack and stuffing a small amount in the keyhole. He inserted a blasting cap, twisted off a length of fuse, lit it, and crouched behind the island with the rest of them. “Fire in the hole!”

The explosion was muffled, just a puff of smoke and a quick metallic pop, but when the dust settled, the heavy padlock dropped to the floor with a resounding thud.

“Nice,” Ian said, admiring his handiwork.

“Get to the helo and stop that bleeding,” Gabe told him. “We’ve got it from here.”

“Yeah, right.” He snorted, grabbed his pack and rifle, and charged toward the front of the house. Away from the helo and into the fray.

Way to follow orders, Reinhardt.

Jesse disappeared down the dark, yawning mouth of the stairs.

Ignoring Ian’s insubordination for the moment, Gabe followed. The stench was alarming—an intense mixture of body odor, dirt, and something metallic that sent a shiver of dread down his spine.

Blood.

The room was small and dim, lit by a single bulb swinging from a wire in the ceiling. And there in the corner, handcuffed to a metal bed frame...

“Bryson,” Gabe breathed.

Audrey’s brother looked like hell: clothes torn, face bruised and bloody, eyes vacant. He seemed unaware of their presence, staring blankly at the far wall.

“Jesus,” Jesse murmured behind him. He quickly moved past Gabe and went to Bryson’s side, opening his medical bag with practiced efficiency. “We’ve got to get him out of here, now.”

“Copy that,” Gabe said and raised the radio to his mouth. “Achilles, Stonewall. We found him. Bryson’s in bad shape. We need our exfil cleared immediately.”

“Roger that,” Quinn said.

Gabe joined Jesse, pulling out a handcuff key from his utility belt. He unlocked the cuffs, and Bryson’s arms dropped like dead weight. The man didn’t react. His eyes rolled back, and he would’ve slumped off the bed if it weren’t for Jesse catching him.

“How bad?” Gabe asked.

“He’s severely dehydrated and tachycardic,” Jesse said. “Another day of this and he’d probably be dead.”

Not on Gabe’s watch. “Let’s move him.”

Jesse, though slighter than Gabe, was strong. He hoisted Bryson into a fireman’s carry like the man weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. Gabe helped steady him, then led the way back up the stairs and through the kitchen, his weapon at the ready.

Gabe held up a hand before they reached the patio and scanned the yard again. A body lay cooling at the edge of the patio, blood soaking through the front of his hoodie sweatshirt, his eyes frozen half open. Otherwise, the yard was empty and silent, the pop of gunfire coming more sporadically now.

“We’re clear. Go!”

Jesse took off like a swimmer from the block, jarring Van Amee, who moaned with each rattling bounce. They made it across the yard and vanished into the trees at the edge of the property. From there, it was only a short jog to the helo in a clearing on the next property over. Gabe could already hear the rotor powering up.

Almost home free. Time to round up the rest of the guys and beat feet out of there.

Gabe pivoted to find Jean-Luc—and his bad foot went out from under him. Goddammit. With adrenaline firing through his system, he hadn’t realized how bad the pain had gotten, like someone had repeatedly stabbed a knife in between his toe bones and then left it there. One second, he was up on his feet, jogging toward the side yard. The next, down on his hands and knees in the dewy morning grass with a scream lodged in the back of his throat.

And that’s when he saw them. Jacinto Rivera and Rorro Salazar crept through the trees, trying to escape.

For all of point-oh-three seconds, Gabe considered closing his eyes, turning away, and pretending he hadn’t seen them. Capturing them wasn’t part of the op. In fact, as far as his client was concerned, the mission was complete. Bryson Van Amee was safe in friendly hands. No ransom was exchanged. No money lost for Zoeller Zoeller Insurance. Handshakes and cigars all around.

He didn’t have to bring Jacinto and Rorro to justice. He didn’t have to risk himself or his men like that. But it went against every fiber in his being, every code of honor he’d ever set for himself, to let them get away.

Then there was Audrey to consider. He thought about the pain and worry and fear these two asswipes had caused her over the past few days. And it wasn’t over. Bryson was safe but had a long road to recovery, and Audrey was going to worry for him, fear for him, for a long time to come. Especially if his captors were still free. For that reason alone, Jacinto and Rorro needed to pay.

Gabe groaned and limped to his feet, commanding his bad foot to hold. It did. Barely. He took off at a hobbling run, very aware that if Jacinto and Rorro continued circling the property like they were, they would run directly into the helo.

“Achilles,” he panted into the radio. “Got a couple runners... south end.”

For a few agonizingly long moments, there was nothing but silence, then the sharp static of the communication line being opened. “Coming to you.”

There wasn’t time.

Gabe picked up his pace, every step ricocheting up his leg, a white-hot reminder of that damn car accident. But the more he hurt, the more determined he became. The sight of Jacinto and Rorro, their backs to him as they scurried like rats, fueled his anger, fortifying his resolve even as his body screamed in protest.

“Hey!” he shouted to get their attention.

Rorro raised an assault weapon, peppering him with bullets, and his foot gave out again as he pivoted to find cover. Cursing, he hit the ground and rolled behind a decorative brick wall before returning fire in short bursts. Rorro grabbed his older cousin and used him as a living shield at the same time as a bullet came from nowhere and skipped off the top of Jacinto’s head. They both collapsed.

Gabe peeked over the wall to see who had saved his neck. Quinn stood not twenty feet away at the edge of the yard, pistol in hand and a quirk on his lips. He holstered the weapon, closed the distance between them, and held out a helping hand.

“Man, you ever get tired of me saving your ass?”

Gabe clasped the offered hand and climbed to his feet. “Never.”

Another bullet ripped into the earth near Quinn’s boot, and he stumbled backward with a shouted curse as Rorro, covered in his cousin’s blood, crawled out from under Jacinto’s body and fired wildly in their direction. Gabe let loose a short, controlled burst from his own weapon, and Rorro crumpled face-first into the blood-soaked ground.

“Okay,” Quinn said and huffed out a breath. “Now we’re even.”

“Never,” Gabe repeated. “I’ll always have your six, buddy.”

All around, the gunfire came to an abrupt halt, a chilling silence spreading out in its wake. Gabe whistled between his teeth and waited, praying…

Five whistles bounced back, and he breathed a soft sigh of relief. His men had stopped firing because the tangos were dead, not because they were. Now, as per the plan, they’d rendezvous at the helo.

Quinn slung an arm around his waist. “C’mon.”

He hobbled across the yard with Quinn’s help, met the rest of the team at the edge of the neighboring property, and performed a quick head count as everyone climbed aboard the helo. Yeah, it was very Mother Hen-ish of him, but it made him feel better to know Marcus, Ian, Jean-Luc, Jesse, and Harvard were safe and sound.

Gabe shut the door behind him and circled a finger in the air. “Let’s go.” He moved through the cramped confines of the helo’s belly and crouched down beside Jesse, who was still working over Bryson Van Amee. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s awake,” Jesse said. He had started an IV and squeezed the bag every few seconds, pumping fluid into the exhausted man’s veins.

“Yeah?” Gabe pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Mr. Van Amee, can you hear me?”

Bryson’s green eyes, so very much like his sister’s, focused blearily on Gabe. “Yes.” His voice was barely a whisper of sound, and hearing him over the rotor was impossible, but Gabe nodded.

“All right. You’re safe now, and someone really wants to talk to you. Audrey,” he called into the phone over the noise of the helo. “Say hi to your brother.”