Colder Than Sin (Cold Justice - Crossfire: FBI Romantic Suspense Book 2)

by Toni Anderson

  Quentin eased out of his hiding place and made his way back toward the rocks, keeping low and moving slowly to avoid drawing their eyes. From there he scanned the area. The two men he could see had their backs to him. He grabbed the spear he’d fashioned earlier and removed the fish from the end with a silent apology. The weapon wasn’t much against an assault rifle, but it was better than nothing.

  He made his way cautiously from tree to tree, searching for a target. If he could quietly pick off a couple of these guys, then odds became much more favorable.

  He froze as one of the men came into view and headed over to the tree Quentin had originally told Haley to hide behind. The man must have spotted footprints in the dirt. Quentin didn’t stare at him, didn’t want to raise that innate survival instinct that told someone when they were being watched.

  The man bent over and picked up Haley’s boot.

  Quentin didn’t hesitate. The other bad guys were out of sight. He ran forward, choosing surprise blitz attack over stealth. At the last moment, the man turned. Quentin thrust the multi-pronged spear hard into the guy’s throat before ripping it back out. His stomach heaved at the gruesome results.

  The victim dropped his rifle and fell to his knees, desperately clutching the wound, trying to stem the blood pouring from his jugular.

  Quentin snatched up the rifle and tossed the primitive spear aside. Pity made him want to assist the guy, try to stop the bleeding. Dammit, he didn’t have time for mercy—these were ruthless killers. He slung the rifle strap over his head and the weapon across his back and took the man’s hands in his. He wrapped them around the wound.

  “Press hard to stop the bleeding.” Quentin spoke quietly, pity for the man in direct competition with his need for survival. The dying man’s eyes bulged, and then a calm seemed to settle over his features. A few seconds later he went lax, his chest no longer moving, clearly dead.

  Quentin swallowed the fist-sized lump that had wedged in his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment. He was good with words, but he couldn’t negotiate with madmen, and he couldn’t negotiate with people who refused to communicate like normal human beings. He didn’t have time for self-pity or reflection. He needed to do whatever it took to get the women to safety and bring this group to justice.

  A gun shot rang out, and Quentin’s stomach seized. Then a second round was fired.

  Had they found Haley or were they shooting at a feral pig?

  Even as fear for the others clamored inside his head, he forced himself not to run, but to mark the location of each threat. Two of the men were in front of him heading up the path that led toward Darby’s old camp—heading towards the gunfire. He didn’t know where the other two were.

  He paused. Should he double-back and get on the radio? But the idea of leaving Haley or Darby vulnerable made it impossible to turn away.

  Dense underbrush on this part of the island meant it was difficult to see too far ahead. He jogged, rifle up, finger along the top of the trigger.

  He used trees for cover. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of small arms fire and a man grunting in pain.

  Someone was shooting at the terrorists, and he had to assume it was one of the women.

  A burst from a fully automatic assault rifle shattered the peaceful tranquility of the island.

  Men with AKs were going up against a woman with a handgun and limited ammunition. It was no contest.

  Keep them safe. Keep them safe. Keep them safe.

  Quentin headed right, to a place where he had both a view of the shooters and cover of his own. Whoever they were firing at was hidden behind a large fig tree. One man started to move around, flanking the target’s position.

  It was only a matter of seconds before the rest of the bastards turned up. Quentin took aim, catching the first man in the chest and dropping him to the ground, then sighting left and nailing the next guy before he even realized someone had the drop on him.

  The silence that followed echoed with the knowledge there were more hostiles out there.

  “It’s me, Quentin. Are you hurt?” he called out softly. He didn’t want Haley or Darby to shoot him accidentally.

  Haley poked her head out, looking scared but not injured. He ran to the first man he’d shot and took his rifle. Tossed it to Haley who caught it. He wasn’t sure if the man was dead or not, but he quickly searched him for comms. Nothing except a hunting knife that he tossed beneath the fig tree.

  The other guy had caught a bullet in the skull and was definitely dead. Quentin grabbed his weapon, putting it over his other shoulder. Again, no comms.

  “There are two more men on the island,” Quentin told Haley.

  “I killed one.” Her skin was chalk white. “I took his gun, but it jammed when I tried to use it.”

  She must have been terrified.

  “I killed another which leaves only one.” But one guy could kill them all, or radio for help. “I don’t think they have any communications except for the radio in the boat.”

  They needed to get that radio.

  “No way he missed the ruckus. Let’s head back to the beach, but we need to be careful.” Quentin didn’t want Haley in the line of fire, but they didn’t have much choice. “Keep low and let’s stay in the woods where we have some cover. And follow me but leave some space between us.” As much as he wanted her close, they were tactically better off with some distance separating them so they couldn’t be wiped out in a single swipe of gunfire.

  He ran in a crouch, continually scanning the area for the last terrorist. He could be anywhere, but Quentin was betting he’d hightailed it back to the beach. And when his buddies didn’t return, he’d flee.

  Quentin hadn’t seen anything resembling courage from these assholes. From attacking a conference of unarmed civilians, to kidnapping seniors and young women.

  Through the trees, Quentin spotted movement. The man was desperately dragging the inflatable into the surf. Dammit. No way could Quentin let him call for backup.

  Shit

  Quentin started running.

  The boats were heavy and unwieldy to handle alone, and the guy was struggling. The surf had gotten up, with waves cresting on the small outer reef before crashing into the bay.

  Quentin was sprinting flat-out now, sweat dripping into his eyes, but he didn’t let it distract his focus. He leapt on top of the rocky outcrop as the terrorist rolled himself into the boat and quickly started the engine.

  Quentin aimed.

  As the man picked up the radio, Quentin started firing. The bullets ripped into the side of the RIB, and the man suddenly slumped over, obviously hit, hopefully dead. The boat didn’t stop though. It headed full-pelt out to sea, and they had no hope of catching up with it.

  Quentin swore.

  They were still marooned, but it wouldn’t be long until the kidnappers started wondering what happened to the search party they’d sent to Pulau Gunung Rebi. And they’d send another group to find out.

  He stared at the fast disappearing inflatable. He should have gone after the radio earlier. He might have been able to call for help and end this nightmare. Dammit.

  They needed to be smart. Get rid of the evidence. Play a game of psychological warfare.

  “I’m going to dump all the bodies off a cliff into the sea,” he said as Haley came up beside him. “Can you drag branches of leaves over the sand to hide the marks and footprints?”

  He glanced down at the pink nail polish on her toes. She was wearing a floppy green hat, barefoot, and holding a rifle. It was surreal. Their world had done a complete one-eighty, and he had to wonder if they’d get out of this mess alive.

  She worried her dry lips. “I should go tell Darby it’s safe.”

  He shook his head. “Later. Let’s do this first in case more bad guys come looking. I want them unsure as to whether their men ever arrived here or not.”

  They needed to either hide their inflatable or let it drift out to sea. But the idea of them being truly stranded was scar
y. Except, floating adrift on the ocean wasn’t exactly a survival strategy either.

  Surely someone would notice their signal soon?

  “What happens if they come back?” Haley’s blue eyes were wide with the horror of what they’d been forced to do.

  “Then we hide.” Grimly, Quentin patted the assault rifle. “At least this time we can fight back.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Eban was thrilled his laptop had functional Wi-Fi, even though flying flat-out in the back of some bare-bones military transport helicopter wasn’t the most comfortable space he’d ever worked in.

  The others were catching up and shooting the breeze. The whole bunch were former British Special Forces who now worked for a private company called Penny Fan. Eban wasn’t fooled. These guys were not private security the way Haley Cramer and Alex Parker were private security—otherwise one of them would have been attending the symposium that was attacked.

  They were Black Ops working under the guise of security contractors. Apparently, Hawthorne knew most of the crew except the pilot who was a local they trusted and had worked with before. The guys spent most of their time telling embarrassing stories about things that had gone wrong and almost killed them at one time or another. They never seemed to run out of material.

  He was online with the legat. Eban had managed to spin himself and Hawthorne getting a ride out to see the site of Darby O’Roarke’s abduction as the next reasonable step in the case. Thankfully, McKenzie back at SIOC backed him up. McKenzie had the ear of the director after helping thwart an attack on HQ earlier in the year. Alex Parker had also helped stop that attack, which added weight to him finding this SOS, which he believed was a signal from Haley Cramer. The Bureau was happy to help him chase a lead even if it turned out to be nothing. The task force leader, a real hard ass, was not so happy. He had “repercussions” written all over his short, terse responses.

  But this move did make sense.

  The kidnappers had set up another demonstration of online ear removal—it was hard to watch, even knowing it likely wasn’t Quentin on the receiving end of the mutilation. They’d also sent another photograph of Haley with a faceless man holding a knife beneath her nose, clearly threatening to cut it off. It appeared as if it was taken the same day as the first photograph. It had made his stomach lurch.

  The communications had done nothing to dispel their working theory that the attackers no longer had Quentin or Haley in their possession, but it did nothing to dispel the theory that they’d already killed them either.

  Alex Parker’s grim determination that this SOS came from them was the only reason Eban had any hope left.

  Alex had arranged to send a down payment of one-hundred thousand dollars on the condition the kidnappers stopped hurting the hostages and allowed them time to gather the full ransom. Twenty million was hard to liquidate at such short notice, but a hundred grand was a hell of a deposit.

  Alex was following the money. A team of these former SAS dudes sat in a hotel in Jakarta, ready to move if they traced anyone picking up communications there.

  Sending the bitcoin also created a false sense of security for the kidnappers. Why would the victims’ families pay that amount of money if Eban and company were winging their way to liberate the hostages?

  A team of analysts at HQ and at Cramer, Parker and Gray had been picking over satellite images of Pulau Gunung Rebi, and there was no indication of a terrorist camp—although nothing was one hundred percent certain as trees and possibly cave systems could hide them from view.

  Those same analysts were checking neighboring islands with as much care as possible, but there were a lot of islands, and terrorists could be hiding in plain sight in a regular town or village.

  “Ten minutes out.”

  Eban nodded and put away his computer and pulled on his ballistics vest. One of the operators, a big guy named Logan Masters who seemed to be in charge of the outfit, tossed him an earpiece for communication and then slid an MK5 across the floor of the bird. Eban nodded his appreciation. He hoped this was a rescue mission, but if they walked into terrorist central, he wanted to be ready for a firefight.

  The sea beneath them was a deep dark blue with small islands dotted around and volcanic ranges jutting up out of the ocean like sharks’ teeth. A paradise, but one full of potential dangers.

  Max Hawthorne pointed out the window. Pulau Gunung Rebi. The island where Darby O’Roarke had been taken and where someone had written an SOS in a desperate bid for rescue—or to lure the unsuspecting…

  They circled the island, first looking for movement or signs of life. A small, desolate-looking tent sat exposed on flat ground just above some trees on the leeward side of the island. A dramatic stream of bright orange lava flowed into the sea to the north. The helicopter circled until they were directly above the stones that spelled SOS, but no one ran out waving and rejoicing that rescue had come. Two large yellow tripods sat at either end of the letters. Eban didn’t know their purpose, but they seemed to be properly assembled rather than randomly situated.

  “Let’s take it down,” Masters told the pilot who nodded and started circling.

  A weird noise of something pinging off metal made Eban frown. The pilot banked hard as Masters yelled, “Taking fire!”

  Eban held on tight. Someone was certainly down there, shooting at them. The big question was whether or not they were hostages who needed rescue or terrorists hiding from the law. One way or another, they were about to find out.

  The pilot circled around and put the bird down near the small tent whose canvas flapped in the downwash. The operators and two agents piled out, heading straight for the cover of the trees. The pilot took off back out to sea to wait until they’d secured the island or until he needed to refuel. Either way he was out of range of any bullets.

  Eban looked across at Hawthorne who was grinning at him. The man was an excellent negotiator but obviously enjoyed being back in the field.

  They huddled around in a circle, ten men in all with a lot of ground to cover.

  Masters drew out a map folder and balanced it on one knee. “We split up into two four-man units plus one FBI agent each. One group takes the beach area, the other heads to where the shots came from.”

  The operators were dressed in full jungle camo with helmets and headsets. They looked like professional military rather than ill-equipped bandits. Eban and Hawthorne were in black tactical gear with FBI written clearly in yellow on their flak jackets.

  If it was terrorists who’d shot at them, they’d be easily marked. But on the outside chance Quentin or Haley or Darby O’Roarke or even the Alexanders were out here, hopefully it would make them realize that he and this team were the good guys. And they were safe.

  * * *

  Haley winced as Darby started shooting at the helicopter that had flown over their SOS signal.

  “Hold fire,” Quentin ordered, pushing the rifle barrel to the floor.

  Darby glared at him.

  “It might be the rescue team. You see how they came straight to the SOS? That’s someone who already knew the signal was there.”

  Darby stuck her lip out mutinously. “Bad guys could have access to satellite images too.”

  “Fair point,” Haley murmured. They were all on edge, waiting for the next attack.

  The helicopter flew out of sight, and Haley was guessing people were disembarking. The question was, who were these guys?

  “We have to be really careful not to shoot innocent people who are coming to rescue us.” Quentin looked concerned about Darby’s mental state. Haley was worried about her too. Since warning her about the unexpected visitors first thing that morning, Darby had been jumpy and her eyes a little wild. Haley understood, but the last thing they needed was to scare away or injure their rescuers.

  “We want to get out of here, right?” Haley infused joviality into her tone.

  The odds of them getting out of this mess alive had plummeted that morning, and it was
quite possible this was a search party looking for their missing comrades who were now all dead.

  “How will we know if they’re good guys or bad guys?” Haley asked. They all clutched assault rifles and were in a dense thicket of trees, north of the signal.

  Quentin pulled a face. “I was hoping it would be obvious, but it might not be if the Indonesians have their military looking for us also. Last thing I want to do is end up in a local prison for killing the wrong people. Or shot because they think we’re the terrorists.”

  Quentin’s dark eyes looked haunted. Haley knew that the death toll was weighing heavily on him. She was heartsick about having been forced to kill a man, but she would do it a thousand times over to survive. But how many times could Quentin’s training and the surprise factor outcompete locals who knew the area and were well-armed, desperate criminals?

  “What’s the plan, Q?” she asked.

  He glanced at Darby indecisively.

  “It’s okay to leave me alone.” Darby sounded bitter. “I’ll be all right.”

  His eyes flicked to Haley’s, silently asking her opinion.

  Haley nodded and turned to Darby. “Hide the same way you did last time, and we’ll yell if it is safe to come out.”

  Darby nodded. She looked drawn today. Red hair escaping the band she’d used to try and tame it. None of them had eaten or drunk enough water today, and stress was beginning to reveal itself on their faces and health. All of them were waiting for the terrorists to show up again. For Darby it had to be the most terrifying prospect of all.

  Haley reached out and touched her shoulder. “We’ll be back. Hopefully with a rescue team.”

  Darby’s gaze softened, and she nodded, dropping the nose of the rifle toward the ground.

  Quentin eased to his feet. “Remember not to shoot first and ask questions later. Staying put and staying quiet is the best way to stay hidden.”

  “Yes, Dad,” Darby muttered irritably. But she sounded rational again. Sane.

  Quentin rolled his eyes and held out his hand to help haul Haley to her feet. His fingers were calloused but warm and strong. She trusted this man with her life, maybe even more than that.