by Pamela Clare
When he put it that way…
“We’ll see you all tonight,” Tower said.
“Godspeed.”
The screen went blank.
Dylan stood, stretched. “You heard the man. Let’s make it happen.”
They had a lot to get done between now and oh-two-hundred hours.
“No, puta, you stay up here tonight.” Pitón was in a mean mood and drunk again, this time on cocuy he’d bought from the spec ops guys. “Gordito, you go be with the hostages.”
Gabriela stood rooted to the spot, a bad feeling in her chest.
“I’m not leaving her with you, you drunk maricón. The boss will feed your balls to his dogs if you touch her.”
“Shut up!” Pitón was apparently too drunk to care what his jefe would do. He drew his pistol and pointed it unsteadily at Gordito. “Get down there with the hostages, mamagüevo, or you’ll take a swim with Topo.”
Gordito drew his firearm, too, but walked backward toward the stairs, his face dark with fury. “If anything happens to her, I’ll kill—”
“She’ll be fine.” Pitón grinned. “Do you think I would hurt a nun?”
“I’m sorry, Hermana.” Gordito disappeared down the stairs, leaving her with Pitón and a handful of his men.
Just great.
As she’d done before, she retreated into the role of a nun, feigning serenity. She looked for something to do, a way to occupy herself, but it was after midnight, supper long over, the dishes already washed and dried.
“Bring me that bottle, whore.” Pitón pointed to the bottle of cocuy near his feet.
If she did as he asked, she would be in easy reaching distance.
She sat, tucking her legs beneath her. “No, Eduardo. You’re drunk enough.”
He stomped over to her and grabbed her by her hair, his hand fisting in her veil as he dragged her painfully to her feet. “How do you know when it’s enough? You’ve never been drunk.”
Snickers.
He forced her over to the bottle. “Pick it up.”
She did as he demanded, handing him the liquor. “Drink your soul away, if you wish. It won’t make you feel better about killing Topo.”
Gasps.
He jerked the bottle from her hands and backhanded her, the blow splitting her lip, leaving her dazed. “Watch yourself, Hermana. You don’t think I’ve killed women before?”
Gabriela licked the blood from her lip and willed herself to meet his gaze. “I’m certain you’ve committed a great many mortal sins.”
He raised the bottle to his lips, took a long drink. “Where’s the music?”
Caballo Viejo, an old folk song, started playing over small, tinny speakers.
He sank into a lawn chair, pointed toward his feet. “You sit here.”
She did as he demanded, turning her back to him.
Nearby, El Cebo and two others sat on their blankets playing poker, US dollar bills piled high in the center. Two others sat on the stairs that led to the loading dock playing a Venezuelan card game called truco. Another tried to change the music.
“Leave it alone!” Pitón shouted.
Gabriela spent the next hour or so as Pitón’s servant, fetching him water, lighting his joint, bringing him food—and ignoring his filthy mouth and slurred words.
“I bet if you got laid, you’d give up the Church.”
“Jesus can’t do for you the things I can do.”
“Have you ever sucked a man’s dick? No, you probably haven’t. Have you even seen a dick?”
Couldn’t this malparido just pass out?
She hugged her knees to her chest, rested her chin on her knees, and pretended to sleep, her senses trained on the room around her.
The reek of alcohol, cigarettes, marijuana, and unwashed bodies. The click of a lighter. One of the men snoring.
How he could sleep with music blaring and the lights on—
The door opened, bringing her head up.
She caught a glimpse of men in battle gear and would have thrown herself flat onto the floor if Pitón hadn’t yanked her to her feet and forced her to run.
Behind her, the spec ops team opened fire.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
“One of the tangos has Sister María and is running toward the rear entrance.”
What about Dianne and Tim?
Pitón pulled her down a hallway, his pistol drawn.
As soon as they were out of sight of the others, she let her rage out, drawing on her combatives training and hitting Pitón squarely in the gut with her elbow.
Taken by surprise, he grunted, doubled over.
“Malparido!” She laced her fingers together and struck him on the back of the neck then tried to kick the pistol from his hands. But her damned skirt was too narrow, stopping her and almost making her fall over.
Fury on his face, Pitón slammed her in the chest with his shoulder, forced her back against an iron pillar, and shoved the pistol against her cheek. “Do that again, puta, and I’ll put a bullet through your brain!”
“You won’t get away, Eduardo. They’ll kill you. You should surrender.”
“Shut up!” He dragged her around a corner, pushed open a side door, and ran outside, only to find the two men who’d been guarding it dead on the ground. “Malparidos!”
“You can’t escape.”
Panicked, he looked up and down the dark, silent street—then put the pistol to her head and used her as a shield as he made his way to a parked car. “If they try to stop me, you’re dead.”
Come on, guys! Stop this asshole!
And then he was there—a man in full combat dress and night vision goggles, his rifle raised and pointed straight at Pitón. He moved forward with the grace of a predator, step by step. He shouted to Pitón in Spanish. “Let her go!”
Gabriela recognized his voice. It was the one who’d pretended to be Cuban. Swamped with relief, she almost smiled.
Pitón froze. He tightened his grip on Gabriela, one arm around her throat, the barrel of his pistol pressing painfully against her temple. “I’ll kill her right now if you don’t drop your rifle.”
Gabriella spoke in English. “Pull the trigger.”
That’s not what Dylan had expected Sister María to say, but he didn’t need her encouragement. He exhaled—and fired.
Pop!
The bastard was dead before he hit the ground.
Dylan reached for his hand mic. “Cobra Actual, this is Cruz. The last tango is down. I’ve retrieved the hostage and am heading toward extract.”
He jogged over to Sister María, still speaking Spanish. “Are you okay, Hermana?”
“Sí.” She wiped blood spatter off her cheek, her lip split and swollen. “Let’s get out of here.”
That sounded good to him. He didn’t like being separated from the others. “Can you run? We need to get up to the roof.”
“Yes. Where are the other hostages?”
He was touched by her selflessness. A lot of people in this situation would be concerned only with saving their own asses. But, of course, she was a nun. “They’re already on the roof, waiting for a helicopter. Come. We must hurry.”
They had run just a few feet when Dylan heard the roar of truck engines.
Tower’s voice came over his earpiece. “Cruz, this is Cobra Actual. Take cover! You’ve got enemy QRF pushing your position, coming in fast from the north.”
What the fuck?
He made a split-second decision. “This way, Hermana. More bad guys are coming to join the party.”
They ducked inside the open doorway of an apartment building across from the warehouse. Dylan shut the door, watching through a window as three big troop transports rounded the corner and stopped in the middle of the street. “Get down!”
Dozens of armed men jumped to the ground and rushed into the warehouse.
Son of a bitch!
For an operation that couldn’t go wrong, this was now an official clusterfuck.
“Cobr
a Actual, this is Cruz. We’re pinned down across from the warehouse. There’s no way for us to make extract. Twenty or so hostiles are inside the warehouse and headed your way.”
“Copy that.”
The rest of the bastards spread out, surrounding the warehouse. They weren’t regular Venezuelan military.
Sister María looked out the window. “Guachimanes—the Watchmen, Luis Sánchez’s private army. So now we’re stuck here?”
She sounded more irritated than afraid.
“For now.” Dylan could just see the roof of the warehouse, the Sikorsky appearing out of the night and coming in to land. “If they don’t lift off quickly, they’re going to come under fire.”
Then he saw something that made his blood run cold.
Two of the men unloaded a crate from the back of the truck and opened it to reveal an RPG—a rocket-propelled grenade. The thing wasn’t assembled yet, but when it was, it would shoot the helo out of the sky.
“Cobra Actual, this is Cruz. Hostiles on the ground have an RPG. I say again, they have an RPG. You need to get airborne—now.”
“¡Mierda!” Sister María whispered. Shit.
Dylan couldn’t blame her for the lapse. If that helicopter didn’t lift off fast, they would watch while the others were blown to bits. If he’d been by himself, he’d have opened fire and done his best to take out the men in the street.
Tower seemed to read his mind. “Cruz, this is Cobra Actual. Do not engage! We’ll get you out some other way.”
“Copy that.”
Sister María looked up at him, her face hidden in the shadows. “Is the helicopter going to make it?”
“I don’t know.”
The Sikorsky lifted off and nosed into the wind, the team now returning fire.
Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat!
In the street not twenty feet away from him, idiots who’d clearly never used an RPG before almost had it figured out.
“¡Puñeta! Fuck!
Seconds felt like hours as the helicopter passed overhead, picked up speed, and disappeared.
Godspeed.
Dylan let out a relieved breath.
Then …
A baby’s cry. Worried voices.
“What’s happening?”
“That’s gunfire. Someone was shooting.”
“Stay down, mi amor!”
The noise had awakened the neighbors, and it was only a matter of time before someone opened their apartment door and discovered them here.
“We need to hide!” Sister María whispered. “This way.”
Weapon raised, Dylan followed her down a narrow hallway to a set of stairs that led down to a door with the word Mantenimiento — Maintenance — painted on it in large, black letters. The door was padlocked.
“Stand back.” He kicked the door open then flicked on the light.
Electrical panels. Pipes. Emergency water shut-off. Janitorial supplies.
Dylan drew Sister María inside and closed the door behind them.
In his earpiece, Tower announced they were safely away.
“Cobra Actual, this is Cruz. Copy that. We’ve taken shelter in a basement. Will stay in touch via cell phone.”
The team would soon be out of range of his radio.
“They made it?”
“Yes.” Dylan saw relief on Sister María’s face.
“Thank God.” She glanced around. “Now what?”
“Now we survive.”
7
This wasn’t how Gabriela had expected the rescue to end. At least Dianne and Tim were on their way home again.
When she spoke next, it was in English. He’d spoken English to her before. He obviously knew she was from the US, even if he didn’t know her real profession. “What’s your name?”
“Dylan Cruz.” He raised his night-vision goggles, which were fixed to his helmet, then took off his helmet and shucked off his backpack. “I’ve got a medic kit. It looks like someone roughed you up. Let’s take care of it.”
She touched fingers to her swollen lip. “The man you killed did that.”
He pulled a kit out of his backpack. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”
He still believed she was a religious sister. Under these circumstances, would she be authorized to drop her cover? She had no idea. What had happened tonight wasn’t in the playbook.
Better to keep your cover for now.
He reached for a metal folding chair and motioned for her to sit. “Sister.”
“Don’t apologize. You only did what he forced you to do.”
“Live by the sword, die by the sword, right?” He handed her a moist wipe. “You’ve got his blood on your face.”
“Thanks.” She wiped first her face and then her hands, then handed him the wipe. “What branch of the military are you in?”
He tucked it into a plastic bag, “I used to be a SEAL. I was an assaulter with Blue Squadron, DEVGRU—what you civilians like to call Seal Team Six.”
Gabriela was impressed. She knew what DEVGRU was.
“I work for a private military company now.”
That explained the lack of a US flag or any other identifying feature on his uniform. It might also explain why the Agency hadn’t told him and the others that she wasn’t a religious sister. Her mission was classified as top secret. She doubted whether employees of a private company had top-secret security authorization.
“And your family is from Cuba?”
He grinned. “Puerto Rico.”
That was intriguing. He faked the accent well.
He put on a pair of sterile gloves, tore open an antiseptic towelette, and knelt beside her chair, the warm, salty scent of his skin making her want to inhale—and reminding her that she hadn’t had a shower in more than a week.
His gray eyes looked into hers. “This is probably going to sting.”
She lifted her chin and tilted her head to make it easier for him, wincing at the burn as he cleaned the cut.
“I’m sorry, Sister.”
“It’s not your fault.”
His expression darkened. “I wish I had some ice. It looks like he punched you.”
“Backhanded.” She winced again. “I baited Pitón about killing Topo, the man who was with me the day I met you.”
“You baited him?” Dylan drew back, his lips curving into a smile that put butterflies in her belly. “You also got that key to us—and gave us intel that helped us speed up the rescue. You are one brave nun.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Says the man who took out sixteen sicarios with just five other guys—and who saved my life with a single shot.”
He rocked back and peeled the gloves off his hand, his grin fading. “I wish I’d gotten you on that chopper. I’m sorry. We thought all of the hostages were together in the basement.”
“We were—until tonight. Pitón wanted… my company.”
Dylan searched her face, his expression worried. “If he … hurt you …”
Gabriela shook her head, touched by Dylan’s concern. “He wanted to, but his boss threatened to kill him if he touched me. Mostly, I had to listen to his filthy mouth.”
Dylan’s brow furrowed. “Will I go to hell if I say I’m glad he’s dead?”
She smiled. “I think God understands your relief that an evil man can no longer cause harm. Besides, who told you to pull the trigger?”
He stood, glanced at his watch. “It’s almost oh-three-hundred. We can’t leave until those guys clear out. We might as well get some sleep.”
“And then what?” She hoped he had a plan to get home.
“As soon as they’re gone, we move out.”
“You can’t go anywhere dressed like that.” She motioned to his body armor and combat fatigues. “You’ll be safer on your own. Just put me on a bus back to the mission in El Vigía—”
“No way.” He put the medic kit back into his backpack. “Our orders directly from the Pentagon were to get you safely back to the US. I can’t leave you behin
d.”
“The Pentagon?” That was … interesting.
Was the Agency recalling her? It must be if they wanted her back in the US. But why would they want her to come home when she hadn’t yet gotten proof that Luis Sánchez was working with the Andes Cartel?
God, she wished she had some way to contact them.
“Are you hungry? I’ve got some emergency rations.”
“Save them.” She stood, smoothed her sadly wrinkled skirts. “What I really want is a shower.”
“We’ll have to work on that.” He took another folding chair and propped it at an angle beneath the doorknob, bracing the door shut. “That won’t keep anyone out for long, but it will give me time to react.”
He carried his backpack, rifle, and helmet to the corner and sat with his back against the wall. “Come. I’ve got an emergency blanket. It should keep you warm.”
Adrenaline giving way to exhaustion, she sat an arm’s length from him, knowing that no religious sister would put herself physically close to a man. “Thanks.”
He unfolded the crinkly silver emergency blanket and handed it to her. “You can sit closer and use my lap for a pillow. I promise I won’t bite.”
“Thanks, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”
She wrapped herself in the blanket, lay down with her head resting on her arm—and in the next breath was sound asleep.
Dylan watched Sister María sleep, a strange sense of protectiveness swelling in his chest. Long, dark lashes rested against her bruised cheek, her veil revealing thick, dark hair, her small hand tucked beneath her chin.
She must have been exhausted to fall asleep so quickly. Or maybe the blow that had split her lip had given her a concussion. He would have to watch her.
What could he have done differently to prevent this? How could he have gotten her to the helicopter? She should be on a Navy vessel, sleeping in a warm bunk, not huddled with him in a dank basement.
He ran the last few minutes of the rescue through his mind—the rush into the basement, blowing away the lone guard, freeing the other hostages, seeing that Sister Maria wasn’t there. He’d heard Segal say that one of the sicarios was running and had taken her with him. He’d run upstairs and onto the street, trying to cut the bastard off.