Deadly Aim (Bad Karma Special Ops Book 2)

by Tracy Brody

  “The tracking software showed the point of origin twenty to twenty-five minutes northwest of base. An hour later, she’s in South Carolina. At this speed, she’s gotta be in a plane.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Ray’s phone rang, cutting through the chatter in the conference room. Mack’s gaze shot to the screen. Rozanski. Please let him have good news.

  “What’d you find out?” Ray got down to business.

  “We viewed the Landmark’s surveillance video. It’s not good.”

  Mack’s heart crawled into his throat at AJ’s statement.

  “From what the video shows, a guy in a wheelchair tased her before she got inside. I’m sorry. I should have followed her in—”

  “Now’s not the time,” Ray cut him off. “Continue.”

  “He wheeled her to a van, where he and another perp loaded her in and drove off. We got a plate number.”

  Ray wrote down the letters and numbers AJ read off. “Run this.” He handed the info to Porter.

  By the time Colonel Mahinis entered the command post, Porter had verified the van used to abduct Kristie was reported stolen from a service member’s house the night before. The van’s base sticker had worked to get the kidnappers on post.

  Mack had vowed to keep her safe, and he’d failed. If only—if only what? They couldn’t hide her forever. There hadn’t even been a clear threat. Base security wasn’t foolproof—obviously—but how did these assholes know where to find her?

  Seated at his computer, talking excitedly into his phone, Porter typed, then motioned to Ray and the colonel. Mack beelined over, and Vincenti took up position on his other side.

  “That was the guy who owns and runs a private airstrip over toward Raeford. A Socata 850 and its pilot have been hunkered down there for a few weeks. The pilot filed a flight plan for Miami just tonight and took off about an hour ago. The owner gave me the tail number, and this was its flight path.” Porter pointed to a line on the blue screen with a map of the U.S. outlined in a darker blue.

  “They still in the air, or did they land in South Carolina?” The colonel touched where the line ended.

  Porter zoomed in on the map, then shook his head. He leaned back in his seat, huffing a sigh before raising his face. “Doesn’t look like it. No airstrips in the vicinity. My guess is they turned off their transponder to keep from being tracked.”

  “These guys are no amateurs,” Ray admitted.

  Mack’s hope they had established a home base in Savannah and were taking Kristie there nosedived into a death spiral. The flight path before the transponder went off could take them to Miami, but he’d bet money that was a decoy.

  “What’s the range of that type aircraft?” Mahinis asked.

  “According to the manufacturer, around seventeen hundred miles,” Porter stated in under a minute.

  “Colombia?” Ray looked at the colonel.

  “I’m pretty damned sure of it. Herrera’s not going to keep her here. More importantly, he won’t set foot on U.S. soil. Where exactly in Colombia is the question. He shuffles between several residences. And those are just the ones the DEA knows about. That’s a lot of territory.”

  “Can they make it without refueling?” Ray asked.

  Porter talked to himself while checking the distance and calculating. “With standard fuel tanks, they might make it to the northern part of Colombia. But my money is on them needing to refuel somewhere.”

  “I’ll run this up the chain of command to get an alert out to all U.S. airports in the Southeast. If they land to refuel, we might be able to detain them.”

  Detain them and Kristie could get hurt—or worse—in a confrontation. What if they didn’t land? “If we locate it, could we force it down?” Mack hated both scenarios, but they beat trying to ascertain her location in Colombia when the tracker had a limited range.

  “Too risky. Especially since a GPS signal doesn’t prove Chief Donovan is on that plane.” The colonel killed that long shot.

  “We need a Plan B, because I never hit big money playing the lottery,” Ray stated.

  All eyes were on Colonel Mahinis when he came back into the room. “Fueling centers are on notice. We also have 7th Group assembling a team that will be airborne and headed south, ready to intercept, if the plane lands in south Florida or the Keys. We’re proceeding with Plan B.” He scanned the men’s faces before locking on Lundgren’s. “However, I have a call in for Alpha team.”

  “Two teams is a good idea. Herrera wants us to come. Only he won’t be expecting us so soon.”

  Mahinis started talking over Ray. “You’re personally involved. I think—”

  “Damn right.” Ray’s composure slipped a notch. “Not just because we know Warrant Officer Donovan. They took her because Herrera wants us.” He motioned to encompass the men in the room. “He’ll go after our families.”

  He spoke Mack’s exact thoughts. Unless we shut him down for good. Ray might be thinking that, too, but had the good sense not to voice it.

  “I’m happy to have Alpha team along, as long as they understand one thing. This. Is. Our. Mission.” Ray crossed his arms over his chest, not breaking eye contact.

  Colonel Mahinis puffed out his chest, setting his own power position.

  Mack stepped next to the chief, mimicking his stance. Vincenti joined them, followed by the rest of the Bad Karma team.

  The colonel blinked first.

  Thirty-Eight

  After she heard the landing gear go down, Kristie looked out her window. Through a break in the clouds, the rising sun lit the sky with hints of gold and orange. She glimpsed the ocean behind them and the rise of low mountains in the distance.

  The men slept a good part of the flight. Apparently, they weren’t worried about her bailing out. She’d tried to sleep to store her energy and stay mentally sharp but only managed to nod off for minutes. The earlier blows hurt, and the hours on the jet had given her reprieve from additional beatings.

  Bouncer unbuckled and went to a cabinet by the doorway. He came toward her, holding a dark cloth. Her skin turned clammy the moment he pulled the black hood over her head. The fact they carried them on the plane indicated she wasn’t the first hostage they’d taken. Her stomach sent its contents creeping up the back of her throat. She swallowed it down and breathed deeply to override her body’s instincts. The hood is not suffocating you. Don’t show fear. No weakness.

  The plane touched down minutes later, bouncing on the runway twice before the tires maintained contact, and they slowed.

  Her guesstimate from the time they refueled a few hours ago was that they were in Colombia. She didn’t know the range on the tracker Mack had given her, but she’d lost hope after two hours. No way that tiny thing could be tracked over two thousand miles. Right?

  Mack, I am so sorry. It was better her than these cocksuckers getting their hands on his girls. Or Stephanie and Alexis.

  The plane turned and eventually stopped. She heard the click of seat belts unbuckling, then felt a hand brush over her breast as someone released her belt. “Get up.” Bouncer jerked her flex-cuffed hands.

  “Watch your step,” a different voice warned, touching her elbow when she was led out and down the steps.

  The smooth, hard surface under her feet indicated blacktop or concrete rather than a dirt surface, but she doubted this was any real airport. There’d be no one to see her being led off with her head covered. No one to call authorities.

  With the engines off, she listened for any sound that might give her a clue on her location. No other planes. No traffic. The damp, heavy air muffled the distant voices of tree frogs.

  She needed info. Something that gave her a clue about where she was. When her feet hit dirt, it was time to risk it. Kicking one toe into the ground, she fell forward. Throwing her hands up, she managed to hook her thumbs under the hood and yank it up before landing hard on her right side.

  Ignoring the pain, she raised her head and took in the white SUV in front of her a
nd the field of green behind it. That wasn’t helpful. She rolled left, onto her back, and raised to a sitting position. The jet was parked under a large metal canopy. To keep it from being spotted? Salvation also sat under that makeshift hangar.

  A helicopter. One half the size of her Black Hawk. Closer to the size of the training aircraft back at Fort Rucker. She didn’t have an iota of doubt she could fly that thing—if she could get to it.

  Bouncer reached for her, and between him, Tattoo, and the pilot, there was no frigging way she could get to the craft and get it started. If she acted like she hadn’t seen it, maybe it wouldn’t be the first place they headed to if—no, when—she got away.

  Pulling the hood back over her head, they shoved her into the SUV’s back seat. Kristie squeezed her arms over her chest to avoid getting felt up again. Someone climbed in beside her and buckled her in before both front doors closed.

  The asshole pilot must be along for the ride. Pilots typically shared camaraderie over their love of flying. But a pilot who flew for a man like Herrera, one who let a woman be brought aboard in restraints and led off with a hood over her head, made her hope this guy crashed and burned on one of his illegal flights. With Herrera onboard.

  Even if she could unbuckle and unlock and open the door, her chances of rolling out and getting away from three men—with two of them armed—were zero. Zilch. Zip.

  Patience. Don’t give up.

  The damned bag over her head kept her from seeing any landmarks. She couldn’t judge their speed over the rough roads, so even if she could memorize the turns and count the seconds between them, it might not do her any good.

  After about sixteen minutes over progressively bone-jarring roads, the SUV stopped. A blast of warm air rushed in when the driver spoke, getting a grunt from another in response. She made out a low hum before they drove on for a few more minutes.

  The SUV doors opened, and the men piled out. One pulled her from the vehicle. Damn, she wished she could see. Did she dare stage another fall? Before she could decide, whoever gripped her arm, jerked her up a step. The squeak her boots made was the same as when walking on ceramic tile. Definitely not concrete, wood, or even linoleum. An authoritative voice greeted them once they stopped inside a building.

  Her head snapped back when the hood was yanked off. She squinted from the sunlight streaming in through the row of windows and, shaking back her hair, took a quick perusal of what appeared to be a living room with couches on her right.

  In front of her, a man stood in clean khaki dress pants and a button-down shirt. He had a military bearing and regarded her with a calculating stare, similar to Ray’s. A drug lord might employ the same kind of stare down.

  When he spoke to the men who’d brought her in, his words flew so fast she only picked out Herrera and arrive. He nodded in dismissal, then spun on his heel. Okay, this man was probably not Herrera, but maybe his security chief or the lieutenant in charge of his thugs.

  Bouncer and Tattoo led her up the stairs off the foyer. The pilot didn’t follow—not that his absence improved her odds.

  Upstairs, they let her use the bathroom. The room had metal bars over the window and nothing usable for self-defense. Heavy footsteps made the floor creak. Bouncer said something to which new voices replied.

  Outnumbered even more, she needed to save the one weapon at her disposal for the right time.

  When she came out, Tattoo led her to a bedroom where two men had joined Bouncer. The bedroom had a full-size bed, nightstand, and two wooden chairs—one smack in the middle of the room, and the other next to the door. There weren’t chains attached to the wall or bloodstains on the bedding or floor—yet.

  Tattoo pushed her down onto the chair rather than nicely motion for her to sit. No surprise there. He knelt and began to unlace her boots.

  No, no, no!

  He wrestled off the first boot, then the other. Even though she kept her face passive, the tall newcomer squinted suspiciously at her. Maybe she’d get lucky. Instead, he picked up the boots and stuck a hand inside each one. When he pulled out the duct tape, her plan suffered a serious smackdown.

  Shit.

  The look of disdain and the contempt in the man’s tone with whatever he said made Tattoo mutter under his breath. Tattoo wrapped thick zip ties around her ankles to the chair legs, pulling them until they dug into her flesh.

  The tall man leaned down and checked that the ties were tight enough for his satisfaction. He eyed her breasts before rising. Were there no women around for these guys? The thought dredged up possibilities she didn’t want to imagine. No. She was not out of this fight yet.

  Tall Guy set her boots by the wall as the four of them talked. Apparently, the youngest man, in a plaid shirt two sizes too big for him, drew the short straw because he plunked down in the chair, looking pissed off.

  Relieved of duty, Bouncer and Tattoo disappeared with Tall Guy. Good riddance. They left her boots behind—one tiny thing going her way—so she wouldn’t have to run through the jungle in socks if—no, be optimistic—when she got out of here.

  Her new guard didn’t seem interested in conversation and played a game on his phone. Better than the alternatives. From the window, all she could see were trees and sky. Mostly trees. She needed to think. Start forming her escape plan. Though if they were going to station a guard on her twenty-four seven, that drastically limited her options.

  Nevertheless, she feigned sleep and started evaluating factors. She knew how to get out of the flex-cuffs and zip ties even without the razor blade, but she couldn’t do it with company watching. Then what?

  She had to be a few miles from the airfield where they landed, but then she’d have to find it. There were vehicles here, and though AJ had mentioned to Juan that hot-wiring should be a part of her escape-and-evade training, they hadn’t gotten to it. If she got out of this, she’d make AJ or Mack or Ray teach her. They could probably hot-wire a car in under two minutes. Her? No clue.

  What were the chances they left the keys in them? Damn, she should have listened for the jingle or tell-tale beep.

  She could disable the cars. Remove the batteries or flatten the tires to even the playing field. But those things would take time. Time for them to catch her.

  She’d have to make her escape on foot. Could she do that in the dark? In unfamiliar terrain with trees and roots and who knows what kind of wild animals out there? It wasn’t an ideal plan. The best time would be right before dawn. Use darkness to get away from the house but have enough light to navigate by.

  If she could get to the hangar or find people, would she be able to differentiate who might help from those who’d turn her back over to Herrera? The odds weren’t in her favor, but she could figure out patterns, the weakest link, anything to improve her chances. Except how long did she dare wait to try to escape?

  Thirty-Nine

  Voices and footsteps woke Kristie. She’d managed to get some sleep, but now her plaid-clad guard jerked upright and slipped his phone into his chest pocket.

  The temperature shot up when two men entered the room—as if making it comfortable for the devil himself. The man she pegged as Herrera’s security chief moved in as stealthily as a cat and gave her the same indifferent stare.

  The man with him was older with a sprinkling of gray in his hair, mustache, and short beard. Shy of six feet, a bit pudgy, and wearing cream slacks and a pale-blue, short-sleeved shirt, he didn’t appear intimidating—until she looked into the soulless eyes as he studied her with his superior air.

  “You know who I am?” His English wasn’t half bad.

  She didn’t answer with the profane words that came to mind, or give him the satisfaction or power of hearing his name, but gave an affirmative nod.

  “Good.” He responded with a smarmy smile all the same. “When I read—” He turned to the security man and spoke in Spanish, calling the man Hugo, if she’d heard right.

  “Josué Varga,” Hugo replied.

  Herrera flipped a han
d as if shooing away an insect. “His report say he fly with a American woman. I picture someone not so pretty.” He shrugged.

  Had Josué been working for Herrera? She doubted it and didn’t ask. Remorse ripped through her. Josué and his family were dead, tortured, not because of her, but because of this man. His greed and thinking he was above the law.

  Herrera raised a brow as if waiting for her to respond. When she didn’t, he ran a knuckle along her bruised cheek.

  She flinched—and it wasn’t due to pain. The man oozed arrogance and egotism. The way people responded showed his lethal power. He may have the vast majority of the power, but she had information he wanted—making her valuable.

  “You know what I want from you?” he asked when she kept silent.

  “Flying lessons?”

  Herrera’s throaty, ominous chuckle stopped suddenly. “From a woman? No. The men you pick up, they took something of mine.”

  Did he honestly think kidnapping made the girl his? “I’m sure they don’t have your property anymore.”

  The disdain that came through in her tone made him smirk. “No. But I don’t need—it—anymore. It was”—he sighed—“to keep my son out of jail. He made mistake, but the policía, they want to, uh, make him pay for things they say I do.”

  She bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing at his understated description. He clearly thought laws didn’t apply to him.

  “Because your soldiers come, my son is dead. They must pay for that.” His tone went cold and flat.

  She returned his silent gaze, trying to measure how far this man would go. How close he was to the edge. Eric’s tragic death taught her what grief could do to a person. She could not let this man inflict his wrath on innocent people. Ones she cared about. The lengths he’d already gone to get to her and bring her here showed he wouldn’t give up this vendetta. Ever. He had her, but no one else needed to die.

  “Varga not know who they are. He say you know. You will tell me names. Where to find these men.”