Deadly Aim (Bad Karma Special Ops Book 2)

by Tracy Brody

  She wanted the hell out of here, but telling Herrera their names would not make that happen. It’d just speed up her death. “Can’t help you there. They’re from a different unit. One that does classified missions. They don’t mix with us aviators.” She prayed he didn’t know the particulars with her and Mack. “You can call the Army and ask.”

  Herrera took a step closer. His mouth tightened, and his arm flexed.

  Even the guard, who didn’t appear to speak English, read his boss’s body language. The wary look on his face cemented her assumption Herrera wasn’t afraid to get his own hands bloodied. No point in implementing humanization tactics, not when her captor was a merciless brute. The Geneva Convention guidelines didn’t apply here.

  “No lie to me!” he growled.

  “Varga say you knew one,” Hugo said in an unnervingly calm manner. “A big man with yellow hair.”

  Fuck. Josué had talked. If she stalled, he’d know she was lying. “What are you going to do if I tell you? Send your men to take on one of the most elite U.S. Army Special Forces soldiers and his team? Are you willing to sacrifice the lives of more of your men? It won’t bring your son back.”

  Herrera’s nostrils flared, and his mouth twitched with emotion. His gaze moved from her to the guards in the room as he weighed her words. “I am not going to send my men after them. I will send message—that I have you. And when they come, this time, I be ready. I have more men. Many more.”

  Shit. Of course, he wanted them on his turf. That’s why he brought her here. Bait. Kristie’s confidence imploded. She could not lead Mack and Ray into an ambush. No. No. No.

  Maybe Mack didn’t know she’d activated the tracker yet. She had to turn it off. But how, without them finding it?

  “I need to go to the bathroom.” It worked before.

  Herrera shook his head. “Until you give me names, you do not eat. You do not sleep. You do not use bathroom. You tell me.” He spat the words at her. With a confident jerk of his head, he signaled to Hugo, and the two stepped away.

  Denying her food and sleep and use of a toilet hardly counted as torture, especially from a man with Herrera’s reputation. What was up with that? SERE training stressed that every human had a breaking point. How long could she hold out under real torture?

  She had to figure out a way to outwit Herrera. If she couldn’t, and couldn’t get away, she’d need a plan to make sure they’d never get the information they wanted—at least not from her.

  Listening to Herrera give orders to Hugo and the guard, she understood a few words, but couldn’t translate enough to figure out what they were planning before they left.

  Her guard plunked back down onto his chair.

  “Necesito ir al baño,” she tried again.

  “No.” He stuck to orders.

  Time for Plan B, and hopefully, useful intel. “Tú no importante a Herrera. ¿Quieres vivir o”—she couldn’t remember the word for die—“muerte?”

  She probably sounded stupid using the Spanish words she knew but, based on the way the guard stared at her, she managed to make enough sense to get her point across. Think that over. It didn’t matter how much Herrera pays if you’re too dead to spend it. With the right psychological warfare, maybe she could persuade his men to desert their posts. “¿Cuál es tú nombre?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Fine. I’ll call you Héctor.”

  He squinted angrily at her. “Silencio.”

  “Don’t like Héctor? How about Pedro?” For some reason, that made her think of a dog. Rather fitting. “Los soldados americanos práctica todo el día to …” She didn’t know enough to finish. “Practice all day to kill men like you,” she repeated in English. “Bang, bang. Tú.” She pointed her cuffed hands at him, then faked death.

  Pedro gave an unbelieving laugh. Probably at her childlike attempts to communicate.

  “Herrera tiene cien hombres viniendo aquí. Mataremos a los soldados Americanos,” he told her.

  “¿Cien? No comprende.”

  “Mucho. Mas hombres.”

  That she understood. A lot of men. Coming. “¿Mataremos?”

  “Tus soldados mueren. Muerto.” He sat back with the smuggest smile on his face.

  If she interpreted everything, or almost everything, correctly, it made sense why Herrera wasn’t beating the crap out of her. Yet. He needed to get his other men here before he sent the message to their targets that he had her. Herrera figured he had time to get the names and needed to keep her alive until then.

  Guess what, cooperation was not her middle name.

  The odds were stacked against her and getting worse. She’d have to make a break for it at her first opportunity. With that many men coming, she needed to get the tracker turned off to avoid leading Mack, Ray, and their team into an ambush. It would up to her to escape—or die trying.

  Forty

  “No!”

  Despite Kristie’s scream, the girl took Herrera’s hand and walked away from Mack’s body.

  “No!” When the girl still didn’t turn around, Kristie ran after her, but couldn’t get any closer.

  A loud voice woke Kristie from her nightmare. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

  Ricardo, as she’d taken to calling the second guard, stared grumpily at her. She must have yelled out in her sleep, waking him.

  “Bad dream,” she managed between gasps for breath.

  She hung her head to try and slow her breathing. The dream flooded back.

  There’d been a girl, but Kristie didn’t know who. Amber? Darcy? Alexis? She shook it off. She didn’t want to know. Or remember the dream. Maybe it would fade away if she didn’t think about it. It was just her here. Mack, Darcy, Amber, the Lundgrens, they were all alive in North Carolina. Still safe.

  Ricardo checked the ties binding her to the chair. Satisfied she wasn’t sweating from trying to escape, he grunted and straightened.

  Outside her dungeon window, dense fog reflected the moonlight. It made the night eerily bright and gave her no clue how long she had before dawn.

  Kristie listened but didn’t hear sounds of anyone moving about in the house. It’d be a perfect time—if she could get out there before the sun came up.

  Rather than laying back down, Ricardo lumbered to the door. She held her breath, waiting to see if he’d sit on the chair by the door. Please don’t. He stepped out. Really? Her heart beat faster. Yes!

  Whether he went looking for a quiet place to sleep, to smoke, or because nature called, she didn’t give a damn. The moment the door closed, she leaned the chair onto its back legs as far as she dared. It took about half a minute to work the zip tie down far enough to free her leg. Her other leg was free in seconds.

  Now the fun part. She raised her arms, took a deep breath, then jerked her arms down like Mack had demonstrated.

  Damn, that hurt. And didn’t work. She tried again. Tears sprung to her eyes from the pain, but she refused to cry out. Shit. One more time. Please work. Please. She couldn’t risk the time it’d take to get her boots and undo the paracord bracelet to saw through the plastic.

  Pop! The plastic snapped and flew off. She lowered her head and let the exhilaration of freedom chase away the pain and stars dotting her vision.

  Reaching under her shirt, she didn’t waste any time turning off the tracker. Mixed emotions erupted as a sharp half sob. Though she’d cut off any chance of Mack and his team finding her, keeping them safe was the right thing. She was on her own now. Utterly alone.

  And she needed to move. She scooped up her boots and locked the door Ricardo had left cracked before she pulled it closed behind her. It might buy her a few seconds. She needed every one she could get.

  She sprinted down the hallway. Light peeked under the bathroom door. Ricardo was peeing, which hopefully drowned out the sound when the floor creaked. She didn’t stop but kept to the edge of the staircase.

  Her heart pounded in her ears as she checked the downstairs area. Clear. She dashed to t
he door and turned the knob. It didn’t open. No, no, no! If all the doors were deadbolted—

  Kristie’s gaze landed on a bowl holding keys on the side table. Oh, my God. Thank you!

  She snatched up a set. In addition to the key fob for a car, the ring held two keys. The first fit in the deadbolt. Her lungs refused to release until she heard the satisfying click. She eased the door open. No squeaks. No alarm. Hallelujah! And parked on the gravel, just yards away, were two vehicles. Yes!

  She couldn’t make out the insignia on the key in the limited light. Rather than waste time, she went ahead and hit the unlock button since it was going to beep regardless.

  The taillights on the boxy, white SUV flashed. She raced to the driver’s side. She had the door halfway open when a bare foot kicked it, ripping the handle from her grip. The door slammed shut as a hand twisted into her hair, nearly yanking her off her feet.

  She flailed with both arms to stay upright. One of her boots flew from her hand and hit her captor in the face. Her elbow struck his abdomen. His arm wrapped around her, pinning hers to her body and restricting her reach. She kicked, trying to trip him up, but he flung her to the ground.

  Hugo. How the hell …? He kicked her square in the gut.

  Curling into a protective position, she waited for the next blow. Instead, he forced her onto her belly. With his knee in her back, he twisted her arms behind her and pried the keys from her hand.

  “I can’t kill you, but Baltazar won’t mind if I hurt you.” He dragged her face across the ground in his effort to get her upright.

  Stones cut into her cheek; dirt clung to her lips and invaded her mouth. “Go ahead. You’re going to kill me. Do it already.”

  “We still need you. And Baltazar would be disappointed if I deprived him the pleasure.”

  His words and menacing tone didn’t frighten her. She knew—without any doubt—they would kill her. That’s what made doing it herself a contingency she had to plan for. Her instincts screamed not to let him get her back inside. When she refused to walk on her own, Hugo cursed and wrenched her arm to maneuver her toward the house.

  Patience wasn’t exactly her strong suit, but her only shot at surviving came from not giving up and changing her strategy to get further the next time she escaped.

  Inside, Ricardo skidded to a stop. His eyes went wider than a scared jackrabbit at seeing Hugo lead her in. She didn’t catch the clipped words Hugo barked, but the meaning came through—loud and very clear. From the death glare Ricardo skewered her with, she’d moved to the top of his shit list.

  Ricardo trailed behind as Hugo marched her upstairs. After manhandling her into the chair, Hugo scanned the room. He picked up the snapped cuffs, then came over and grabbed her left wrist. His expression gave her the sense he was impressed, though that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Especially when he unfastened her paracord bracelet and slipped it into his pocket.

  Tension bounced off the walls as the two men exchanged words. Hugo stalked out of the room, but Ricardo stayed behind. He leaned over, making her gag on his rancid breath when he spat words in her face. She knew what his words meant, or at least close enough.

  Sorry, asshole. Part of my job. Survive. Evade. Resist. Escape.

  Her original guard, Pedro, shuffled into the room, apparently just awakened. Hugo appeared with zip ties and slapped them into Ricardo’s hand, who zealously secured her arms behind her back as Hugo instructed. He then wrapped ties around her legs and over the crossbar so that she couldn’t slip them from the legs again.

  Hugo smirked and motioned for Ricardo to follow him, then spun on his heel and left. Before Ricardo followed, he backhanded her across the face.

  Damn. She shook her head, pursing her lips and staring back in defiance. Bring it, asshole. Takes a real tough guy to smack a woman who’s tied up.

  She definitely made the naughty list because Pedro refused to speak to her. Outside, the fog began to burn off as the sun rose and lit the sky. Inside her, every idea she evaluated for escape sank into a dark abyss. Lack of sleep made it increasingly difficult to concentrate and come up with a workable plan to get out of the ties.

  If she’d put her boots on, she’d still have them. Too late for the woulda, coulda, shoulda. Hugo had left them where they’d fallen, and she doubted she’d see them again.

  A soft knock roused her from the shallow sleep she’d slipped into. When Pedro opened the door, a woman spoke. He accepted a plate loaded with food and a glass filled with a thick, pink drink.

  Kristie’s stomach rumbled when she smelled the sausage and eggs. Slices of brightly colored melon adorned the plate and made her mouth water despite the dehydration.

  Pedro eyed her while forking food into his mouth, enjoying the chance to taunt her. When he continued to make a show of eating, she closed her eyes and focused on what she’d learned from her escape attempt.

  Next time, she’d bet she wouldn’t find keys by the door. No. She needed a fresh idea.

  Maybe she could pry the bars off the window. How did the Black Widow get free when she was bound to a chair and interrogated? Kristie sure didn’t possess the same ninja-like superpowers.

  She had nothing. Nothing but dreams of Mack and his team storming the compound. Bullets flying. Bodies falling. Blood flowing. Some of those casualties would be her friends. With the number of men Pedro said Herrera was bringing in, the entire team could be wiped out. She would not let that happen.

  Turning off the tracker was the right thing to do. She’d do it again.

  Pedro had long since finished his breakfast, without sharing, when he jumped to his feet. Company must be coming.

  Hugo opened the door but allowed Herrera to enter first.

  He tsk-tsked. “I would be disappointed if you not try to escape.” He took in the cuts and dirt on her face. “How far she get?”

  Since Hugo answered in Spanish, he could have told Herrera anything.

  “You steal my car, then you go through gate and get away.” Herrera bent, putting his face near hers. “How do it feel to be so close?”

  She clamped her mouth shut, refusing to participate in his cat-and-mouse game.

  “People in Colombia do not dare take from me. You Americans need to learn.” He straightened and spoke to Pedro, who then scurried from the room.

  She wished they’d say things in Spanish she understood. Not knowing what they said made her imagine the worst.

  “Tell me who led your soldiers.”

  “Go to hell.”

  He stiffened. “I say prayers every night.”

  A laugh burst out. Oh, she’d pay for that, but seriously? He might ask for forgiveness, but clearly, he did not get the concept of repentance.

  Something about the cruel grin that spread across Herrera’s face when Pedro returned made her turn to look. He held a long-handled sledgehammer.

  “You will tell me.” Herrera accepted the tool from Pedro. “Now or later. But you will tell me.” He raised the heavy hammer.

  She closed her eyes when Hugo gripped the back of her chair to keep it steady. Every nerve ending burned in expectation of when the blow would come—and where.

  Herrera’s grunt signaled the incoming strike. Crushing pain shot from her left foot up her leg. Her agonized shout helped expel a fraction of the pain. But pain was good in that it meant her foot was still there.

  When she opened her eyes, she found Herrera’s arrogant face inches from her own.

  “The question is same. Tell me his name.”

  Pain and panic merged when he lifted the sledgehammer again. She couldn’t refrain from whimpering.

  The red circle on the top of her foot was swelling grotesquely. He’d probably broken bones, and it hurt like hell. If he crippled her, she couldn’t escape. How long could she hold out? What if he resorted to drugging her to get her to talk? She had to do something while she had some degree of lucidity.

  “Stop! I’ll tell you.”

  Herrera hesitated before the heavy end
thudded against the wooden floor. “So soon?” Suspicion narrowed his eyes.

  “They dragged me and m—” Her wince was from pain, but it stopped her before bringing up the rest of her crew that day. “Dragged me into this with a fake training mission. I didn’t ask for any of this.” That much was true—even though she didn’t blame them for doing so. “Pierce. His name is Ben Pierce. Major Ben Pierce.”

  Though no one called him Ben. Always Hawkeye or Benjamin Franklin Pierce. And Hawkeye deserved a promotion from captain with all his years on M*A*S*H. Hopefully, they weren’t fans of the show.

  Hugo wrote in a small notebook.

  “His telephone number,” Herrera demanded.

  Getting greedy now. First, it was a name, now the full 411. Pain, sleep deprivation, and refusing to capitulate were making her punchy. She’d better stay on top of her game despite the constant throb in her foot.

  “I don’t know it. It’s stored in my phone.” Which his dumbasses left at the house in North Carolina. Screwed yourselves there, didn’t ya?

  “Email will work,” Hugo said.

  “You’d have to let me sign into my account to get his personal one.” She rolled the dice. This could totally backfire, but she bet on them not trusting her.

  Hugo shook his head at Herrera, whose eyes narrowed and grip on the sledgehammer shifted.

  “You can try Ben dot Pierce at US dot Army dot m-i-l.”

  Hugo started scribbling, but she didn’t offer to repeat it.

  “Though he probably uses a middle initial. Whatever that is.”

  A threatening growl rumbled from one of them. Maybe both.

  “Where does he live?” Hugo pressed.

  She tried to come up with something on the adrenaline-infused fly. “After his divorce, I think he moved into an apartment off post.” Please let that big-assed lie help protect Stephanie and Alexis.

  “Where?” Hugo snarled.

  She gave the name of the biggest apartment complex she remembered looking at. “I don’t know the unit number.”

  “What type of vehicle he drive?”