by Elle Kennedy
“It is.” His heart twisted in his chest, but he forced a cool expression. “I have to go. I’ll let you know what happens.”
He took a few steps backward.
“Kane.”
The sad note in her voice stopped him. “Yeah?”
Abby met his eyes. She looked uncertain and scared as she cradled her hand protectively. For a moment he thought he glimpsed a genuine rush of emotion take over her beautiful face, but then she blinked, and he found himself looking at a very familiar expression. Cold. Distant.
Uncaring.
“Forget it,” she mumbled.
He released a resigned breath. “That’s what I thought.”
It felt like hours rather than minutes before eight o’clock finally rolled around. Isabel and her pretend husband had spent the time alternating between hushed discussions over the pervert portfolio, as she now referred to it, and making out, though neither of them received an iota of pleasure from the lip-lock. A man from the catering staff had brought in some hors d’oeuvres a few minutes ago, and Isabel had made a big production out of nibbling on the delicate cheese-stuffed pastry.
Now she reached for another one and took a bite. She chewed for a moment. Pretended to savor the pastry. And then her eyes widened, she gave a sudden grimace of disgust, and proceeded to pull a long black hair out of the food.
“This is horrifying!” she hissed at Trevor, who seemed to be fighting a smile. “And it can’t be sanitary.”
She pretended to stew about it for a few minutes, then flounced off the couch and marched to the door, knocking angrily.
Gerard appeared. “Yes, señora?”
She held up the strand of hair as if it were a deadly virus. “I found this in my food! What kind of catering staff has Señor Blanco hired! This is unacceptable.” She rambled on for a while, until Gerard’s dark eyes seemed to glaze over.
“I will speak to them,” he cut in, attempting to defuse the situation.
She shook her head. “No, I wish to speak to them. I would like to look into the face of the person who so carelessly prepared this food.”
“I’m afraid I have orders to make sure you—”
“I don’t give a damn about your orders,” she snapped, her gaze flicking over him like he was a piece of lint.
“Señora—”
“I was taken to the kitchen during the tour of the house. I will go there myself,” she said decisively.
His hand reached for her arm as she tried to march off. “Wait a moment. I will call someone to escort you.”
Looking annoyed, she pointed to the radio clipped onto his belt. “Just let them know I’m on my way to the kitchen. I can get there myself, thank you.”
He tried to protest again, but she silenced him by holding up the offending strand of hair. “This is not the way Paloma Dominguez-Martin should be treated.” She glanced through the doorway, shooting her “husband” a determined look. “You stay put, meu amor. I will take care of this.”
Trevor looked at the guard, giving him a what-can-you-do shrug. “Just be quick, sweetheart. Our bids have already been placed.”
Shrugging Gerard’s hand off her arm, Isabel pinched the black hair between her thumb and forefinger. “I will return after giving the catering staff a piece of my mind, señor.”
Leaving Gerard staring after her in helpless frustration, she sauntered down the hallway, her flats slapping angrily against the marble floor. She turned right at the corridor, encountering several more guards manning their posts. One reached for his gun, but she scowled at him. “I am going to the kitchen. Señor Blanco is aware of this.”
She practically flew down the hall, not daring to look back to see if any of the guards had chosen to come after her. She was extremely conscious of the cameras following her movements. She couldn’t see them, but she felt them. The back of her neck prickled with unease, but she forced herself to keep going. Nobody was behind her.
Her watch revealed it was eight twelve. Lucia would be making her move soon.
Isabel let the hair slide from her fingers, the pretense forgotten. It had been her own hair anyway.
She turned into another corridor, noticing the lack of shine on the floor. The servants’ quarters. Of course. Blanco wouldn’t care if the marble in this particular part of the house reflected his wealth.
The sound of frantic voices came from a room to the left. The kitchen. She lingered near the doorway, peeking in to see members of the catering staff, clad in starched black uniforms with white aprons, rushing around the enormous room, pouring wine into glasses and piling food on silver trays.
She had to cross the kitchen to get to the storage room.
Isabel took a breath. It was now or never.
Eight sixteen.
“Almost go time,” Morgan muttered, glancing at the three other men in the chopper.
Kane’s absence did not go unnoticed. He should have been here by now, damn it. Morgan wanted to hit something. No, he wanted to hit Kane for disappearing on them when they needed him.
The Boeing Chinook chopper was idling a mile from Blanco’s compound. This particular model was currently being used in Afghanistan and Iraq, and Morgan had no clue how his contact had managed to get his hands on one of these babies. But he was grateful for the coup. The machine’s speed and lift capacity were just what they needed to get thirteen girls out of Luis Blanco’s compound. Sam was at the helm, waiting for the green light to take off. D was absently running a hand over the rocket launcher by the door, his features hard.
Isabel would be making her move now.
And Kane still hadn’t arrived. Morgan prided himself on his tolerance—he didn’t play by the rules, same way the men he’d recruited didn’t. But he demanded two things of his men, two things that were deal-breakers—show up and back each other up. Later, he’d have to decide whether Kane’s actions were unforgivable. Whether the guy would still have a place on the team when this was all over.
In the seat across from him, Ethan muttered what sounded like a Hail Mary. Morgan tried not to snort. Right, because the rosary would get them through this mission. You could take the good Catholic boy out of the one-horse town, but old habits were hard to kick.
Eight seventeen.
The roar of an engine broke the silence.
“He made it,” Ethan blurted.
The weight pressing down on Morgan’s chest eased. Thank the fucking Lord. He heard footsteps, and a moment later Kane threw himself into the chopper, his face flushed, eyes glittering with satisfaction.
“Told you I’d make it,” he said, sounding breathless as he grabbed the rifle Luke held out for him.
“You cut it pretty close,” Morgan said mildly. “I was just practicing what I would say when I canned your ass.”
“I said I’d make it,” Kane repeated firmly. His face went tight with determination. “Two rules, remember? Show up and back each other up.”
“Ooh-rah,” Ethan murmured.
“What are you doing?” Valencia hissed as Lucia stared straight ahead at the clock mounted over the door. “Why do you keep looking at the clock?”
Lucia ignored her. Her entire body was tense with anticipation. And overwrought with terror. The black-haired woman with the kind eyes had been clear. If Lucia didn’t get rid of the guard, they couldn’t get rescued. She wouldn’t go home.
Her palms were soaked with sweat, tingling with fear. She wanted to tell Valencia about what had happened in that room, but she was afraid it might cause an outburst. What if everyone ran to the door before it was time?
Her gaze darted to the cupboard. Was there really a gun in there?
Her fear intensified. What if the woman had lied and this was a trap? What if she opened the cupboard and the door burst open and the guards shot her instead?
There are a lot of bad men in this house.
The woman’s scary warning buzzed in her brain. Yes, these men were bad. Tears stung her eyelids as she remembered the three other rooms
she’d had to visit. Silent, expressionless men, sitting there and looking at her. Appraising her like she was a piece of meat.
She had to believe the woman was telling the truth.
She had to.
The minute hand on the clock ticked by, landing on the sixteen-minute mark.
Lucia took a breath. “Valencia,” she whispered. “You need to knock on the door and tell the guard one of us is sick.”
The older girl’s eyes widened. “What?”
Lucia got to her feet, her legs shaking so badly she could barely walk. “We’re getting out of here,” she said as she went over to the kitchenette. She quickly opened the left cupboard. “Someone is helping us.”
“What? Who?” Valencia’s whisper was excited. “How do you— What is that?”
Relief rushed through her when she moved aside a stack of coffee filters and spotted the ominous black gun. It had a funny-looking pipe thing attached to the end of it, but she didn’t care. It was still a gun. The black-haired woman had spoken the truth. She was helping them!
“Get the guard, Valencia,” Lucia hissed. “Now.”
She picked up the gun, which was heavier than she had expected.
Valencia rushed to the door.
Lucia found the little button the woman told her about and clicked it off. Her hand shook wildly as she fit the gun into it. She turned around to find the other girls staring at her in wide-eyed wonder. As Valencia began pounding on the door, Lucia moved to stand behind the older girl, breathing hard.
“What is going on in here?” came an angry shout, and then the door swung open and the guard barreled into the room.
His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as Valencia quickly sidestepped him and shut the door behind him. Leaving Lucia in plain sight, the gun shaking in her hand.
Fury flashed in the guard’s eyes. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Where did you get that?”
Lucia could barely raise her arm, it shook so badly. Do it, she ordered herself. Her finger tightened over the trigger but for the life of her she couldn’t pull her finger back.
Do it. Do it. Do it.
The guard lunged at her.
She pulled the trigger.
Rather than the loud explosion she’d expected, the gunshot made a soft little pop! She stared down at the gun in dismay, then looked at the man, who’d fallen to the floor, landing on his back. She’d shot him in the chest. A red stain bloomed on the front of his blue uniform shirt. He was gasping, heaving loudly. She hadn’t killed him. He was still alive.
Lucia suddenly felt the gun being wrenched out of her hand. She looked over and saw Valencia pointing the weapon at the injured guard, her brown eyes hard and glittering like dark little diamonds.
“What…” The squeak died in Lucia’s throat as Valencia pulled the trigger two more times, two more pops. Right in the man’s head.
A shocked silence fell over the room.
The clock above the door ticked loudly.
Valencia’s voice was calm and even as she turned to Lucia and said, “Now what?”
Chapter 22
Isabel had never been happier to see anyone in her entire life. Her body shuddered with relief as Lucia Alvaro’s face appeared in the doorway of the storage room. Getting here from the kitchen had been a surprisingly easy feat for Isabel; the catering and kitchen staff had barely glanced in her direction as she walked past them. It was a trick she’d learned a long time ago—act like you belong and nobody will be the wiser. She’d received a couple of odd looks on the way, but to her utter shock, not a single person felt compelled to ask her what she was doing there or where she thought she was going.
In the storage room, she’d found the weapons Inez Alvaro had planted—God bless that woman’s soul. Isabel was now armed with two automatic weapons fitted with silencers, each one trained on the narrow doorway. She expected a battalion of guards at any moment. The bids had undoubtedly been placed by now, and soon Blanco would hand over the merchandise to the winners. When he discovered the girls weren’t where they should be… all hell would break loose.
“Inside. Hurry,” Isabel said in rushed Spanish, gesturing for Lucia and the others to pile in. “Close the door behind you.”
She found herself surrounded by thirteen young girls, each one shooting frantic questions at her.
“Quiet,” she commanded, and immediately they all fell silent. She looked at Lucia, whose brown face was swimming with terror. “Are you all right? Did you have any problems?”
She shook her head numbly. “Valencia—” She gestured to the tall, skinny girl beside her. “She made sure the guard was, um, dead.”
“Good.” Isabel swept her gaze over each girl, wincing at the sight of their matching white dresses, their delicate bare feet and petrified faces. “In about ten minutes, a helicopter will land right out there.” She pointed to the steel exit door on the other side of the room. “When I say the word, we’re all going to run toward it, okay?”
She received thirteen obedient nods. Not a single girl questioned her words. God, how desperate they were to get out of this. She couldn’t even imagine how they’d held it together, locked up in the bunker for more than a week. But they were strong. Pride swelled inside her. Yes, they were very strong.
Looking at her watch, she frowned, then glanced at the door. Trevor should be here by now. Where the hell was he?
Snapping Gerard’s neck took less than a second. Trevor wasn’t gentle as he lowered the guard’s lifeless body to the floor and took off down the hall. He was cutting it too close. He’d wanted to give Isabel enough time to make it to the storage room, and so he forced himself to stay seated and sip on champagne while the damn bids were being calculated. They’d bid on Lucia. For ten bucks.
Satisfaction tugged at his gut. He wished he could be there to see Blanco’s face when he removed that particular bid from the white envelope Trevor had shoved it in.
He felt naked without a gun. Damn. There were too many fucking hallways in this place. He turned a corner, then came to a sharp halt when he nearly slammed into a guard with an assault rifle.
Eyes widening in surprise, the tall man hesitated for only a second before pointing the weapon at Trevor. But that one second cost him. Trevor lunged, knocking both the guard and the rifle to the floor. The guard fought valiantly, landing a heavy punch on Trevor’s jaw. Shaking off the pain, Trevor elbowed the guy’s throat, waited for his eyes to glaze over, then wrapped his arms around the guard’s neck and twisted hard.
Dead. Trevor bounced onto his feet, grabbing the guard’s rifle as he did so, and turned around just as three more guards swarmed the corridor.
He unloaded three shots. Three kills.
Breathing hard, he continued down the hall. This was it. Chaos had broken out. Loud voices echoed through the corridors, hurried footsteps thudding against the marble floor. The cameras must have picked up his entire adventure of the past five minutes, which meant that any second now an entire fucking army would be in his face.
He picked off two more guards, keeping a fast pace as he moved toward the other side of the house. Turned another corner, and then he was being hurled in the air, dropping his rifle as he landed hard on the marble floor. A burly guard with feral eyes jumped on top of him, fat fists pounding Trevor’s face.
Deflecting a potentially fatal blow, he rolled out from under the stocky man and aimed a well-placed kick to the man’s groin. The guard barely grunted as he launched himself at Trevor again, but Trevor had already grabbed the rifle. He put a bullet between the man’s eyes, sending a spray of blood onto the wall behind the guard’s head.
Drawing in a ragged breath, Trevor tore down the hallway. This time when he skidded to a stop, it wasn’t because of another guard.
It was Luis Blanco.
Blanco’s eyes filled with fury as he saw Trevor. “You!” he shouted, raising his arm to reveal a shiny silver pistol in his hand. “You did this!”
Trevor kept his own weapon t
rained on Blanco. “It’s over,” he said flatly. “There’s nowhere to go, Blanco.”
Blanco’s dark gaze darted off to the right, toward a corridor Trevor recognized as leading to the servants’ area.
“Forget it,” he said. “My men will be landing as we speak. Any second now—”
A loud explosion rocked the house.
Several paintings slid off the walls and crashed to the floor. Panic flooded Blanco’s face. A faint sound of doors slamming and car engines roaring to life came from the front of the house. The bidders, fleeing like drowning rats.
“You will pay for this, you motherfucker!” Blanco was livid, practically shrieking. He lifted his pistol, screaming in Spanish as he pointed the gun at Trevor’s head, as his finger squeezed the trigger.
Trevor beat him to it.
He didn’t even react when half of Blanco’s face separated from his skull, blood spurting and spraying onto the cream-colored walls. The man’s rotund body teetered, then fell to the floor. Blood spread out in a large circle around Blanco’s head, a scene right out of a pretentious art-house movie as it stained the white marble floor.
Without lingering to give himself a solo high five, Trevor rushed off. The kitchen was crowded with people. Screaming, hysterical people trying to figure out why they’d just heard something explode. A woman from the catering staff screamed when she saw Trevor storm in with a gun. He ignored her and kept moving, reaching the storage room to find Isabel opening the exit door and shouting orders at a group of young girls of all shapes and sizes in identical white dresses.
“It’s about time,” Isabel said when he burst into the room.
He hurried toward her. It sounded like fucking World War Three outside that door. Rapid gunfire cracked in the air and the sound of helicopter rotors had the wind hissing out a rhythmic melody. Isabel got the door open, her expression calm and businesslike despite the gruesome sight revealed. Bodies littered the paved helipad, while Blanco’s men shot unsuccessfully at the sleek olive green Chinook chopper. Trevor squinted and saw D at the chopper door, sweeping a machine gun back and forth, riddling the oncoming attackers with bullets. Men screaming in pain dropped to the ground like bowling pins.