The SEAL's Promise
Page 14
"Anna's fine, but we have a problem."
"Oh no. What?"
McKay pulled the phone away from his ear. "Joseph, who's headed for Anna?"
"Barrett," his boss snapped.
McKay returned to his mother. "Look, you know Barrett, right? He's going to bring Anna to you. I need you to take her for a few days at your place."
"Can you tell—"
"I can't. Kiss her for me. Call you later." He ended the call and dropped to a chair, unaware he'd been pacing.
"The baby will be fine," Joseph said. "That girl of yours pulled off quite the stunt. Do you think you can pull yourself together? We've got some cartel thugs to find."
"I'm more ready than I've ever been." He was resolute. Joseph should know not to question McKay where his family was concerned. Then he realized he'd lumped Tessa into a small category of family.
"First things first," Joseph said. "We need to figure out where they've taken her. Talon, have you tracked down that helo yet?"
"Almost."
McKay spun to Joseph, remembering he had intel to offer. "She has a skin tracker on her. Long story short, she has a bio-tag on. We've got about eight more hours to get a signal from her."
"Kinky," his buddy called from the end of the room.
"Shut your face, Cason." McKay scowled at Talon. "Can you find that tracker?"
"Trying. Two minutes. Tops," Talon said.
Joseph turned to McKay. "Glad to see you're using the company resources so well."
McKay rolled his eyes. "I can't handle how slow this is going. Come on already."
Talon closed the security footage except for the live feed from McKay's darkened garage. McKay sat and watched the dark screen, transfixed. Talon went back to his keyboard, numbers and code streaming across the monitor in front of him. A flash on the screen and a GPS location began to read.
"They're stationary in Virginia. Not far from here. Satellite images coming in three, two, one…"
A small compound appeared on the flat screen. The chopper sat on a helipad. A decrepit mansion stood in rough shape, shutters hanging off windows, cracked beige paint peeling from the clapboard, and a half-boarded front door.
"What's that place?" McKay asked.
"Land records say it's the business address of Valencia Enterprises. Five pesos says it's a front for the Colombians, where they launder money. That place hasn't seen anyone in a long time."
"That's advantageous. Security will be next to nothing." Joseph nodded to a different screen.
Barrett entered McKay's garage. He paused, then moved straight to the Hummer, opened the door, and cocked his head to the side. McKay's phone rang, and he answered before the screen showed Barrett grabbing his phone to dial.
"There must be a five-second delay in the feed," Talon said.
"The kid's asleep," Barrett said. "I don't know how to get her out of her seat. She looks… very secure."
Relief flooded McKay, and when he found Tessa, he'd get on his hands and knees, thanking her until the end of days for protecting Anna.
After giving Barrett instructions to keep Anna in her car seat and to meet his mother, McKay readied for war.
Joseph cleared his throat. "Now that Anna's safe, it's time to kick some cartel butt."
CHAPTER TWENTY
The tactical room buzzed as Joseph barked orders to his men, readying to rendezvous at the target point. Never had an assault been more critical. McKay pulled his shirt over the Kevlar vest and tightened the vertical strap securing his leg holster.
Joseph's phone rang, and he snatched it off the table. "What?"
There was a pause. Something was wrong. Times like this, McKay wished stone-face Joseph had a tell. A sign of any kind.
"That's just great." Joseph slammed the phone down and pinched the bridge of his nose. That was a tell if there ever was one.
The room stilled. McKay stood with his teammates, each in varying stages of gearing up, and waited. If the tanker-sized knot in McKay's stomach were any indication, Joseph would have zip to say in the good-news department.
"Change of plans. We're in a holding pattern," Joseph said.
McKay strode over to him, barely containing the acid that churned in his gut. He shoved tight knuckled fists into his pockets — no need for two battling rams to go at it. Punching Joseph would accomplish headaches and busted ribs for both but not help his situation. "What do you mean we're holding?"
"They're on the move again."
"So we move toward them." That wasn't the smartest action, but it was action. And right now, McKay needed to expend energy. "We search and destroy."
"Every ship can be a minesweeper only once, you know that."
"Your point being?" he growled.
"This isn't your throwaway team, and you're not using your head, McKay."
He fumed. "We've got six, maybe seven more hours on that tracker."
"Roger that, and we've got solid intelligence on where they're relocating. Give Talon a few minutes to confirm. There's no way we can intercept them before they take off again—"
"Take off? Again?" McKay was furious.
"They're moving fast and southwest. Straight toward a private airstrip. I'd guess that they would like to transfer to a private jet."
McKay slammed his eyes shut, trying to calm down. "Come on, boss. If they go wheels up, she'll be in Colombia in six hours."
"Talon is pulling flight plans and Valencia real estate holdings. Both here and in South America. We'll narrow it down fast, find satellite feed, and see what's up."
"You're wasting too much time. We know they're headed to Colombia. Have Talon feed us a destination after we're in the air."
"Watch yourself, McKay." Joseph squared his shoulders.
McKay didn't care. "Do it. Make the call."
Joseph paced one turn of the room and muttered, then looked back at the men. No one moved. Not even McKay. Instead, McKay prayed for a quick call-to-action and for vengeance. He bargained with God, asking that his bullets meet their intended target, and offered everything.
Joseph stopped and motioned to McKay. "All right. We'll bring the fight to them. But we do it my way, understand?"
Thank you. His prayers might be answered.
###
Shaking, Tessa couldn't control her muscles, and she couldn't wipe away her tears. Her hands were bound, and she was terrified. Her abductors had left her on the floor. She rolled across the cargo plane like a ragdoll. Each burst of turbulence nauseated her, only worsening her fear. They'd been in the air for hours, but now, they descended. The engines roared. The flaps moaned, and the wheels extended. Destination reached, wherever that was. She wanted to vomit.
Tessa's teeth jarred at the hard landing, which nudged her across the dirty floor. She struggled to open her eyes under the blindfold. They taxied over bumps and jumps. Each drop smashed her bruised cheekbone onto the splintered floor, re-scratching her scabbed-over scratches. She tasted dirt and blood.
It was the second flight since they'd jammed a gun in her back at the rundown mansion. They hollered at her in Spanish, and she could only guess at their meaning. Move. Run. Sit. Stop. Her high school teacher always said she should study harder because it would come in handy. Nope. She'd been busy drowning her miseries in book after book, all in English.
The cargo plane halted abruptly as if the pilot forgot that a happy medium existed between go-fast and full-stop. Her chin hit a metal hook jutting from the floor, giving her an additional scratch to go with the other new ones. This ride was nothing if not an opportunity to scar up more of her body.
She couldn't see anything, but judging by what she had rolled over and into, cargo planes had a lot of bells and whistles in the tie-down department. They certainly didn't have chairs and seatbelts. The first leg of their journey had been on a cartel-owned business charter. At the time, Tessa didn't know what a luxury it would be to have a chair and seatbelt.
Tessa wallowed in misery. She thought she'd have a dat
e with Drake, but she knew better than to believe in happily ever after. The deck was stacked against her. She'd always known the truth.
Stop! Do not fall victim to your woe-is-me act. Tessa would survive if she could stay positive.
A loud noise ground. The back of the cargo plane open with a jarring sound and Tessa rolled toward the light that burned through her blindfold. Heat and humidity poured into the airless belly of the aircraft. Rough hands grabbed her. Tessa tried to keep up, but unable to see the ridges and snaps on the floor, she tripped more than walked.
The blindfold came off with all the finesse the pilot had taken with his landing. She blinked, desperate to acclimate to the sun's wicked glare. Her captors chatted, paying her no attention. They didn't hide their faces, or their weapons, or their complete disinterest in her survival.
She glanced right, then left, scared to move her head. Men patrolled the airstrip with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders and large handguns strapped to their hips. This could be a Hollywood movie set. But it looked real because it was real. No one noticed how out of place she was because no one cared.
A man gripped her arm until her fingertips tingled.
"Move. El Jefe has a place for you," he said in broken English.
His rancid breath hung close. He stank of stale sweat and cheap liquor. Another threat of vomiting loomed.
Disoriented, Tessa took in her surroundings. Lush vegetation on all sides. The rainforest. She had collected pennies to help save this stinking place when she was a kid.
In the distance, she saw white-capped mountain peaks. A wood shack with boards peeling back from the posts and white paint flaking off was dead ahead. More uniformed, armed guards flanked the broken front door.
They walked toward the shack. A cold shiver flooded her as though she'd walked through a ghost. Nothing good happened in that shack.
Several paces before they walked through the door, she was released and catapulted forward. Palms first, Tessa broke her fall in a scuffled cloud of dust. Pain vibrated from her hands to her neck and echoed back. Her teeth slammed together at impact, and, again, the taste of blood seeped into her mouth. She ran her tongue over a slice where her front teeth had cut her lip.
A boot landed firmly on her butt and pushed her into the windowless shack. The place was dark, and it reeked of death. The humidity did nothing to erase the dirt floating in the air. It caked the corners of her mouth and irritated her eyes. A metallic click. Chains rattled. She was safe and secure from the monsters. At least until they unlocked the door.
What would Drake do if he were here? Probably fashion a bazooka out of a bamboo shoot and blast his way home in time for dinner.
Pieces of Spanish and the smell of cigarettes filtered into the humid dungeon. Tessa tried to ignore that and concentrate on what anything positive. Drake would know she was in danger by now. He had to know, and he would come with guns blasting. White knight, round four. This is what he does for a living. He saves people. Extraction. Explosions. Extravaganzas.
He'd come.
Please come.
Outside her shack, armed men jeered. Insects crawled on her skin. Hungry animals of all sorts lurked nearby. She could hear them but didn't know what posed a graver danger—drunk men with a severe lack of morals, or the all the howling, growling wildlife that the rainforest had to offer.
Drunk heckles sloshed into nasal laden snores.
The night warmed to dawn. Mosquito bites pocked her skin. Her sweatpants and Drake's shirt clung to her sweat-soaked body. Her knotted hair stuck to her neck and face. She hadn't slept a hot second.
Time passed slowly until heavy footsteps crunched near her door. Keys jingled. Tessa scampered into a corner, finding it hard with her shoulder. She shook. Terrified, she crouched, awaiting her future.
A stubby man with an evil scar across his face grabbed her and bound her wrists. Then he pulled her upright and dragged her in tow.
Tessa tried to memorize her surroundings. How many of them were there? Too many to remember, but this one, Señor Scar Face, would be hard to forget.
With silent pleas, Tessa begged for help. For escape. For Drake. Where is he?
Señor Scar Face released her, and she crashed to the ground. She swallowed twice against her parched throat and looked up. A handsome man stood a mile high in front of her, and her terror morphed into anger. He oozed self-important power. His white silk shirt and pressed linen pants looked obscene, given where she'd spent the night. He was clean-shaven with perfectly gelled hair. Not so much as a wisp was out of place. He smelled exotic and spicy. El Jefe.
His evil smile curled, and Tessa's words fled. It didn't matter. He didn't appear interested in a conversation. Tessa stood, as if for a presentation, and waited.
"Ah, Miss Tessa Thompson. Thank you for joining us here in beautiful Colombia." He motioned to Señor Scar Face. The painful bindings on her wrists were removed with a quick slice of a knife. "I apologize for the measures my men took to ensure your safe arrival. But it was for the best. Are you hungry? Can I get you anything?"
What the…what?
Yeah, a private plane back to the States. With a chair.
His English was perfect with the flair of an elegant accent. There was no way to describe him other than impeccable. He appeared, sounded, and smelled expensive, and was striking in clean clothes. Cartel dictators shouldn't be perfect and polished.
"Who are you? What do you want with me?" She knew who he was, but she wanted to sound fierce and menacing and channel her anger into something that would shock him as much as he'd surprised her.
"Miss Thompson, I have been pleasant and welcoming. Your attitude will not help you." He pursed his lips, and his tanned face crinkled in entertainment at her expense. "I think we should start over. A new start between newer friends, Miss Thompson. Now, welcome to my paradise. Please join me for lunch."
He moved away from her, and Señor Scar Face gave her a hard push to follow. They walked toward a shaded cabana. Billowing swaths of fabric danced in the heavy air as they hung to a pergola and flowered trellis. A wooden table and chairs draped in a brilliant tablecloth were protected by armed men.
Armed guards flanked El Jefe. The back of their heads rotated side to side in search of an imminent threat. His name is Drake McKay, and those goons have got nothing on him. El Jefe paused with ridiculous grace and motioned for her to join him in a manner befitting a cotillion teacher.
An older woman filled both their glasses with ice water. In an instant, the tall glasses began to sweat. Tessa was dying for a tall drink of anything cold and wet, but she didn't dare go for the glass.
"My name is Mateo Valencia. I understand that you interfered with my business in your country. Is that correct?" His accent made the sinister accusation sound elegant.
Tessa shook her head. Tendrils of uncombed hair stuck to her sweaty forehead and cheek, and she made no move to push them back into place.
"My dear, please do not lie to me. Would you like fruit salad? I am sure you have not snacked during your visit." He snapped manicured fingers.
No, she hadn't snacked. Thanks a lot, buddy.
The older woman placed a crystal bowl of fresh fruit on their plates.
"The food and water are fine. You will not get sick from what I offer, and, truthfully, I will be insulted if you do not join me. I believe we also have a delicious plate of sandwiches for lunch." He took a bite of pineapple. "Simply delicious. Please, go ahead and start."
She analyzed his behavior, his gestures. The delusion and extravagance he offered in this meal were narcissistic and self-absorbed. That didn't bode well for her chances. Tessa picked up her heavy silver fork and speared a piece of green melon. Mateo watched as she took a cautious bite and swallowed.
"Excellent, my dear. Now, please drink up. You are in the Colombian jungle. The heat and humidity will kill you if you do not stay hydrated."
Would dehydration kill her? Not likely with this man hanging around.
"Thank you, Mr. Valencia." She had no idea what else to say at this point. Maybe her manners upped the odds of survival.
"But, of course," he offered.
She noted how he played up his accent when he pretended to care. Interesting. Tessa tried to look grateful. "I appreciate the advice."
Mateo's lips quirked with an understated smile, and he tilted his head. "No thanks are needed, and I appreciate your civility."
She forced a small smile.
"Honestly, I was unsure as to how an American woman would behave under these circumstances. And after our first exchange, your attitude worries me."
Tessa nodded, again unsure how to respond, scared she'd say the wrong thing, and die before Drake showed up wielding that knife he strapped to his leg. Drake would make sure El Jefe's groomed hair went unkempt, and those clean clothes were sullied. She focused on that daydream.
"Miss Thompson, tell me why you stole my files."
His pleasant smile and placating conversation evaporated. The veins in his neck popped.
The fork shook in her hand, and she accidentally clanged it against the crystal bowl.
"I don't know what you mean." No way would she fall into his trap with such ease.
"Let me see if I can refresh your memory, my dear. My men followed that cipher to America—where that soldier stashed it. Very clever of the young man, telling his trusted therapist. But here is where my annoyance grows. You took it. You and your counterpart."
"I didn't. He's not--"
El Jefe held up a hand. "Now, I did not send my best men to retrieve it. That was my mistake. But they were not amateurs. Somehow, you evaded them with the help of your partner. You are here, and that man will come here to barter some deal for your life."
He knew a lot more than she thought he did. It was time for Tessa to come up with a backup plan. She shook her head. "Mr. Valencia, if you know what the cipher has on it, then you know he won't trade me for it. I'm collateral damage. He isn't going to come. His job was to secure it. I'm sure by now, it's secure." Oh, please don't let that be true. Let Drake come as soon as possible.