Strike Fast

by Kaylea Cross

  Whatever it was, he needed to know. He aimed a hard look at his commander. Fuck this, he wasn’t going to be kept in the dark if they knew something, and didn’t want them withholding intel in an effort to spare him.

  His heart clattered against his ribs as he waited for a response.

  Taggart’s gaze cut to DeLuca, then focused back on Reid. “I don’t want to get your hopes up in case we’re wrong.”

  The pressure around his ribs eased slightly. “Just tell me. I’m dying here.”

  “We think she’s still alive.”

  All the air rushed out of his lungs and he slumped forward. Easton grabbed him around the ribs, as though afraid Reid would keel over.

  Over the rush of blood in his ears Reid was aware of the stark, brittle silence in the room, of all the eyes on him as everyone stared. “How do you know?” he forced out, his throat tight.

  “The tip we just got says she is,” DeLuca said. “Seems like a credible source. We’re trying to find out who sent it, but whoever it was, they’re an insider.”

  “What else did the source say?” He wanted proof. A location.

  “No location for your daughter, but the person said they’d be in touch with more details soon, including proof of life.”

  The backs of his eyes burned and he had to blink a couple times as he dragged in a ragged breath. His baby was still alive and he was going to find her. Bring her home.

  Then DeLuca’s eyes shifted to Taggart.

  “And?” Reid prompted. There was something more they weren’t telling him.

  Taggart’s pale turquoise gaze was steady on his. “We don’t know whether it’s authentic or not, but if it is… Someone in the Veneno cartel just offered up Ruiz to a contact of ours on a silver platter.”

  Reid frowned. That made no sense. Except that the cartel world was as fucked up and cutthroat as they came, so he was just glad for the tip. “What are you planning to do?”

  “If we do this, we’ve got five hours at most. Not enough time to get us all down there and stage a full-scale op. So we’d have to go with a plan B that involves a single agent and a…” He glanced at the Colebrooks before continuing. “Certain source we’re thinking of bringing in. For an off-the-books stab at Ruiz,” DeLuca said.

  “A private contractor?” Reid asked.

  “More like a consultant,” DeLuca said, sharing another loaded look with the Colebrook brothers. Reid glanced at his teammate, Easton, who didn’t say anything. What the hell? Why weren’t they letting him in on the details?

  Impatience pulsed through him. “Whatever it is, whoever it is, I want in.” They needed an agent; he was it. And he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Taggart folded his arms across his chest and stared at him. “You sure about that? You don’t even know what we’re thinking about yet.”

  “Hundred percent.” If it meant getting his daughter back, he’d do fucking anything. Including giving his own life.

  His commander nodded once, not seeming the least bit surprised, then turned to DeLuca, the hint of a grim smile Reid recognized all too well on his face. It meant serious shit was about to go down. The kind that resulted in captured or dead tangos.

  And a recovered little girl.

  “And there’s your answer, DeLuca,” Taggart said. “Make the call.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Carlos undid the top button of his shirt as the hired car sped toward the private airstrip outside Orlando. The sun was low in the sky. In another hour it would sink below the horizon. He’d made good time getting down here, but he wasn’t in the clear yet.

  Even in the comfortable, air-conditioned interior, he was sweating, the humidity like a blanket of moisture on his skin. A cartel plane was waiting for him at the airstrip, the crew already aboard and ready to take off for Mexico the moment he boarded.

  Not that he was happy about having to run back there with his tail between his legs, about to be hauled up on the carpet by his master like a fucking dog that had shit on the kitchen floor. That was mostly the cause of his inability to stop sweating.

  El Escorpion had taken the unusual step of calling him to a face-to-face meeting at the leader’s compound near the Mexican Riviera. Powerful and feared as Carlos was within the cartel world, even he didn’t have the balls to disregard that summons.

  Either the meeting was because of today’s raid at the North Carolina compound, that bitch Victoria Gomez, or the little girl. Fucking women, they were nothing but trouble. At least he’d been able to offload the girl, giving him one less problem to worry about.

  The driver turned onto the access road and the runway came into view as they cleared the trees. A sleek Learjet waited on the tarmac. Carlos’s men were there standing by, their weapons concealed as they maintained security for him. Others would be hidden out of sight to keep watch and alert him to any potential threats.

  Carlos didn’t anticipate any. He’d kept a low profile during his stay in the States, and was glad he’d listened to his gut and not gone to see the little girl or inspect the new shipment of women in North Carolina.

  Unfortunately, his men hadn’t ended up killing any DEA or other federal agents during the assault today. But his point had been made.

  He could get to them and the people they cared about whenever he chose. One more reason people would be too scared to cross him.

  Now it was time to cut his losses, be smart, and retreat back to the safety of his home country where he could hide out of sight and gain protection from the locals. He’d have to kiss ass during the meeting with El Escorpion, but he would survive it.

  When the car stopped, Antonio hopped out of the front and came around to open Carlos’s door, one hand on the butt of the pistol holstered on his thigh, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. “Everything’s clear,” he said to Carlos, scanning the area.

  Carlos slid on his own shades before grabbing his small suitcase and stepping out onto the tarmac. A stiff breeze swept across the airstrip, tugging at his linen suit and bringing a blessed measure of relief from the humidity he hated so much. He didn’t know how people stood living in the South during spring and summer.

  Without a word, he headed for the plane, Antonio following him. Two more of his men stood guard at the bottom of the stairs leading into the cabin. They nodded at him. “Everything’s ready. Have a good flight, boss,” one of them said.

  Carlos ignored them and climbed into the spacious cabin, already feeling more relaxed. He was under the protection of the cartel now. The interior was the most luxurious money could buy, with plush, top-grain leather seats and polished oak trim.

  Tossing his bag onto the aisle seat, he sank into the one next to the window with a satisfied sigh. As always, a crystal decanter and tumbler sat ready for him. He poured himself three fingers of whiskey and settled back into the seat as Antonio closed the cabin door and secured it.

  Even with all his usual security measures in place, he kept an eye on what was happening outside his window as the pilots turned the aircraft and taxied to the end of the runway. His men all stood near the hangar doors now, and there were no other people or vehicles around.

  The aircraft paused at the end of the runway for a moment, then the engines powered up. As they sped down the strip of asphalt, Carlos allowed his guard to drop completely. Leaning his head back against the plush leather seat, he sipped at his drink and allowed his mind to go blank. God, he needed some downtime.

  A subtle upward tilt of the nose, and they were airborne. Seconds later the landing gear tucked away, and they soared skyward, leaving Florida below them. He let his mind drift, only partially aware of the banking turns of the aircraft. Soon they’d be over the Gulf and headed toward Mexico.

  Before he landed, he needed to come up with what he would say to El Escorpion about recent events.

  He was still going over some possible excuses and defenses he’d come up with earlier when he became conscious of the wide, circling turn the aircraft was making. Opening
his eyes, he looked out the window. They were nearly at cruising altitude now, the tufts of clouds beneath them like pillows of cotton candy.

  Except the water was on the wrong side of the aircraft. And they were flying away from it rather than toward it.

  What the hell?

  Snapping his head around, Carlos looked between the seats. Antonio was sprawled out against the window, legs stretched out across the seats, arms folded across his chest and the brim of a ball cap pulled low over his eyes as he slept. “Antonio.”

  At the abrupt tone, his head enforcer’s head snapped up and he shoved the hat off. “What?” he asked, startled.

  “We’re flying in the wrong goddamn direction. Go to the cockpit and find out what the hell’s going on.”

  Face blank with surprise, Antonio shot out of his seat and hurried up the aisle while Carlos glared at his back. This was all he fucking needed, another goddamn headache. If he showed up late to the meeting, it would look like a deliberate show of disrespect. And people who disrespected El Escorpion tended to disappear without a trace.

  Forever. Unless body parts started turning up in various waterways.

  Antonio shut the cockpit door behind him. Carlos kept sipping at his drink, willing the mellow burn of the alcohol to quell the nerves in the pit of his stomach.

  A loud thud sounded from the cockpit.

  Carlos froze, his drink inches from his lips, eyes darting to the closed door at the end of the aisle.

  Another thud, this one even louder.

  Without looking away from that door he set the drink down, dread curling inside him, his heart rate accelerating. His muscles drew taut and he set his hands on the edge of the seat, ready to shove to his feet.

  The cockpit door flew open.

  Carlos jerked in surprise when a dark-haired man strode out, aiming a Glock dead center at Carlos’s chest. Recognition splintered through him.

  Special Agent Reid Prentiss.

  The FAST agent stalked toward Carlos with measured strides, his expression so deadly it sent a chill racing up Carlos’s spine. “Where’s my daughter, asshole?”

  REID STRUGGLED TO keep his rage in check as he aimed the pistol at Ruiz’s center mass. From the moment he’d seen the bastard step out of that rented car earlier, he’d wanted to smash the fucker’s face in.

  Ruiz shot to his feet, expression set.

  “Where is she?” Reid bellowed, stopping a stride away, the barrel of his weapon level with Ruiz’s chest.

  “Where are you taking me?” Ruiz said, not even bothering to ask about Antonio. His chief enforcer was either dead or incapacitated, of no help whatsoever to Carlos.

  Reid had never wanted to put a bullet in someone so badly. “D.C., asshole. Where a team of federal agents is waiting to lock you up in the darkest hole they can find.” Savage satisfaction ripped through him at the flash of fear in Ruiz’s eyes. Every Mexican cartel member’s worst nightmare was being extradited to the U.S. to face trial and imprisonment where the officials, judges and guards couldn’t be paid off. No way out.

  But rather than spill his guts, the bastard put on an oily smile Reid itched to wipe off his face. “My team of lawyers will have me out within a week. You’ve got no evidence against me.”

  No evidence?

  Reid lunged forward and drove his fist into the fucker’s smug face. Bone crunched. Pain flashed through Reid’s hand as Ruiz’s head snapped back and he yelled, both hands flying to his busted nose.

  Blood trickling out from beneath his hands, he glared up at Reid with utter loathing through watering eyes. “You’ll fucking pay for that, cabrón.”

  Reid grabbed the front of Ruiz’s shirt and yanked, twisting the fabric so it dug into the bastard’s throat. “Where is she?” he bellowed, on the verge of out of control, lungs heaving, hands shaking. He would kill Ruiz if Autumn was dead. Kill him right here and now even if it meant rotting in jail the rest of his life. If she was gone he was dead anyway. At least killing Ruiz would avenge his little girl and give him a tiny amount of peace.

  “Go fuck yourself,” Ruiz snarled, lips peeled back over bloodstained teeth.

  Reid’s finger twitched on the trigger guard as they stared each other down in the tense silence, both of them breathing hard.

  He almost pulled it. He wanted to pull it. Wanted it so bad he shook. But until he knew what had happened to Autumn, he couldn’t kill Ruiz.

  With effort, he pushed his rage down deep and shoved Ruiz. Ruiz slammed back against the seat with a grunt and quickly scrambled to face Reid, giving him a lethal glare.

  “Maybe you’d rather talk to my associate instead.” Instead of shooting him, Reid pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

  Keeping his eyes on Ruiz, he pressed send on a text he’d had ready long before Ruiz’s bodyguard had entered the cockpit—where he now lay trussed up like a Christmas turkey and tied to the copilot’s seat, missing a few teeth and one eye swelling shut.

  “What? Who are you calling?” Ruiz sneered up at him, the lower half of his face and the top of his shirt covered in blood.

  Reid didn’t answer, just stood there facing him down with the Glock aimed at his chest.

  Moments later the cockpit door opened. Ruiz’s eyes shot to it, his face tense.

  Reid’s pulse beat faster as the booted footsteps thudded lightly on the carpet behind him. He watched Ruiz’s face carefully, searching for signs of recognition—and terror. Anticipating the exact moment when he realized how truly fucked he was.

  Triumph roared through his veins when Ruiz sucked in a breath and paled, his eyes growing wide. The blood drained from the fucker’s face as he stared at the big, scary son of a bitch coming up behind Reid.

  Ruiz’s throat bobbed, a confused frown tugging at his eyebrows. “But you…you’re supposed to be…”

  “Dead? Yeah.” The dark-haired ghost set his hands on the backs of the seats, caging Ruiz in as he leaned closer. “Boo.”

  CARLOS WAS FROZEN solid, unable to take his eyes off the dark-haired, dark-eyed man towering over him. It couldn’t be, but…

  The ghost shot Prentiss a sideways glance. “He not talking?”

  Prentiss’s dark blue eyes bored a hole straight through Carlos. “Nope.”

  Before Carlos knew what was happening, the second man raised his hand. Light flashed on the silver switchblade as the blade sprang free, a heartbeat before that lethally sharp blade came at him.

  Carlos sucked in a breath and cowered away, but at the last moment the blade changed course. His lungs compressed as instead of carving into his skin, the blade sliced into the back of the leather seat in front of him and withdrew.

  He stared at the oval shape slashed into the leather, and the irrefutable proof of who he was dealing with made the blood congeal in his veins.

  El Santo.

  Helpless to stop himself, he lifted his eyes to meet the bone-chilling gaze of Miguel Bautista. The deadliest and scariest motherfucking enforcer in the entire cartel world. Everyone had thought he’d died in a shootout with the FBI a couple years ago.

  “You need to tell him where his daughter is,” Bautista said, his quiet tone and the utter lack of emotion in his eyes making Carlos’s bowels cramp. The stories of what El Santo had done to his victims with his blades were legendary. It was said they broke long before Bautista killed them, unable to stand the pain and terror of being expertly filleted while still alive.

  Carlos’s gaze darted away from that terrifying stare to the deadly blade in the man’s hand and back again. But terrified as he was, part of him wondered whether it would be better to die here and now than to rot in a maximum security American prison until he took his last breath.

  Gathering the last of his courage, he raised his chin. “Fuck you all.”

  He tensed, bracing for the moment that blade began carving him up, prepared to fight for as long as his strength lasted.

  Instead, he jerked in surprise when the blade retracted into its sheath. To Bautista’s ri
ght, Prentiss holstered his weapon and reached up to undo one of the overhead bins. Carlos’s eyes pingponged back and forth between the two men, confusion clouding his brain as Prentiss pulled something out.

  Two parachutes.

  “You’ve got three minutes to tell me everything I want to know,” Prentiss said in a clipped voice as he and Bautista began putting on the harnesses. “Then we’re turning this plane hard to the right and ditching it into the Atlantic after we bail out. Your choice, jail or death.”

  Carlos started to laugh at the absurdity of it, but the utter conviction on both their faces made it die in his suddenly bone-dry throat. He had no fucking idea how to fly this thing. And though he was pretty sure he could get out of whatever charges they had waiting to lay against him in the States due to lack of evidence, he didn’t want to die. But he would if they jumped, because he would plunge into the water with the jet and be torn apart.

  Bile rushed into his throat, hot and acidic.

  Both men had the parachutes on. Prentiss set his hands on his hips and raised a taunting brow at Carlos. “Well? You’re down to less than ninety seconds.”

  They were bluffing. No one was crazy enough to bail out of a jet without oxygen at this altitude.

  As if hearing his thoughts, Bautista reached into another overhead compartment and withdrew two oxygen tanks with masks. Holding Carlos’s gaze, laughter lurking in his dark eyes, he handed one to Prentiss. “Seventy seconds.”

  Prentiss already had the mask in place. Carlos stared at them, heart thundering beneath his ribs, mind whirling frantically. He was trapped, forced to choose between jail and a terrifying death.

  When he didn’t say anything, Prentiss spun around and stalked up the aisle, Bautista following him.

  Carlos automatically half-rose out of his seat, unable to believe they would actually do it. But Bautista disappeared into the cockpit as Prentiss reached the door in the side of the aircraft.