by Elle Kennedy
Sullivan sagged forward, then found himself being hauled to his feet as the man knelt down and sliced the cable around his ankles. Blood flow rapidly returned, making his legs tingle. He didn’t give in to the urge to drop-kick anyone. There were six men on the boat, and in his loopy state, he wasn’t sure he could take them all without getting a bullet in his head.
Bloody hell, that sedative had knocked him out for longer than he was comfortable with. He had no idea where he was or who he was dealing with. An enemy of D’s, obviously. But who? Derek Pratt was a bloody enigma wrapped in a riddle. Sully knew nothing about D’s past except that he’d been Delta at one point.
But these men weren’t US military, and they definitely weren’t on American soil right now.
He squinted in the sunshine, tensing when he glimpsed an olive-green Jeep with the top down approaching the far end of the dock. Shit. He needed a game plan.
Rough hands dragged him to the starboard side, where his goateed abductor had already hopped off the boat. From the dock, Goatee Asshole reached down and grabbed Sullivan’s wrists.
“Off the boat,” he snapped in English.
Sully stepped off the vessel, experiencing a rush of vertigo when his feet met solid ground. He blinked through the dizziness and conducted a quick sweep of the marina. His heart sank when he finished his security assessment. Four guards with assault rifles in each of the three towers. Six more positioned on the outskirts of the harbor. Several more in the cargo area.
He was on fucking Alcatraz.
As his worry heightened, he glanced at his wrists and discovered they were bare. His watch was gone. He hadn’t been able to activate his tracking SOS at the hotel before the men had knocked him out, and clearly they’d stripped him of all electronics when he’d been unconscious.
A cloud of exhaust wafted toward him as the Jeep stopped at the end of the dock. Goatee Asshole promptly gripped his arm and barked, “Walk.”
The entire walk down the dock, Sullivan kept his eyes on the Jeep. The man sliding out of the driver’s seat was clearly a hired thug in a muscle shirt and fatigues, with a pistol aimed at the new arrivals.
The man leaving the passenger’s seat was the one in charge. His attire was casual—khakis and a white polo shirt—and his bronzed skin had the leathery look of too many years spent in the sun. His face was clean-shaven, but his bare arms were hairy as fuck, and he had a thick mass of it on his head, too. Despite his country-club appearance, he was very obviously the boss. Commanding stride, hard expression, air of power and entitlement.
Sullivan had never seen him before in his life.
The sweet scent of tobacco replaced the odor of car exhaust, drawing Sully to the fact that the man was smoking a cigar.
“You don’t say a word—you understand me?” Goatee Asshole hissed as the two men approached.
Sullivan rolled his eyes. He was gagged. How the fuck was he supposed to speak?
“Javier,” the man with the cigar boomed, his tone not at all receptive. Dark, menacing eyes studied Sullivan before narrowing at the goateed man.
“Mr. Mendez,” the other man—Javier—stammered. “Thank you for granting me an audience.”
The smooth operative Sullivan had encountered in the hotel bar had transformed into a stuttering, panicky mess. Which made no sense, because Javier was a pro. Former military, if Sullivan had to guess. Maybe a mercenary, definitely an independent contractor. And his team was equally skilled, as they’d proven back in Dublin.
So why were they all so terrified of a man who’d shown up to a meeting with one measly bodyguard? There were five armed men on the fishing boat and Javier himself was armed, yet not a single man drew his weapon. Not a single man moved.
“You said this visit is regarding the Pratt job?” Mendez sounded impatient.
“It is.” Javier gestured to Sullivan. “I found him.”
There was a beat of silence.
“All right. And who is this man?” Mendez, now looking annoyed, raised the cigar to his mouth and took a puff.
“Derek Pratt.”
The older man laughed, deep and hearty. “That’s not Derek Pratt.”
Javier blinked. Again and again. He looked at Sullivan, then Mendez, then Sullivan again, his gaze moving like a Ping-Pong ball between the two men. It would have even been comical if Sullivan weren’t seconds away from getting killed. Because whoever this Mendez was, he’d wanted D, not Sully. And now that Sully’s captors had brought Mendez the wrong man, Mendez would have no use for him.
Bloody hell.
“That was the name he was going by,” Javier blurted out, speaking so fast—and in Spanish—that it was difficult for Sully to keep up. “I’ve been tracking Pratt since you posted the bounty, and after months of dead ends, he finally turned up. A hotel room in Dublin was booked under his name.” He glowered at Sullivan. “This man used Pratt’s name in the bar. When I questioned him, he claimed to be Derek Pratt.”
Interest flashed in Mendez’s eyes. “Is that so?” He scrutinized Sullivan for a moment, then turned back to Javier. “What else did he tell you?”
“Nothing, sir. Just his name. We kept him sedated during the trip here, and he only regained consciousness ten minutes ago.”
“I see.” Mendez puffed on the cigar, blowing out a cloud of smoke before glancing at his thug. “The gag.”
Without warning, the thug stepped forward and ripped the duct tape off Sullivan’s mouth. As the warm air met his dry lips, Sully moistened them with his tongue, his gaze fixed on Mendez.
“Well, I know who you’re not,” Mendez said in English, a pleasant smile on his face. “So why don’t you tell me who you are?”
Sullivan didn’t answer. He’d been trained by the Australian Army, special ops. He wasn’t saying a goddamn word.
“I’m telling you, he was using the name Pratt,” Javier insisted.
“Jesus Christ, are you fucking deaf?” Mendez snapped. “This isn’t Pratt.”
“Well, then he knows Pratt! The hotel room in Pratt’s name—there were two occupants in it. And this man knew the room number. He charged a drink to it. He knows Pratt.”
Mendez frowned at Sullivan. “Who are you?”
He stared back and said nothing.
With a sigh, the man in charge addressed his thug. “Paulo, please give Javier his reward.”
As the bodyguard reached into his back pocket, Sullivan didn’t miss the flicker of horror that flashed in Javier’s eyes. When Paulo’s hand emerged with nothing more than a fat manila envelope, Javier released an audible breath of relief.
Before the guard could hand over the envelope, Mendez intercepted his hand. “Wait.” He reached inside and removed four stacks of crisp American bills.
Sullivan studied the amount stenciled on the bands wrapped around the money. Twenty-five thousand. Mendez had just relieved the envelope of a hundred grand.
Smiling, the man in charge held out the envelope.
“You said two hundred thousand,” Javier said petulantly.
“No, I said two hundred thousand to anyone who brings me Pratt, and one hundred for anyone who brings me information about Pratt. You did the latter.” Mendez eyed the man as if waiting for him to challenge that.
Javier visibly gulped. Then he nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Javier.” Mendez’s jaw tightened. “Time to go now.”
Sully’s former captor didn’t waste time. Didn’t even spare Sullivan a backward glance as he bounded down the long dock toward the fishing boat.
The moment Javier was out of sight, Mendez gave Sullivan a thorough once-over, taking in every detail. The olive green cargo pants, the white T-shirt streaked in dirt, the scuffed black boots.
“Who are you?” he asked again.
Sullivan didn’t answer.
“I see. You’re planning on being difficult.” Mendez smiled. “That’s all right. We have ways of dealing with that.”
The thug lumbered forward and curled a hand around Sullivan’s upper arm. “The workshop or the dungeon?” he asked his boss.
Mendez paused. He seemed to be deep in thought, and when he finally spoke, it was as if Sullivan wasn’t even there. “He’s a soldier. American, maybe European. Level of skill unknown. I don’t want to waste time in the workshop if he’s black ops.” His features hardened as he looked at Sullivan. “Here’s what’s going to happen, friend. Either you tell me who you are right now or my man will break each of your fingers, one by one.”
Sullivan stared straight ahead.
“Paulo,” Mendez commanded.
Smirking, the thug placed a hand on Sullivan’s bound wrists and pried his left pinkie about an inch from his fourth finger.
“Are you sure you don’t want to introduce yourself?” Paulo asked.
Sullivan realized the man was actually quite handsome. Tall and lean, with cropped dark hair and skin a lighter shade of brown than Mendez’s. The emptiness in his brown eyes, however, revealed him to be a stone-cold killer.
When Sullivan remained quiet, Paulo gave a sharp twist and broke Sully’s pinkie.
A jolt of pain traveled from his finger and up his arm, but Sullivan didn’t even flinch.
“Highly skilled,” Mendez said with a nod, as if confirming it to himself. Then he stepped forward and brought his cigar to Sullivan’s left arm. The glowing tip hovered right above the skin.
The same skin that had been hit with shrapnel from a bomb in Dublin a few days ago. The same arm that now boasted a neat row of horseshoe-shaped stitches, courtesy of Liam Macgregor.
Heat radiated against his biceps, and Sully drew a breath in preparation. Damn that bloody Derek Pratt to hell. Who the fuck were these people?
“Who are you?” Mendez voiced what Sully had been thinking about him.
He clenched his teeth, steeling himself against what was bound to be a very painful—
The scorching end of the cigar touched the center of the shrapnel wound.
Bloody hell. Red-hot pain shot through Sullivan’s arm, the stench of burnt flesh rising into his nostrils and bringing a gush of nausea to his throat.
On the surface, he stayed still. Calm.
His jaw ached from the tight clench of his teeth. His arm was on fire.
But he continued to stare straight ahead.
“The workshop will be wasted on him,” Mendez announced.
The man lifted the cigar, leaving behind a circle of oozing red flesh. Then he tossed the cigar into the water lapping against the dock and barked an order at his thug.
“Take him to the dungeon. We’ll get started on him tonight.”
Chapter 5
Present day
The moonlight guided his way through the rainforest. The silver beams slicing through the canopy of trees were faint, mere shadows even, but after months of darkness, it was like a spotlight blasting him in the face.
His pupils couldn’t handle it. His arms and legs weren’t working right, either. He was a big man—six three and more than two hundred pounds—but he felt like a gangly teenager as he stumbled forward.
One foot in front of the other. He could do this. He could.
Twigs and dirt and pebbles pricked the soles of his feet. He wasn’t wearing shoes. But at least he had pants. A shirt. It was a relief, because he’d been naked for most of his imprisonment. Especially when . . . when she came. She’d wanted him naked.
One of the guards had taken pity on him and dressed him last night because the temperature had dropped and the window in his cell didn’t protect him from the elements. No windowpane, just iron bars letting in the cold¸ making him shiver as the ocean breeze cooled his skin.
But that breeze was helping him now. His limbs might not be working at the moment, but his nose did. His nose smelled the salt. The ocean. He needed to find the water. It was the only fucking way off this hellhole.
One foot in front of the other—
Sullivan tripped over his own feet. He fell forward, landing in a tangle of undergrowth that scratched his bare arms. His brain became foggy again as he lay on the jungle floor. He knew he should be concentrating on something. The shore. The ocean . . . a boat. Right. Yes. Even if he made it to the water, he would need a boat.
There wouldn’t be one. He’d be stranded and they’d find him and they’d drag him back to the cell and give him more drugs and—
His breaths flew out in panicky pants. No, he couldn’t let them start the new cycle. The drugs were almost out of his system. He could feel them leaving his system. Yesterday had been bad. The day before that had been worse. He’d spent those days curled up on the floor of his cell, every muscle in his body screaming with agony. It was better now. Today was better.
His teeth chattered as shivers raced up and down his spine and goose bumps rose on his skin. Fuck, he had to stand up. If he didn’t get up, they would find him.
Breathing hard, he forced his knees to bend, his legs to straighten. He was on his feet again. Christ, when was the last time he’d eaten? Mendez’s people had made sure to feed him. To give him water. Just enough food, just enough water. So he wouldn’t die of starvation or dehydration. But he wasn’t able to eat during the withdrawal. He hadn’t eaten since the withdrawal.
The boat.
For the love of Christ, he needed to focus on the boat. Where was the marina?
No, not the marina. He couldn’t go there. The guards in the towers would see him.
Lord, he didn’t even know which side of the island he was on. He hadn’t stopped to orient himself when he’d escaped his cell. When he’d realized the guard’s mistake.
A fluke. Six months of hell, and his freedom was the result of a fluke. Screams from the neighboring cell had caused his guard to run out. There’d been shouts, a gunshot, then nothing but the whimpers of the girl in the other cell.
The key hadn’t turned in the lock.
Sullivan had heard that key turn hundreds of times these past six months, but tonight it hadn’t. His guard had forgotten to lock him up. He’d waited an hour. A whole hour, sitting there, waiting for the guard to realize his mistake.
But the door had stayed unlocked.
The details of his escape spun through his mind. Stepping into the hall. Getting blinded by the fluorescent light. The dead guard on the cement floor. There’d been too much to register, too much stimuli after months of darkness and silence.
The girl’s whimpers ran on a loop in his head, bringing another rush of sickness. He’d checked her cell. It had been locked, and he couldn’t break down a steel door. Hell, even if it had been made of straw he wouldn’t have had the strength to break it down. So he fled. He hadn’t tried to help her. He wouldn’t have been able to help her. He didn’t have a weapon. Strength. Nothing.
He’d fled.
But he would send help for her. He would.
The queasiness transformed into gut-wrenching nausea that brought him to his knees again. His eyes watered as he leaned forward and vomited all over the jungle floor. His stomach contracted. It hurt. Everything fucking hurt.
Keep walking. Southwest.
The voice ordered him to move. He’d heard it when he’d left the prison, but he wasn’t sure if it was his voice or someone else’s. But maybe it didn’t matter whose voice it was, because it rang with certainty. It told him to go southwest.
Minutes or hours later, he emerged from the trees, shoving palm fronds aside with his hands. He hissed when he glimpsed the ocean. A skinny wooden dock extended from the sand to the dark, calm water, four white motorboats moored on either side of it. The soldier in him said there were probably slips like these all over the island, escape routes for the monsters who lived here.
Another wave of shivers racked his body. His abdomen spasmed hard, but he breathed through the pain. Ordered himself to focus.
Then he stumbled toward the dock.
• • •
Wilmington, Delaware
“Is it d
one?” Pacing the gleaming parquet in his office, Edward Bryant absently brought his bourbon glass to his lips. The ice cubes clicked together as he took a sip, but he barely heard the sound they made. All his attention was focused on the phone sitting atop his mahogany desk.
An answering voice slid out of the speakerphone, offering the first piece of good news Bryant had heard in months.
“Affirmative, sir. He’s gone.”
“Good.” A frown puckered his brow. “You planted a tracker?”
“Negative. He would have found it. Even if I implanted it under the skin, the guy’s a pro. He would have taken it out with his own teeth if needed.”
Either Bryant was imagining it or that was genuine admiration in his operative’s voice. “But we’ve got eyes on him?”
“Affirmative. The team you dispatched already confirmed they have a visual. He won’t be able to make a single move without alerting them. I assume from this point on you’ll be dealing with them directly?”
“Yes. But I want you to continue checking in as scheduled. Alert me of any moves Mendez makes.”
“When will I be extracted?”
“When the prisoner leads us to Pratt,” Bryant snapped. “And no sooner.”
The line fell silent.
“That was the deal you agreed to,” he reminded the agent. “And that is the deal you’re getting.”
Bryant jammed his finger on the END button and drained the rest of his bourbon. Fucking operatives. It was like dealing with children sometimes. Send backup. Extract me. Hold my hand.
Boo-fucking-hoo.
When he’d founded Smith Group, he’d thought he was gathering the deadliest men on the globe. Qualified men, ruthless men. Men with grit and instincts. And most of them were, yes. But others . . . Freddie Jones, for example . . . Well, everything was peachy keen until you ordered them to do something that made their little tummies hurt, and suddenly they were goddamn crybabies.
Not Derek, though. Lord, that boy had been the best operative Bryant had ever employed. No matter the order, Derek had gotten the job done. Nothing was off-limits. Nothing was over the line.
And the ungrateful little shit had walked away from him.