Damian (The Caine Brothers #3)

by Margaret Madigan

  She used her anger at her father for endangering his family, redirecting and focusing it on the task ahead. Her sundress didn’t afford much in the way of hiding places for a knife, so she tore a piece of sheet and tied it around her thigh. She’d tuck the knife in there. Otherwise, her only preparation was mental.

  A knock at the door signaled game on. One of her guards opened it and gestured for her to follow. “Cena, señorita.”

  She forced herself to appear subdued. She slumped her shoulders, hung her head, and shuffled downstairs between the two guards. While she did, she assessed their personal arsenals. Each carried an AK-47, but they also wore holstered handguns and tactical knives.

  In the dining room, Ramos and his lieutenant, Romero Camacho, stood when she entered. The irony of their gentlemanly manners almost made her snort. They lived by a twisted code which, when she thought about it, probably wasn’t so different from a lot of warrior cultures throughout history. That didn’t make it right, and she refused to play the part they expected of her. She was no sacrificial lamb.

  Once she’d taken her seat, they resumed theirs, and the guards went to stand by the door. Presumably they’d eat later and somewhere else.

  “I’ve had my chef prepare a special meal for you,” Ramos said.

  Lucky me.

  “I’m not very hungry,” she said, even though she was.

  The chef backed into the dining room, pushing the door open behind him, and turned to reveal two plates heaping with food. He placed one in front of Elena, and one in front of Ramos, then hurried back to the kitchen and returned with a plate for Camacho.

  “This is called bandeja paisa,” Ramos said. “It will fill your belly and make you happy.”

  And then you’ll kill me. No thanks.

  Elena clamped down on the sarcastic retort that bubbled up in her mind. Instead, she said, “How do I know it’s not poisoned?”

  “You have my word.”

  Oddly, she trusted him. So far from everything she’d learned, he always kept his word. It may be twisted and brutal, but when he promised something, he did it.

  The plate in front of her was a mixed pile of chorizo, steak, friend pork rind, beans, rice, a fried egg, a slice of avocado, and banana chips. She’d never be able to eat it all, but she was glad for the protein and carbs, and most of all, she was glad for the sharp knife on the napkin next to her plate.

  She tucked into the meal, which was as delicious and satisfying as he’d promised. They ate in silence for a while before she finally asked, “Will you be leaving soon to meet my father?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded and scooped some beans and rice onto her fork. When she didn’t respond, Ramos and Camacho started a discussion—in Spanish—of an upcoming meeting of what she assumed was middle management of his organization. They talked about production and distribution and planning for how to improve the operation overall. While they talked, they ignored her so she took the opportunity to place her napkin over top of the knife, then after a couple of minutes she casually scooped the napkin and knife into her lap. From there it was easy to tuck it into the makeshift garter on her thigh.

  For another half hour or so she pushed food around her plate, tried to appear defeated, and listened. Finally, she used the napkin to wipe her mouth, then dropped it on the plate and stood, signaling her intent to leave.

  The men stopped mid-sentence and looked up at her.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to my room.”

  Camacho went back to his plate, and Ramos nodded, making a shooing gesture to dismiss her.

  She headed for the stairs and her two guards followed.

  Hours later she jolted awake from a nap to the rumble and whine of a small aircraft engine landing at the airstrip. Her gut clenched at the sound. It had to be Ramos’ plane coming to pick him up and take him to meet with her father. If she had any hope of using him in her escape, she’d have to move now.

  She rolled off the bed and padded to the dresser where she pulled out her sweatpants and tank, along with a dark gray button down shirt, and went about changing. It was easier to move in sweats than in a dress. She debated the shoes. With only one pair to choose from—leather sandals—she waffled between the quiet stealth of bare feet versus not knowing where the night would go and the possible need to protect her feet if she had to escape outdoors. Shoes won out.

  Once she’d slipped her feet into the sandals, she did a perimeter check from her windows. The weak light of a crescent moon made it difficult to make out the number of guards on patrol. For all she knew, a small army swarmed in and out of the jungle.

  She took a deep breath to steady her thumping heart. If she survived the night, it would be a fucking miracle, but all she needed to do was subdue the guards inside and get to Ramos. After that, she had something to bargain with.

  Hopefully.

  She pulled her hair up and secured it in a knot on her head, then rolled her neck and shook out her arms, heaving in and out a couple of breaths like a weightlifter about to do a deadlift.

  “You’ve got this, Mitchell,” she whispered.

  Gripping the handle of the steak knife tight in her left hand, she considered how critical the next few moments would be. She’d run the plan through her mind over and over before napping, like counting sheep. Now was the time to change her mind, but she really had no choice. It was either this or let Ramos kill her, and she wouldn’t go without a fight.

  Damian’s face came to mind, and she took a moment to savor that memory. She only wished she had more time with him, to get to know him.

  “If you survive this thing, you can find him and screw his brains out,” she said. “Now, focus.”

  She pushed Damian out of her mind and headed for the door. Resting her hand on the door knob, she closed her eyes and centered herself, calming her roaring heart. She had one chance to get this right, and it all depended on speed and surprise.

  She yanked the door with her right hand and rushed the guard standing to the left, stabbing the steak knife square into his neck, then ducking and reaching for the tactical knife strapped to the right-side guard’s thigh. She’d been fast enough that the guard on the right didn’t even have time to react to the door opening, and it wasn’t until the guard on the left slumped to the floor with a muted thump that he finally turned all the way around. In the span of less than a second he saw her—and his comrade in a bloody heap—and his face went from open-mouthed surprise, to angry frown. Before he could haul his weapon up and point it, Elena thrust his own knife into his chest under his ribs and up into his heart. It took a lot of strength, but adrenaline fueled the effort.

  “Sorry,” she whispered as he crumpled to the floor.

  She took a deep breath. Step one, done.

  Squatting on her haunches, she rummaged the corpses, collecting handguns from both of the men, along with extra clips and the other knife. She cocked her head at the distant drone of an engine. It sounded more like a plane than a vehicle, so she dismissed it. Just a jet flying overhead. While she unbuckled the utility belt from the more slender of the two guys and secured it around her own waist, her mind had already moved to the next step in her plan.

  When she stood, she adjusted the belt with the weapons then headed down the hall on sneaking feet. She’d almost reached the stairs when she heard thumping noises on the roof above and excited male voices yelling outside, then gunshots.

  What the fuck?

  ***

  Damian and his guys made the roof, no problem, as did Ewing’s team. Practice makes perfect, and they’d done enough precision drops that if they hadn’t hit the roof, they didn’t deserve to be SEALs.

  They all shucked out of their chutes and switched to assault gear, bringing weapons up, locked and loaded. West took lead, and they followed his signals to execute their prearranged plan to disperse around the perimeter of the roof and scan the scene using their night vision goggles. Damian hurried to the east side of the building and to
ok a knee. He scanned the area, watching as the other teams crept into position from their landings, a big circle of SEALs closing in on the unsuspecting building.

  West gave the signal to regroup, then murmured quietly into his comm. Damian heard him as if he spoke right into his ear. “We’re a go.”

  West took point and headed for the door. Everyone took up position to the side, out of range of anyone who might be standing inside. West tried the handle, careful to be slow and quiet, and when he found it unlocked, he opened it. As the next in line Terrell swept the opening.

  “Clear,” he hissed into the comm.

  They funneled in one by one, down the stairs and into a hallway with doors along both sides, some closed and some open. The most striking feature, though, were the two dead men sprawled on the floor in pools of their own blood. Damian had to wonder who’d got there before them.

  Using hand signals, West indicated they should disperse and check all the rooms. Like wraiths in the night, the men scattered to check and clear the rooms. Damian and Cox—one of the guys from Ewing’s team—took the room with the dead guys outside. As soon as Damian entered the room, he knew Elena had been held there. Not only did he catch a whiff of her scent, but a yellow dress lay in a pile on the floor, and he sensed the ghost of her presence. Call it instinct, but her energy filled the space.

  The big question was, where had she gone?

  Damian gave the swirling finger round-it-up-and-let’s-go signal to Cox, and they hurried back out into the hall.

  Some of the guys indicated by hand gestures the number of men they’d neutralized in the other rooms—four total.

  “Sir,” Damian whispered into his comm. “She was held in the room with the bodies outside, but she’s not there anymore.”

  West nodded. “We’ll keep searching.”

  Outside, the sounds of surprised and angry male voices were followed by gunshots, so the assault had begun out there.

  West gave the signal to move forward.

  At the stairs, West and Ewing took point and crept down to the next landing, followed by Damian and the rest of the men. At the second floor landing Ewing’s team continued on to the first floor while West and his team spread out to clear the second.

  It wasn’t long before the sounds of battle started from below, including shouts and gunfire.

  Damian took up the rear as his team fanned out to clear these rooms. He headed for the closest door, opening carefully to find a large bathroom with a glass-enclosed shower—which was empty—and another door to the left of the shower. Behind him and to the right, a third door stood open, leading to a walk-in linen closet. He poked the muzzle of his weapon into the closet space, then stepped inside, checking all the nooks and crannies—the green of the night vision goggles eerie in the tiny room—only to find it empty. He left the space, closing the door behind him, and returned to the main bathroom.

  He passed the glass shower and at the second door, he pulled it open and swung his weapon inside to clear. All he found inside was an empty toilet space.

  When he turned to leave the bathroom, the main door swung shut revealing a woman standing in the space behind it, a handgun pointed at his head. She flipped the switch on the wall and the light burst on above his head, searing his retinas with brightness.

  “You want to lower that weapon, soldier?” she said. “I’m really twitchy right now.”

  He recognized the voice. He should, given how it had been slithering around his brain like melted chocolate since the Fourth of July. “Elena?” Damian yanked his goggles up over his helmet to see her better.

  She looked like Lara Croft in her sweats and utility belt bristling with guns and knives. If he hadn’t been in the middle of a mission, it would have turned him on. It kind of did anyway, especially with their sex still fresh in his mind.

  “Damian?”

  “What the hell? Give me that thing before you kill me,” he said, marching toward her, his hand outstretched to seize the gun.

  “Hell no. I’m not giving up my weapon,” she said, but she did lower it.

  “We’re here to rescue you,” he said.

  “Why? Seems like a lot of risk for one person.”

  “Your father’s a senator. You work for the CIA. That’s enough to consider you a high-profile target.”

  One of her eyebrows went up while her lips thinned, an expression that said she wasn’t overly impressed. “I had it under control.”

  Damian took offense. He couldn’t believe how naïve and ungrateful she was. He’d been worried sick about her and all the awful things Ramos and his men could be doing to her, and now she had the balls to stand in the middle of the bathroom and question all that. “Really? How’d you think you’d get out of here? It’s not like you can just jump on a fucking bus.”

  “I had a plan.”

  “So do we. It includes taking out all the bad guys, then hitching a ride outta here on a Chinook.”

  “Okay, that’s a good plan, too. Kind of loud and messy, but if it works, I’ll take it.”

  “We’re SEALs. Our plans always work.”

  She snorted. Actually snorted. “Whatever you say, hotshot. Can we go now?”

  The conversation was unreal, especially given the sounds of gunfire and conflict out in the hall, downstairs, and out in the compound. His jittery nerves concerned him, made him afraid he wouldn’t be able to focus on his job. He was used to adrenaline and watching out for his guys, but they were all trained to do their jobs, so he trusted them to do them and get out alive. He wasn’t used to this fear twisting his gut. Elena had no idea what she was up against and it scared the shit out of him.

  “Listen, Elena, this isn’t pretend CIA spy time. My team is out there getting shot at for you.” He grabbed her by the biceps and squeezed, getting in her face. “I’m here to get you out alive and in one piece, so put the gun away, stay behind me, and do what I say. No questions, just do it.”

  Her eyes opened wide in surprise, then she opened her mouth like she wanted to say something. Knowing her, she’d argue, so he gave her his best SEAL glower. His best shut the fuck up and behave glare. Anger and exasperation bubbled in his chest. He and his team literally risked their lives to save her—yeah it was their job, and they went where they were told—but she treated it like a joke. He wanted to shake her by the shoulders and tell her to wake up and take the situation seriously.

  She must have got the message because she holstered her weapon and said, “Yes, sir.”

  He sensed a hint of sarcasm in the sir but let it slide. They’d spent too much time talking, and by the sounds of weapon fire and yelling, things weren’t going well.

  Using the grip he still had on her arm, he traded places with her, putting her behind him and himself closest to the door, before releasing her. She rubbed her arm. Maybe he’d squeezed too hard. He didn’t care. Let it be a reminder to her.

  Into the comm he said, “Caine. Target acquired. Over.”

  West’s voice blasted into his ear. “Copy. Hold your position. We’re taking fire. Heavy resistance. Will advise. Out.”

  “Fuck.”

  “What?” Elena asked.

  “Ramos’s men are putting up a fight. Squad leader advised us to stay put until further notice.”

  “I’m not crazy about that idea.”

  He checked the door, latching and locking it, then turned off the light closing his eyes as he did so they’d adjust to the dark. Not that a locked bathroom door would be much of a barrier, but it was better than standing out in the open. He moved out of the way of the door, pushing her along behind him. The door was solid wood, but he didn’t want to take any chances of bullets cutting through.

  “Not like we have a lot of choices,” he said, opening his eyes. They’d started to adjust to the darkness. Elena was a shadow slightly deeper than the darkness around her.

  He caught her movement as she crossed her arms over her chest and harrumphed. He stifled the urge to sidle up to her, force her again
st the wall, and give her a rough, punishing kiss, but only barely. Instead, he said, “If you’re so unhappy with our rescue, what was your genius plan?”

  “I was going to stealth my way through the house, find Ramos and use him as a hostage to get out of here.”

  It was Damian’s turn to snort. “You’re an accountant, Elena. You’re not trained for that kind of thing.”

  She cocked her hip and he felt the weight of her gaze heavy on him. The noise of battle made Damian itch to get out in it. He hated not having his teams’ backs, but not only was Elena the mission objective, she was his objective, so he’d protect her.

  She scrutinized him, and he could see her well enough to recognize her biting her lip like she struggled with a decision. How she could be so calm in the midst of the chaos around them set off a little warning bell in his head. A pampered senator’s daughter who worked as a financial auditor—even for the CIA—should be panicked, crying, freaking out. Elena seemed alert and tense, but she stood in the middle of the dark bathroom looking as if she couldn’t decide between the red shoes or the black shoes.

  “How did those guards die outside your room?” he asked.

  “How do you know it was my room?”

  “How do you know which room I’m talking about? Are there a lot of rooms here with dead guards outside them?”

  “Touché. Although, you’d have to assume if you’re looking for someone held hostage, there would be guards outside the room so it’s a safe assumption it was my room.”

  He had to give her that. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Would you buy it if I said I’d have to kill you if I told you?”

  “For Christ’s sake, this is no time for jokes.”

  “You’re right, it’s not. This whole thing has gone—what do you guys call it, tits up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I killed those guys.”

  His blood ran cold. If she’d killed them, it hadn’t been luck or accident. He’d seen those bodies. She’d had to know what she was doing. “You’re not just an accountant, are you?”