His name had been Benjamin Paul Jewett, Jr., or Paulie, back then, and life had been Hell on Earth. The day Big Ben went on a drunken rampage and shot him and his mother was the best of Quinn’s ten-year-old life, and how sad was that? Lying on his narrow bed, pumping blood from a hole in his chest, his stolen Gameboy still clenched in his hands, he’d thought, I’m finally free.
The police had busted down the door, carted Big Ben away, zipped his mother into a body bag, and shipped Paulie to a hospital, where he met Dr. Samuel Quinn and his ICU nurse wife, Bianca. They’d saved his life with so much more than excellent medical care.
Then he’d lost them, too.
“Yo, Q. You here with me?” Marcus’s hand passed in front of his face and he blinked back to the present, silently cursing himself. He didn’t stroll down memory lane often, and when he did, he never went that far back. He shook his head. He had to stop zoning out. Jesse was already suspicious about his medical condition and he didn’t need to add more fuel to that fire by blanking on Marcus.
He also had to get out of this fucking apartment—it made his skin crawl with the memories of Big Ben. He cleared his throat. “Find anything?”
Marcus gave him a narrow-eyed once-over but then shrugged. “Nah. Place is cleared out. If Jacinto ever lived here, it wasn’t recently.”
Quinn nodded and started toward the door. “Let’s go over and see how Ian and Jesse are doing at the warehouse. Maybe we’ll get lucky and—” His phone vibrated in his pocket and he held up a finger. “Hang on.” He checked the screen.
Harvard.
Even as his stomach dropped into his pelvic cradle with sickening speed, he tried to keep his voice level. “What did you find?”
The kid’s voice was almost all static. “Nothing good.”
And it wasn’t. Gabe’s Jeep abandoned on the road, windshield shot up, with no sign of him or Audrey.
Quinn rubbed a hand down his face, appalled that tears blurred his vision. There were so few people left in the world he considered friends, and even less he counted as family. Gabe was family. If that fucker went and got killed… Christ, he might just lose his grip on the thin shred of sanity he still had.
“…dead bodies,” Harvard said, and Quinn snapped back, realizing he’d lost the thread of conversation.
Concentrate, asshole, he told himself. He’d never had a problem keeping on task before, but…well, a lot had changed. “What bodies?”
Harvard made an exasperated sound. “Four of them on the road. Looks like a shootout—”
“That Quinn?” Jean-Luc asked in the background. “Let me talk to him.” Then, “Quinn, those bodies are trouble. I can’t begin to explain what happened between them and Gabe, but some of their friends showed up as I was leaving the scene and came after me. I lost ’em. Wasn’t easy.”
And the hits kept coming. “Did you get any intel out of them?”
“Not from the guys chasing me. They had guns and they were pissed. I wasn’t about to stop and have a hi-how-are-ya chat with ’em. But,” he added before Quinn could protest, “I got the plate numbers of both vehicles and photos of the dead men. Already sent to Harvard’s email, and he says he’ll start on the IDs as soon as we get back.”
“All right. You’re sure there was no sign of Gabe or Audrey near the Jeep?”
“Positive.” He mentioned how Gabe’s cane and sunglasses were still in the vehicle, and that they found his gun in the foliage beside the road. “Harvard thinks he ditched it.”
“I agree. If guerillas ambushed them, he’d have wanted to pose less of a threat.” Luckily, Gabe was a threat with or without a firearm. “What about his phone?”
“Couldn’t find it.”
So he ditched the gun, kept the phone…which had GPS. Thank you, Gabe, you smart son of a bitch.
Relief surged through Quinn, making his hands shake. He hoped like hell Marcus didn’t notice.
“Get back to base ASAP,” he told Jean-Luc, then disconnected the call and speed-dialed Jesse. “Change of plans. Hold off on the warehouse. We’re going after Gabe.”
…
“Go,” Gabe whispered when the door opened. Audrey hesitated only a second.
It was a second too long.
The black silhouette of a man slunk around the corner of the hut, spotted them, and raised his gun without even a shouted warning. He never got a shot off; Gabe dispatched him with a burst of three quick, clean headshots. The man-in-black’s eyes widened and, gun dropping from his limp hand, he crumpled where he stood. The AK-47’s retort echoed off the mountainside and set off other gunshots around the camp in a daisy chain reaction of panic. The guerillas poured from their huts, confused, sleepy, and half dressed, right into the oncoming bullets of the attackers. Those that didn’t drop dead went for their own weapons, and soon the clearing sounded like a firework show.
Bang, bang, bangbangbang. Boom!
Audrey shrank back. This was it. They were both dead. She’d never see her nephews again, never know if her brother made it home safe or if her paintings sold at the art show. She’d never find out if sex with Gabe was as good as she imagined it might be. Never know if their chemistry was purely an adrenaline-fueled consequence of the circumstances or something more.
God, she didn’t want to die.
To her complete horror, Gabe grabbed her arm in a hard grip and flung her out the door. “Go!”
Go? Go where? Bullets flew, people fell to the ground moaning in pain or ominously silent, and she couldn’t get her bearings. A young guerilla charged at her, caught her in the left side, and knocked her off balance.
Without hesitation, Gabe stepped up behind the kid and sliced through his jugular with the Swiss army knife. Blood spurted, splattering across her face and chest. She wanted to scream. Opened her mouth and nothing came out.
“Audrey!” Gabe’s voice was all drill sergeant again. He easily spun and deflected a blow aimed at his kidneys from a knife-wielding man-in-black. “Move! Go, go, go!”
Audrey scuttled backward on her butt, watching Gabe in full hand-to-hand combat. He moved like an assassin. Quick. Silent. Mesmerizing.
And deadly. Can’t forget deadly.
“Audrey, goddammit, go!” In the millisecond he took his eyes off his attacker to glance worriedly her way, the knife slashed deep across his bicep. He staggered back, stumbling as his bad foot went out from under him.
“No!” Audrey surged forward—but caught herself. What was she going to do to help, paint an unflattering portrait of his attacker? Right. He knew what he was doing. She didn’t, so she had to gather her wits and follow his orders. She was doing nothing but distracting him, dividing his attention and putting him in further danger.
He’d told her to run through the poppy field, hide in the jungle, and wait. Scrambling to her feet in the slick dew-covered grass, she sent one last look over her shoulder. Gabe had straightened himself and sprung back into the battle with a dark, determined expression on his face.
She hated to leave him.
Sending up a prayer for his protection, she ran toward the poppy field.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gabe saw her go out of the corner of his eye. About damn time—except now that she was out of sight, his heart decided to imitate a heart attack, causing him to hesitate and nearly end up with a knife in his gut. Unacceptable. He had to screw his head on straight. Getting himself killed would do Audrey no good.
He deflected another blow. His opponent liked going for the kidneys and the stomach, never varied attacks. Gabe waited until the knife came toward his bellybutton again, spun out of the way, grabbed the guy’s knife hand and twisted, all in one quick, fluid motion. Felt the satisfying snap of bone in his opponent’s wrist, but kept twisting until the whole arm was chicken-winged behind his opponent’s back, shoulder straining not to pop free of its socket. The man dropped hard to his knees.
The gunfire had slowed, so instead of finishing him off and moving on to the next tango, Gabe decided
they’d have a nice heart-to-heart instead.
“Who are you?” Gabe leaned on his arm. He cried out, tears spilling from his eyes as fast as the Spanish prayer from his lips. “Who are you? ¿Quién eres?”
Tough man with the knife wasn’t so tough without it. He babbled incoherently, or at least Gabe thought he was babbling. For all he knew of Spanish, the guy could be spilling classified information pertaining to every terrorist organization in the country of Colombia. He doubted it, though, considering the asshole just wet himself.
Movement in the poppy field caught his attention. He turned, saw Cocodrilo sneak away from the camp, not exactly following Audrey, but there was no way he’d miss her—she was only minutes ahead.
Time to put an end to this knife fight.
With the blade of his hand, Gabe knocked the still-babbling asshole out cold. Killing such a pathetic excuse for a threat wasn’t worth the effort.
He grabbed his AK-47, which he’d dropped during the fight, then snagged the unconscious man’s knife. A Bowie about fifteen inches long with a scuffed steel blade and rubber handle, it made a much better weapon than his little Swiss army knife. He sheathed it in his belt.
Now to get to Cocodrilo before he got to Audrey.
…
“I’ll drop you two klicks to the west,” HumInt, Inc.’s local pilot called over the beat of the helo’s blades. Luckily, it only took a call to Tucker Quentin to find one ready and willing to fly without asking too many questions.
Christ, they needed a pilot of their own. Quinn sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. One more thing to add to the to-do list.
A quick look at Google Maps had shown the area mountainous, dense with overgrowth and lacking any decent roads in or out. A damn good place to hide, inaccessible except by air or foot, and they didn’t have the time to hike in. Gabe’s phone hadn’t moved yet, but that could change at any moment. Flying was their best—and only, in Quinn’s opinion—option.
Quinn looked over his shoulder at the men in the cargo hold. Jean-Luc, Ian, and Jesse sat grim-faced and geared up, ready for action. The decision to leave Marcus behind had been unanimous since he had no military training. He was a little peeved, but hopped right on the phone trying to get a hold of a man named Giancarelli, one of his former FBI friends, to get a sitrep on the case.
Harvard had also wanted in on the op, and it had been a hell of a time talking the kid out of it. He’d only relented after Quinn pointed out that he was the only person who could work the tracking program on the computer needed to find Gabe’s phone. His voice had been a constant presence in Quinn’s ear since leaving Bogotá, keeping him updated on the GPS and any new info Marcus found out.
And Quinn had a brain-splitting headache. Jesus, he hoped they found Gabe. He was so ready to hand back command.
“Let’s be ready to move,” he told the guys, unfastened his harness, and climbed into the back with them. He unlatched the sliding door and wind rushed inside, stealing his breath as he watched the helo drop closer to the ground. The moment the skids touched down, he motioned the men out with one arm, sent an OK signal over his shoulder to the pilot, and followed them out into the waist-high grass of the field. The pilot took the bird up again, blocking out the morning sun long enough that Quinn’s eyes adjusted to the brightness and he scoped their surroundings.
They stood in a deforested field high on the slope of a mountain, with its white-tipped peak rising over their heads to the north and a treacherous climb down to the south. The guerilla camp was two miles to the east, over some rugged terrain, and he hoped like hell the guys were up to the task of hiking it.
The plan was for the pilot to circle the camp and offer air support while they infiltrated from the ground. Not knowing how many tangos they were dealing with, and the fact that both Jesse and Jean-Luc hadn’t seen battle in years, put them at a distinct disadvantage, so the helo’s support was a major plus.
Once on the ground, Quinn pointed to Ian and Jesse and motioned for them to go south. Both experienced mountaineers—and, whoa, who’d have thought Ian had hobbies besides blowing shit up?—they carried climbing gear with their packs. Should they run into any steep drop-offs, they wouldn’t have to waste time finding an alternate route. Quinn and Jean-Luc would approach from the north. They also carried climbing gear, but he prayed they wouldn’t need it. He’d rather go back to doing log PT in BUD/S than climb any damn cliffs.
The team would rally at the coordinates of Gabe’s phone. And if there was a benevolent higher power out there somewhere, they’d find Gabe and Audrey alive and in one piece.
…
The gunfire had settled down a while ago, but even as she strained her ears, Audrey still hadn’t heard Gabe’s all-clear whistle. She sat under a giant, leafy bush, shivering, swatting at the ants crawling up her legs, struggling to hold it together.
Blood. Violence. Death.
Death. Oh God, what if he was dead? What if that wicked knife hit an artery and he was bleeding out onto the ground while she cowered?
Another blast of gunfire ricocheted off the mountainside and she jumped.
Okay, this sucked. She wasn’t a natural-born coward, but being tossed light years out of her comfort zone apparently turned her into one.
No. That wasn’t true. She wasn’t a coward. Now that her initial shock had worn off, she wanted to help. But didn’t violence breed violence? At least that’s what her mother had drilled into her childhood psyche. Violence solved nothing, but Audrey couldn’t see how cowering peacefully under a bush during a firefight solved anything, either, and for the first time in her life, she wished she had a gun for a violent purpose. So she’d never killed anything more than a paper cutout. She was a good shot, but faced with taking an actual life, she had no idea if she’d be able to do it. She’d definitely not do it as easily as Gabe had.
Gabe.
Cripes, she didn’t know what to think of him now. Part of her had always known he was dangerous. Deadly, even. A Navy SEAL trained to kill quickly and quietly. Even so, she never really assimilated that Gabe with the sarcastic, overbearing, and oh so tender one who needed a good lesson in manners, who spit fire at the idea of being nursed, who held her so gently and fended off her nightmares.
The way he’d slit that kid’s throat…
Sure, the kid was one of the bad guys, intent on doing who-knows-what to her. But he was still a kid, probably not even old enough to legally drink in the States. Did Gabe have to kill him? And did it matter so much to her that he had?
She’d have to think about that. Just not now.
Where was he?
She peeked out from underneath the bush. Gabe told her to hide and stay put, and as much as she wanted to rush to his aid, the best way to help him was to do what he said, minimizing his distractions. He knew what he was doing— she had to keep reminding herself of that. He was the elite of the elite, trained to handle whatever an enemy threw at him.
Except that little niggling voice in the back of her mind—the one that had convinced her it was a good idea to come to Colombia and look for Bryson, bad idea that it was—kept saying Gabe may be elite, but he was no Superman. Bullets went through him as easily as anybody else. Maybe even more easily, since he was exactly the type of noble jerk to throw himself in the line of fire.
If he got himself killed on the misguided pretense of protecting the damsel in distress, she might just have to resurrect him and slaughter him again. She was no damsel. She was following orders. As career military, he should appreciate that.
Twigs crunched under someone’s foot nearby and she saw a brown boot step into and then out of her line of sight. Audrey didn’t dare move and caught her breath, holding it in until her lungs burned. The footsteps circled her, slowly, and headed back toward the guerilla camp. She let out her breath on a soft exhale and wiggled forward to peek out again.
Bright morning sunlight slanted through the trees, dappling the forest floor with streaks of yellow and shadows. Now t
hat the gunfire had subsided, the jungle creatures made their displeasure with the early morning racket known, squawking and howling up a storm. Surely all that noise would cover any sound she made.
She just couldn’t stay hidden anymore. Not only because of the damn ants still swarming over her legs, but because someone, like the owner of those brown boots, would eventually find her. She had to locate Gabe and somehow get him medical help if he needed it. Lord knows, stupid alpha male that he was, he could be half-dead and wouldn’t ask for help.
Audrey scooted from underneath the bush and straightened slowly, half expecting a guerilla or one of the unknown attackers to jump out at her. That’s the sort of thing that happened in movies. The inexperienced, unsuspecting leading lady who’s too stupid to live gets taken hostage while her man’s off fighting the good fight.
Uh-huh. She was so not going to become that cliché. She looked around for something to use as a weapon and found a small branch, the end sharpened to a point where it had broken off its tree. It was no Smith & Wesson Sigma, her personal favorite, but that sharp end wouldn’t feel too good when jabbed into an attacker’s stomach. And it was just the right size after she stripped off a couple twigs.
Now, where to start? The camp was the obvious choice, but every now and again, a pop of gunfire still sounded from that direction. Obvious, but probably not the smartest. The smartest choice was to run in the opposite direction, or continue hiding until Gabe finally showed up and gave the all clear. Neither appealed to her much. She had the sick feeling that Gabe hadn’t arrived yet because he couldn’t, so it was her turn to play knight in shining armor. Yes, she was terrified half to death, but she was not a coward, dammit. If Gabe needed her help, she’d give it.
Shaking, but determined, she held the branch out like a sword and retraced her steps through the jungle to the edge of the poppy field—and came face-to-chest with a man dressed in raid gear. Her gaze dropped instantly to his feet. Brown boots.
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