Next Exit, Pay Toll

by CW Browning

  Damon had their departure arranged within twenty minutes of turning to his laptop. Michael hadn't asked what those arrangements were, sensing that it would be a fruitless exercise. After closing his laptop, Damon produced an extra duffel bag and tossed it to him, saying that his carry-on made him look like a tourist. He hadn't said much since.

  Michael grabbed the roll-bar of the old Jeep as Damon veered off the road and onto little more than a goat track that snaked up the side of a very steep, vertical incline. Damon glanced at him and, for the first time since leaving the hotel, a grin creased his face.

  “Getting worried yet?” he asked, shifting gears and pressing the gas. Michael grinned back.

  “Should I be?” he retorted.

  Damon guided the topless, door-less Jeep up the side of the mountain incline. He was surprised at how much he liked Viper's gunny. Michael O'Reilly had turned out to be an intelligent and rugged military man, earning Hawk's grudging respect in the few short hours that he'd been with him. Not only was he willing to compromise to get what he wanted, evident in the fact that Damon was driving them to his private exit point in Peru instead of the international airport, but Michael was genuinely concerned about the many ramifications of this whole mess. He wasn't just another ex-military suit who had landed in Washington and was working his way through agency life. He was still a Marine. He still thought like a Marine, he still acted like a Marine, and he still believed in what had made him a Marine. Damon couldn't help but respect that.

  Hawk followed the track as fast as he knew the old Jeep could take it while Michael hung on next to him. With every mile that separated them from the city, he wondered again why he was doing this. The Fearless Feds could take care of themselves. They were federal agents. If they couldn't take care of themselves, that was certainly not his responsibility. Viper had taken that upon herself.

  Viper.

  Damon clenched his jaw. He was doing this for her. He knew she was focused on Regina and wouldn't, couldn't, know that she had put the Fearless Feds in danger. They were sitting ducks. Regina would send her minions to the safe house's closest to DC, hoping to find Viper. When she found them instead, it would be nice and tidy clean-up. He couldn't let that happen, not if he had the ability to protect them. Hawk had promised to help Viper any way he could, no questions asked, and if that meant protecting her friends, then so be it. He couldn't just walk away from her, even if she had walked away from him first.

  Anger washed over him anew.

  Alina drugged him, kidnapped him, and dumped him in Lima, leaving him there while she went back to Washington to fight a losing battle. It didn't make any difference to him that she did it for his safety. He didn't care. She walked away from him purposefully, leaving him on a different continent while she faced the biggest enemy she had ever faced yet. Alone.

  How dare she?

  Hawk punched the Jeep over the rise and they bounced onto flat land again. After everything they had been through, she just up and left. Worse, she drugged him, dumped him in a different country, and then up and left. How could she do it?

  Damon's eyes narrowed slightly. He knew with a sinking sense of doom inside him that he would never be able to walk away from Viper like that.

  Dammit. He loved her.

  With that admission to himself, Hawk felt as if he'd been sucker-punched right in the gut. He stared through the windshield across the craggy plateau, stunned. Alina was complicated, independent and intimidating on her best day, and on all days, she was controlling. What she couldn't control, she shot. She was so completely her own person that Damon couldn't even begin to imagine her as a partner, even though he had been actively pursuing just that for three months now. She was a rock, and an enigma. She was just beyond reach.

  Yet, three months ago, he caught glimpses of the Jersey girl. Alina was still a woman, fused deep within Viper's armor, and he was in love with that woman. When had that happened? How had it happened? And what on earth was he going to do about it?

  “Should I be getting worried now?” Michael interrupted Damon's thoughts.

  He glanced at him, brought back to earth suddenly. Michael nodded ahead of them and Damon slowed the Jeep, his eyes taking in the three local men standing in the middle of the goat track. Their hair was long and unkempt and they were dressed in work clothes, military-style boots on their feet. They had rifles slung over their shoulders and were blocking their progress. Hawk smiled slightly.

  “Are you rethinking traveling with me now?” he asked, glancing at Michael again.

  Michael's eyes met his and Damon saw the glint of amusement in them.

  “I give us two to one odds,” Michael retorted.

  Damon let out a short bark of laughter and slowed to a stop before the armed locals. He left the engine running and studied them for a moment before standing up in the Jeep.

  “You picked a bad time to block the road,” he called out in Spanish. “I'm in a hurry.”

  The men looked at each other and back to him. One of them stepped forward and a wide grin split his face, exposing several gaps in his teeth. He fingered his rifle suggestively.

  “In a hurry to leave our beautiful country?” he called back before spitting on the ground. “You just got here, Señor Peterson.”

  “Friends of yours?” Michael asked.

  Hawk glanced down at him, his eyes glinting.

  “Two to one, huh?” he replied. “What do we win?”

  “I like beer,” Michael suggested with a shrug. “I prefer to keep it simple with new acquaintances. I haven't seen you in action yet.”

  “Don't want to commit to a steak dinner just yet?” Damon asked, his lips twitching. Michael grinned.

  “No offense.”

  “Hey! Señores!” Toothless yelled, growing impatient. “Get out of the car. We have guns! See?”

  He waved his rifle in the air and Damon sighed.

  “We don't really have time for this,” he muttered, leaving the engine running and jumping out.

  Michael climbed out of the Jeep grinning and met Damon in front of the hood as the three locals advanced on them, rifles in hand.

  “Care to explain this at all?” he asked him. Hawk shrugged.

  “I have a price on my head.”

  “You could have told me that sooner,” Michael muttered. Hawk grinned.

  “Where's the fun in that?” he demanded.

  “Hey! We still have guns,” Toothless snapped in Spanish. “Stop talking.”

  “He keeps mentioning the guns,” Michael said in Spanish, raising his voice slightly. “Is that some kind of cultural thing?”

  The men had moved close enough now for Hawk to reach out and grab the barrel of Toothless's rifle and wrench it upwards, hitting him sharply in the face with his own gun. It happened so fast that no one saw it coming. Toothless let out a howl of instant rage and pain as his nose cracked and blood started pouring down his face. Within seconds, both Michael and Damon were armed with rifles, which they used as weapons without ever having to fire a shot. Michael got one of the men around the neck with his rifle, using him as a shield to prevent the third from firing. While that local was yelling threats in Spanish, Damon hit Toothless with a debilitating jab to his kidneys, followed by a blow to his temple that knocked him out. Once he fell to the ground, Hawk turned and kicked the back of the legs of the third man, bringing him to his knees with a cry. A second later, he was also unconscious on the ground. Michael released his prisoner, spinning him around and cracking him on the side of the head with the rifle.

  Less than a minute after the fight had begun, the last man was sinking to the ground silently.

  “Bring the guns,” Hawk said, grabbing the extra rounds of ammunition off Toothless. “We might need them.”

  “Will there be more of them?” Michael asked, grabbing the third man's rifle and turning back to the Jeep. Hawk followed.

  “You never know,” he answered, tossing his rifle and the ammunition into the back of the Jeep bef
ore climbing in. Michael tossed the other two rifles in and got back into the passenger's seat.

  “Ok then.” Michael grabbed the roll bar again as Damon put the Jeep in gear and drove around the pile of men left in the middle of the goat track. “Are you always this boring?”

  “Only when I'm forced to deal with Marines,” Hawk retorted with a quick grin, drawing a laugh from Michael.

  Damon maneuvered the Jeep up another incline, this one even steeper than the last. The fight hadn't even been a fight according to Hawk's standards, but he felt a hundred times better nonetheless. Some of his simmering frustration and anger had disappeared with the satisfying crack of the unknown assailant's nose. One or two more scuffles like that before he laid eyes on Viper again and he might not be tempted to wring her bloody neck.

  “Do you think we'll make it back in time?” Michael asked, breaking the silence a few moments later, his mind on Stephanie Walker and her partner.

  “I don't know,” Damon answered after a short silence.

  “Blake is watching Regina,” Michael told him, glancing at him, “but she might send someone else to Baltimore.”

  “Oh, she won't go herself,” Hawk said derisively. “She won't face Viper. She prefers to hide behind her cousin.”

  “I still can't wrap my mind around it all,” Michael muttered, more to himself than to his companion. “What was Ludmere meeting with Johann about in Cairo?” Damon glanced at Michael, and Michael caught the considering look. “You know!” he exclaimed. “You know what the meeting was about!”

  “That's Viper's story to tell,” Hawk said after a short silence. “You'll know when she wants you to know.”

  “What if she doesn't get the chance?” Michael demanded.

  Damon ignored the lurch in his gut at the agent's words.

  “Then I'll re-evaluate,” he said shortly, indicating that the conversation was over.

  Michael lapsed into silence as they rounded a bend in the goat track, turning past a copse of trees at the base of another incline. As they rounded the trees, a huge flat clearing came into view, and settled in the center was a black helicopter. Damon stopped the Jeep and switched off the engine, hopping out as a tall man separated himself from the chopper.

  “I was getting worried!” he called in Spanish. Damon waved as he grabbed one of the rifles and his duffel bag from the back. “I heard there is a price for your head.”

  “When has that ever stopped me, Pietro?” Hawk demanded, striding up to him and holding his hand out with a grin. Pietro gripped it, his face creasing in an answering smile.

  “That is because you are half-insane!” he exclaimed. He turned his head as Michael strode up, carrying his bag and a second rifle. “This is the American? He's big. He looks like a Marine.”

  “He also speaks Spanish,” Michael said dryly.

  Damon chuckled and Pietro continued to grin unabashedly.

  “Then there's hope for you yet!” he retorted. “But enough talk. You have to leave now to get to Columbia on time.” Pietro turned back to Damon. “Everything you need is in the chopper. I will take the car back to Santiago.”

  Damon nodded and handed him the keys.

  “Thank you, my friend,” he said, holding out his hand again. “Give Santiago my thanks, for both the message he sent and the use of the Jeep.”

  “Of course. You are always welcome, Hawk. You know that,” Pietro told him with a nod.

  Damon smiled and clapped him on the shoulder before turning and heading towards the chopper.

  “There's a rifle in the back, should you need it,” he called over his shoulder.

  Pietro waved and jogged toward the Jeep while Michael followed Damon up to the helicopter. He climbed in after him, wondering what on earth he had gotten himself into.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Blake rubbed his eyes and yawned widely. He lifted up an almost empty, forty-two ounce cup of watery soda and sucked the rest of it down, glancing up at the windows of Regina's townhouse. She was moving between rooms and every light was on. Blake dropped the empty cup into his cup holder and raised his binoculars, zooming in on the living room. He could just make out her moving in front of the windows again, her phone on ear. She had been on the phone since she returned from her office over three hours ago. Blake dropped the binoculars as his own cell phone started ringing. Glancing at the name, he reached over and picked it up.

  “How's Peru?” he answered.

  “Don't know. Not there,” Michael retorted. Blake frowned.

  “Sight-seeing already?” he asked.

  “You could say that.” Michael sounded amused. Wind was buffeting the cellphone on Michael's end and Blake turned up the volume on his phone in an effort to hear more clearly. “How's our rat?”

  “At home in her barrel,” Blake told him. “If you're not in Peru, where are you?”

  “Bogotá.”

  Blake's eyebrows soared into his forehead. What on earth was Michael doing in Columbia?

  “Pick me up some coffee,” he said, stifling another yawn. “What are you doing there?”

  “We're on our way back,” Michael said.

  “So you found him?”

  “Yes.” The rushing sound of wind ended abruptly and Blake listened for the sound of a door closing, but there was none. “We should be back soon. What's going on there?” Michael asked, his voice suddenly loud in the absence of howling wind.

  “Not much.” Blake glanced back up to the townhouse. “She brought back a box from her office, and there's a lot of light and a lot of movement going on up there. I think our rat is getting ready to run.”

  “Don't let her out of your sight,” Michael said. Blake frowned.

  “I have no reason to detain her,” he pointed out. “Do we have proof yet?”

  “In a way,” Michael said obscurely. “Don't detain her, but don't lose her.”

  “I'll do my best,” Blake said. He scratched at the stubble growing on his jaw. “I might have one of my guys take over when she goes to bed so I can go home and shower. Not being prepared for a stake-out, I didn't leave the house with the appropriate supplies,” he added accusingly.

  “You should always be prepared,” Michael retorted. “I'll let you know when we land.”

  “Are you flying into Dulles?” Blake asked, lifting his binoculars again with one hand and watching as Regina disappeared from the living room and reappeared in the kitchen.

  “Philly,” Michael answered and Blake's eyebrows soared once more into his forehead.

  “You really are sight-seeing, aren't you?” he exclaimed. Michael laughed shortly.

  “You have no idea.”

  Michael disconnected after that cryptic remark and Blake dropped the phone back onto the seat next to him, shaking his head. Michael always did have a way of complicating things. He watched as the kitchen light went out and glanced at his watch. Quarter past eleven. Lowering the binoculars, he leaned his head back on the seat. It was going to be a long night.

  Alina slid behind the wheel of the Land Rover and sat for a moment thoughtfully. The windows of the townhouse were finally dark, her target in bed. Regina was getting ready to run, that much was clear. She had just spent four hours on the phone while systematically shredding the entire contents of the file box from her office, one page at a time. In between shredding evidence, she worked on her laptop and Viper had watched as she connected an external hard-drive to the laptop, moving files.

  Oh yes. She was getting ready to run. Alina smiled slowly.

  Instead of her finding a way to Regina, Regina would come to her.

  Alina started the engine and was about to pull out of her spot in the alleyway when the bag Frankie handed her in the casino caught her eye. She put the Land Rover back into park and reached over to pull the bag up onto the seat next to her. Inside was a wooden box wrapped in brown paper and Alina pulled it out, tossing the shopping bag aside and resting the box on her lap. She stared at it for a moment, wondering if she really wante
d to open it. Wooden boxes given as gifts from mob bosses never turned out well in the movies.

  Frankie, if this is a dead anything, I'll find you and scar you for the rest of your life, she thought, reaching into her pocket for her leather gloves.

  Alina pulled them on and opened the box. Blinking, she stared down at the semi-automatic, .45 Beretta that lay inside. It was a few years old and was most definitely a used gun. Slowly, her lips started to curve upwards. Frankie said it was a present, and it most definitely was that.

  Closing the box again, Alina set it on the seat next to her, staring out the windshield. Jason and Billy had both been shot with a .45. She didn't need to run ballistics to know that Frankie had given her the smoking gun.

  Oh Frankie, you don't miss much yourself, Viper thought with a smile.

  He must have realized what he had done shortly after he had Billy killed. He must have realized that he had created yet another complication for her. Frankie was going through a lot of trouble to stay on her good side, Viper realized, and this present was more than just a token of appreciation.

  This was her ticket to total exoneration, and she knew exactly what to do with it.

  Michael hung up and dropped into the leather recliner opposite Damon. The stewardess moved past them to take her seat in the front of the private jet as the engines geared up for take-off.

  “Blake says Regina is getting ready to bolt,” he said as he fastened his seatbelt. Damon turned his eyes from where he was staring out the window broodingly.

  “She won't get far,” he replied.

  “You think Viper is watching her now?”

  “Undoubtedly.” Damon stretched and glanced out the window again as the small jet turned on the isolated runway on the outskirts of Aeropuerto el Dorado International. “She's probably been watching her all day.”