Hard Edge

by Clare, Pamela

  The pain was like nothing he’d been through before, worse even than being shot in the gut. Each time, he’d tried to wrap his thoughts around Gabriela to give him strength, but the pain had made his brain go blank. Or maybe that was the electricity.

  This was just a rehearsal for what lay ahead. When Luis Sánchez had finished parading him before the news cameras, shit would get real.

  Was he afraid? Hell, yes, he was afraid. He feared for himself but even more so for Gabriela—a woman in a house full of ruthless men. The thought of what they might do to her sickened him.

  Did Ruiz believe her story?

  Don’t think about that. Work the problem.

  He sat in a wooden chair, his ankles bound to its legs, his arms twisted and tied behind his back, the ropes tight. There was no way to work himself free with sicarios watching him the entire time. He’d only succeed in giving himself rope burns.

  The room he was in had no windows and only one door. There was a large sink to one side, chairs scattered here and there. A fucking meat hook and chains hung from the ceiling. There were tools on a nearby bench—knives, an ax, a hammer and nails, a chainsaw, a drill, pliers, a blowtorch. The tile floor had a drain, proof that this room had been built for one purpose.

  Torturing and killing people was messy work.

  There were five sicarios—all armed. They’d taken his backpack, his rifle, and his concealed pistol, leaving him with nothing. He had aced combatives—military hand-to-hand combat training—but he had no doubt these bastards would shoot him if he somehow got free of this chair and started throwing kicks and punches.

  He would wait, and he would take it—whatever they did to him.

  The door opened and shut, taking all sound with it, something he hadn’t noticed before. Was the room soundproofed? It must be. Would it drown out the sound of gunshots, too? He would love to find out.

  Acne Man was back. “Don Sergio says we have to leave him be for now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun with him. Wake him up.”

  That was interesting news.

  Someone slapped Dylan’s cheek.

  He opened his eyes, raised his head, but said nothing.

  Acne Man pulled up a chair, spoke in Spanish. “I know you can understand me, asshole. I went up to see what the Boss wants me to do with you, but he was too busy fucking your whore of a nun. From the way she was moaning, I’d say she likes it, too.”

  Dylan fixed a bored expression on his face, bit his tongue. He didn’t believe a word of it. The bastard wasn’t a good liar. It was clear that violence was the only skill in their interrogation arsenal. Without permission to tear him apart, they had nothing.

  Acne Man didn’t give up, his descriptions of the action upstairs getting more extreme as he went on. Ruiz was fucking Gabriela. He had promised her to his men and then to his dogs—if there was anything left of her.

  Dylan’s refusal to speak stole the bastard’s control, his pitted face turning a mottled shade of red as Dylan remained silent.

  “I don’t like the way you look at me, you fucking asshole.” He drove his fist into Dylan’s gut, pain forcing the breath from Dylan’s lungs.

  “I thought Don Sergio said to leave him be for now?”

  “Someone has to teach him a lesson.” Acne Man rolled his electroshock toy close again, took the homemade paddles into his hands, and flipped the switch. “I won’t kill him, but I won’t let him sit there laughing at us either.”

  He touched the paddles to Dylan’s skin. Electrical current rushed through Dylan’s body in a jolt of liquid agony.

  * * *

  Still huddled in the blanket, Gabriela finished her meal, forcing herself to swallow despite the butterflies that churned restlessly in her stomach. Outside, the storm had all but spent itself. She’d overheard Ruiz telling his men that Luis Sánchez was in the air again and would arrive soon.

  She was running out of time.

  She needed to reach Dylan and set him free. The two of them together had a much better chance against Ruiz and all his men than she did alone. But how could she possibly get to him? They would see her going down the stairs. And what would she do when she got there—knock on the door and ask the bad guys to let Dylan go?

  The moment she pulled the trigger, the sicarios on the veranda would stream through the door to protect their boss, and she would be overwhelmed. She had only enough rounds in the Glock to take down fifteen of them—and that was if every shot hit its mark and was lethal. That never happened in the real world. She would need one of their weapons, preferably an rifle with spare magazines.

  And how are you going to get that?

  Despair gnawed at her, doubt and hopelessness sliding over her like a shadow.

  What if she tried to rescue Dylan and got the two of them killed? What if she made the decision to act now and failed when a better chance would have come along later? What if it was already too late, and there was nothing she could do?

  Stop! Just stop it!

  She had years of HUMINT and intel training. Dylan was a special operations veteran. They were among the best-trained operatives in the US. Washington was counting on them to get out of the country without leaving proof that they’d been here. She needed to act, not waste time worrying.

  She sent up a prayer to God, the Blessed Virgin, and St. Anthony and finished her meal, carefully tucking the knife into her pocket. “Thank you, Imelda. The arepas were delicious. They remind me of my grandmother’s.”

  “Gracias, Hermana.”

  Gabriela carried her plate to the sink, intending to wash it, but Imelda took it.

  “You are a guest of Don Sergio. That is my job.”

  “May God bless you.” Gabriela gave the cook a saintly smile. “Can you tell me where the bathroom is? I need to wash.”

  What she needed was an excuse to meander around the hacienda.

  Imelda stepped out of the kitchen and pointed to a long hallway with marble floors. “It’s the first door on your right. There are towels, too.”

  Gabriela walked to the bathroom, where she washed the worst of the mud away. She dried her face, her gaze meeting its twin in the mirror.

  You can do this, Gabriela. You must do this.

  Shouts. Men’s voices.

  She peeked out the bathroom window, saw sicarios running from the veranda to parked vehicles. She counted ten men. They climbed inside and drove away.

  Where were they going?

  The whir of a helicopter overhead answered that question. Sánchez’ helicopter was going to land nearby, and they were going to meet him.

  This is your chance.

  She set her fear aside, wrapped the blanket around herself, and drew the Glock from her waistband, keeping it hidden. Then she stepped out of the bathroom and walked without hesitation toward Ruiz’s office.

  The door was open, one sicario on guard outside, another sitting across from Ruiz, rifle between his knees.

  She put on a meek expression. “May I speak with Señor Ruiz? I do not wish to disturb him, but I remembered something he will wish to know.”

  The sicario turned. “The nun wishes—”

  “I heard her, idiot. Show her in.”

  “Thank you.” Gabriela went to stand behind the seated sicario and across from Ruiz, pretending that she wasn’t terrified. “Señor, pardon me, but I just remembered…”

  She let the blanket fall away, pointed the weapon at Ruiz. “I’m not a nun.”

  She fired.

  Pop! Pop!

  The sicario at the door raised his rifle, but Gabriela was faster, taking him out first, and then shooting the man who had jumped to his feet in front of her.

  Pop! Pop!

  Shouts from the veranda.

  A scream.

  Imelda.

  Shit!

  Gabriela grabbed both sicarios’ rifles, dashed out of the office, and ran up the stairs on the opposite side of the foyer, positioning herself as best she could for cover—and a good view
of the entrance below. She raised up the rifle just as men rushed through the door, heading for Ruiz’s office.

  She pulled the trigger.

  Nothing.

  The fire selector!

  She flicked the switch from safe to full-auto and poured on the fire.

  Ratatatatatatatatat!

  One down.

  But firing a fully automatic weapon was new to her. She wasn’t prepared for the way the recoil forced the muzzle to rise, moving her off-target.

  Now the others knew where she was.

  They turned, shouted at her, raised their rifles.

  She fired again, going for three-round bursts and trying to be methodical, taking out the one aiming at her first before firing at the next.

  Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat!

  Two down. Three. Four.

  Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat!

  They returned fire, plaster exploding from the wall around her, something hot slicing across her ribcage.

  Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat!

  Silence.

  Below her, the marble floor of the foyer was red with blood.

  Rifle raised, she waited, certain the men who were with Dylan would have heard the gunfire and would come running upstairs to help. But they didn’t.

  She walked carefully down the stairs, watching for movement among the bodies on the floor. She checked them, one by one, to make sure they were dead, then walked into Ruiz’s office.

  Sergio de Anda Ruiz, the leader of the Andes Cartel, sat in his chair, face on his desk, most definitely dead, two bullet holes in his head, the back of his skull blown away.

  She grabbed a set of car keys from his desk and took another man’s rifle, checking to make sure the magazine was full. Then she made her way down the back stairs, knowing that the other sicarios would return soon—and that Luis Sánchez and the media would be with them.

  I’m coming, Dylan.

  18

  Dylan fought to catch his breath, shredded by the blinding pain of another electroshock.

  God, how about that miracle? Please.

  Was he praying?

  Acne Man bent down, got in his face, his breath reeking of alcohol. “Are you from the US, a gringo? Answer me!”

  But Dylan must have been hallucinating, because in that instant the door opened, and Gabriela stepped into the room like something out of a video game fantasy, carrying an Israeli IWI Tavor. She opened fire.

  Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat!

  The noise was deafening.

  Fuck!

  Was this real?

  As quickly as it began, it was over, blood running across the floor and trickling down the drain.

  Then she was there, cutting the ropes that bound him. “I’m so sorry, Dylan. I got here as fast as I could. Hey, Dylan, are you with me?”

  “Yeah.” He tried to pull himself together.

  “Are you going to be able to walk?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.” He stood—and sagged against her. “Give me a minute.”

  “We need to get out of here—now. The men who left to get Sánchez will be back at any minute. We should find your backpack, too. It’s in Ruiz’s office.”

  Dylan’s brain must have been fried because he couldn’t seem to grasp what she was telling him. “My shirt. My boots. I’m going to need them.”

  She gathered them and grabbed a rifle off one of the men she’d just killed for him. “Here—and hurry! Ten of Ruiz’s men went to pick up Sánchez. If they get back before we’re gone, this night is going to get a lot bloodier.”

  Dylan sat in one of the other chairs, put on his boots, T-shirt, and ACU shirt, the pieces beginning to come together. “You said ten of his men went to get Sánchez. What about the others?”

  “They’re dead. I shot them.” She glanced around. “What kind of hellhole is this?”

  “You shot them all?” He stared at her.

  Seriously, his brain had to be completely fucking fried.

  “They were torturing you, Dylan. They were going to kill you. What else could I do?” She held the Tavor at the ready, looked up the stairs.

  “Yeah. Right.” Then he saw. “You’re bleeding.”

  Blood soaked the side of her T-shirt.

  “Just a graze. We can deal with it later. We need to go.”

  Dylan checked his rifle and followed Gabriela up the stairs, training kicking in, clearing his mind. The house was dead silent. When they reached the top of the stairs, he saw she wasn’t kidding. Dead sicarios lay on top of each other in the foyer, blood everywhere, the wall pocked with bullet holes.

  ¡Ay, virgen santa! Oh, Holy Virgin!

  “Your backpack is in there.”

  He followed her into what must have been Ruiz’s office to see Ruiz himself dead where he sat, brains blown out. “¡Coño! You killed the head of the Andes Cartel.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Dylan grabbed his backpack, checked it, found his phone and the first aid kit inside. He handed the first aid kit to her. “You’ll need this. Hang onto it. What’s the plan?”

  “I don’t have one. I’ve been making this up. I say we steal a vehicle and get out of here now. I took these keys off Ruiz’s desk. Or maybe you think we should try to steal the helicopter?”

  “I sure as hell don’t know how to fly a chopper. Do you?”

  “No.” She glanced toward the back window, a hint of panic in her voice. “See the headlights? That’s them. They’re coming back.”

  Dylan put on his helmet with his NVGs flipped up and then shouldered his pack. “We need to create a diversion, pin his men down.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “You stay here. I’ll be right back.” He ran into the kitchen, found a woman crouched down and crying.

  Son of a bitch!

  They couldn’t afford to leave witnesses behind. Whoever this woman was, she’d probably seen Gabriela kill Ruiz and his men. Now she’d seen Dylan’s face. But he couldn’t bring himself to kill her.

  “Auntie, I won’t hurt you, but you need to run. This house is going to explode and burn. Is there anyone else here, anyone still alive?”

  “N-no.” She stared at him in horror then fled out the back door.

  He dropped to his knees, took a breaching charge out of his backpack, and stuck it to the stove. He carefully set up the fuse and rigged the detonator. Then he opened the oven door and turned on the gas, taking the detonator with him.

  “How do we know which vehicle these keys belong to?”

  Dylan took the keys on the run, looked at the logo. “We’re searching for a Land Rover. We’ve got to go—now.”

  He lowered his NVGs, ran down the front steps, saw no sign of anyone, no glowing green shapes of human beings.

  Behind them, the sound of engines drew closer.

  They ran to the Land Rover, Gabriella clutching her side.

  “Why don’t you let me drive this time?” He hopped into the driver’s seat, stuck the keys in the ignition, and started the engine but didn’t turn on the lights.

  Gabriela climbed into her seat, looked back over her shoulder. “They’re coming.”

  A half dozen headlights drove toward the hacienda, coming up some backroad that probably led to a private airport or helipad.

  “It’s okay.” He reached over, took her hand, found it clammy. Shit. “They don’t know we’re in the vehicle, and they’re about to be very busy.”

  He held up the detonator, pushed the button.

  BLAM!

  Hacienda Ruiz went up like a fireball.

  With the headlights still off, Dylan drove down the driveway and out of the gate, leaving the burning hacienda behind them.

  * * *

  “Do you know what you did back there?”

  “I rescued us.” Gabriela pressed a blood-clotting trauma bandage against the wound in her side, the pain sharp, the momentary rush of elation she’d felt as they’d driven away replaced by a strange sense of … numbness.r />
  “You also singlehandedly killed one of the most-wanted bastards in the world and twelve of his sicarios. What happened?”

  Gabriela told him the whole story, words pouring out of her in a rush as she got to the part with the shooting, the whole thing like a dream. “I shot Ruiz and the two others with the Glock, then grabbed a guy’s rifle but forgot to switch the fire selector to auto, and so the others knew where I was before I was able to fire. The rifle was heavy, and the muzzle kept wanting to point at the ceiling, but I tried hard to hold onto it. I thought the guys torturing you would hear despite the soundproofing, but they didn’t, so I went straight down and opened the door. You know the rest.”

  He reached over, rested a hand on her shoulder. “That took guts, Gabriela. You saved our lives. You’re one in a million.”

  “I guess so.”

  He glanced over at her, his brow furrowed. “How are you feeling?”

  She started to tremble. “N-not so well at the moment.”

  Dylan pulled off the road, parked, and flicked on the cabin light. “Lift the bandage. Let me see it.”

  Confusion muddled her thoughts. “S-see what?”

  He reached out, lifted the bandage, his voice soft, comforting. “The clotting agent is working. The bleeding has stopped. You’re right that it’s just a graze, but it’s a deep one. There might be bullet fragments in there. You’re going to need stitches.”

  “Okay.” What was wrong with her?

  He pressed the bandage back into place, put her hand on it. “The adrenaline is wearing off. I think you’re in a kind of post-combat shock.”

  “Post-combat shock? That’s lame.” She wasn’t supposed to be weak.

  He cupped her cheek. “It’s a normal reaction. I’ve seen it in new SEALs back from their first real combat mission. They’re trained to fight. You’re not.”

  That made her feel a little better. “I don’t want to be a wimp.”

  “God, woman, you’re anything but a wimp. When we get to a stopping point, I’ll treat your wound, and you can get some sleep.”

  “Wait! I’m going to be sick.” She unbuckled her seatbelt, opened the door, hopped to the ground—and lost her supper in the grass.