Dangerous Connections (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Odell, Terry

  “For our target. Change of clothes is SOP on a rescue. If we’d known about your new friend—”

  There was an emphasis on friend Jinx wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with. “I get it. Lucky they were the right size.”

  “Close enough.” Elle spoke up from behind. “A little big, but better than too tight. I found another pair of socks. I opted to stick with the camo for the rest. Blendability.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t need it,” Fozzie said. “Much better if we bring everyone up rather than going down after them.”

  As Fozzie swung the helo in wider circles, Jinx stared at the images on his screen. The voice recognition oscillations were hypnotic, and he had to force himself to stay alert. He swigged water, wishing he’d snagged a few cans of Red Bull before they left the compound. Maybe an energy bar boost would be smart. He unwrapped the bar and was chewing his first bite when a bell rang.

  Jinx stared at the screen. “Voice match. Dalton. Voice match. Dalton,” a voice—female and sultry—came from the computer. It sounded vaguely familiar.

  “Way to go, baby,” Fozzie said. “Which screen? Coordinates?”

  Jinx fed him the information.

  “Hit Alt F8,” Fozzie said. “She’ll stop reporting Dalton, but won’t stop searching for the others.”

  The helo did a tight, descending circle. Elle scooted forward in her seat. “What? What’s going on?”

  “We’ve got a bead on the team,” Jinx said. He shoved the rest of the energy bar into his pocket and put his headset on. He stared at the computer, willing it to report more voices.

  Chapter 19

  Elle gripped the arm rests. Why did everything important seem to entail throwing her out of her seat? Jinx and Fozzie were glued to their readouts, headsets clamped over their ears. In their own private universes. Talking, but not so she could hear. Except for Fozzie’s Damn, which had her gut churning.

  She dangled the night vision goggles from her fingertip. Trying to use them when the helo was circling added to the roiling in her belly. She thought Fozzie would prefer what was left of Aguilar’s dinner to finish digesting, not make a return trip all over the floor of Matilda.

  “There!” Jinx’s voice came through loud and clear.

  The helo leveled off and hung in the air. Elle shoved the goggles on and peered out the window. Another structure, much like the one she’d seen before. Square, glowing green, with brighter squares she assumed were windows. No people—none she could see. But wouldn’t Jinx’s thermal imaging pick them up?

  “Five.” Jinx was speaking louder now, whether from excitement or because he wanted her to be a part of things, she couldn’t tell. But the result was the same. She ripped off the goggles and picked up the map. Found the circle with the five in it. Was that where they were? Was there a five painted on the roof?

  Fozzie said something she couldn’t make out, Jinx did something on the keyboard, and then they waited. At least they knew what they were waiting for. She, meanwhile, was sitting here with her heart beating like a kettledrum at the Philharmonic and her stomach riding the Double Loop at Palisades Park.

  “Damn,” Fozzie said again. He faced Jinx, and even though she couldn’t see his expression from her vantage point, he didn’t seem happy.

  He spoke to Jinx, who fussed with the computer. This was ridiculous. Elle got out of her seat and crouched between Jinx and Fozzie. She clutched Fozzie’s seatback and rapped on Jinx’s headset. He flipped the mic out of the way and tipped up an earpiece, his brows raised in question. And that damn grin teased at his lips.

  “I want one of those,” she said, pointing to his headset. “Don’t tell me an operation as big as Blackthorne’s secret covert ops doesn’t have enough radio headsets to go around.”

  He shrugged. “Hey, I’ve never been on a secret covert op before. Ask Fozzie.”

  Fozzie was busy with instruments, and she didn’t want to disturb him, in case whatever he was doing was the difference between staying in the air or hurtling to the ground. She could tell they weren’t hovering anymore. “You tell him,” she said. “When he’s got a minute.”

  Fozzie twisted in his seat and hooked his headset around his neck. Tempted to grab it, Elle repressed the urge when she saw the serious expression on Fozzie’s face.

  “Here’s the situation,” he said. “I’ve confirmed Dalton is in that structure.” He turned to Jinx. “Did you get any other voice rec?”

  Jinx shook his head. “I made five people in the building. But no new hits.”

  “Can you hear what Dalton is saying?” Elle asked. “Can you talk to him?”

  “Yes and no,” Jinx said. “I caught part of it when we dropped down. He’s singing.”

  “Singing?” Elle asked.

  “SOP,” Fozzie said. “He knows we’re up here. He’s letting us know he’s down there.”

  “Doesn’t he have a radio?” Elle asked.

  “Had one. But the cartel probably took it. Not wise to let them know what we’re doing,” Fozzie said. “Radio silence until we know where we stand. SOP.”

  Elle chided herself for not thinking more like a cop. She blamed it on exhaustion, stress, and worry. But her curiosity got the better of her. “What’s he singing?”

  “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” Jinx said. “But he’s mangling the lyrics. And he’s way off key.”

  “I do miss Grinch,” Fozzie said. “Cheese is a good enough pilot, but Grinch could sing.”

  “Those mangled lyrics confirm he’s the only one of ours down there.”

  “So who are the other four?” Elle asked. “Is Trish there? Or Crystal?”

  “Negative. One of them is a guard,” Fozzie said.

  “How can you tell from Ninety-nine Bottle of Beer?” Elle asked.

  Fozzie smiled. “No can say. We’re secret covert operators, remember.”

  Elle felt herself blushing. So he’d heard her.

  “Back to business,” Fozzie said. “I’m going to have to put Matilda down. There’s no clear spot to land for half a click, so I’ll be hoofing it.”

  “You?” Elle said. “What about us?”

  His expression grew solemn. “I’ll want Jinx here in communications. If there’s only a single guard, I’ll be in and out like the wind.”

  “I could help. I know how to use a pistol,” Elle said.

  “No offense, but until you’ve taken the Blackthorne secret covert ops oath, you’re not allowed.” The twinkle in his eyes said he was joking—about the reason, not her coming along.

  “Seriously,” Fozzie continued, “we’ve done these kinds of missions more times than I care to think about. A new, untrained person would slow us down, not help.”

  Elle accepted his reasoning. He went back to his controls, and she went back to her seat, buckled herself in, and went back to her worrying.

  Trish would be all right. They’d find her. And with this snazzy helicopter, Fozzie could whisk her away to civilization and medical attention. She wasn’t sure she believed it would be that easy, but telling herself it was going to happen that way helped keep her from jumping out of her skin. Or the helo, which was now descending through the trees.

  They landed with scarcely a thump. Fozzie went to the rear and shoved things in his pack. She wondered if he was going to paint his face in camo. He returned moments later without makeup, but with two AK-47 rifles as well as his sidearm.

  The second weapon would be for Dalton, she realized. She recalled what Fozzie had said about radios. His captors wouldn’t have left Dalton with a gun. But if they’d taken it, that meant now they were armed with more than regular rifles. Fozzie didn’t seem worried, so she told herself she shouldn’t be, either.

  Right.

  Fozzie checked his gear again. “I’ll be back.”

  Arnold the Aussie? Didn’t quite work.

  “You’re not going to shut down the engines? Won’t that call attention to us?” she asked.

  “There are Glocks in the
weapons locker.” Fozzie gestured with his chin. “You said you know how to use one. The noise should keep any jungle wildlife away, and we might be leaving in a bit of a rush. Should be back within fifteen minutes.” He handed her his headset. “I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

  She wondered if he felt as confident on the inside as he appeared on the outside. Hell, she got butterflies every time she hit the streets, and that was nothing compared with what Fozzie was walking into.

  Fozzie rested his hand on the door. “Three raps means it’s me.” He gave a quick salute, opened the door, and disappeared into the darkness.

  She held the headset for a moment. Radio silence, he’d said. But that would be whatever frequency Dalton was using. This, she knew, would be set to a different channel so the bad guys couldn’t overhear.

  Slipping the headset on, Elle got up and watched Fozzie’s thermal image on Jinx’s screen.

  “I’m going to make a quick pit stop,” Jinx said. He slipped out the door. Elle wandered to the rear of the helo in search of the weapons locker. And toilet paper. She found a roll, tore off a length and shoved it into a pocket of her borrowed cargo pants. When Jinx returned, she nodded and took her turn.

  As soon as she left the helo, humid air wrapped around her like she’d stepped into a greenhouse. The air smelled like wet dirt, with undertones of vegetation. She strolled to the edge of the clearing, which wasn’t a whole lot bigger than the helicopter. She thought of Jinx and his thermal imaging. She didn’t think he’d look, but knowing he could was enough to send her seeking a clump of trees for privacy.

  When she got back, Jinx was huddled over his computer, drumming his fingertips on the armrest of his seat.

  She put on the spare headset and lowered the mic. “Waiting sucks, doesn’t it?”

  He grunted.

  “Can I ask a question?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “When we were in the tunnel, and Fozzie blew the opening… what if he’d blown us up?”

  Jinx gave her that lazy grin. “Fozzie? Blow up the wrong target? No way. But you’ll remember I moved us away from the opening. He told me what he was going to do.”

  “And you trusted he knew we’d be in the right place? At the right time?”

  “That’s how teams operate. Without trust, ops go south fast. Isn’t cop work like that?”

  “Yeah. When I’m working, I have to know my backup will cover if a john gets hinky.”

  “That’s what it is for us, too. I’m not in the field, but I know the team trusts me to get them the intel they need.”

  His voice roughened. His fists clenched.

  She lowered her voice. “Something happened, didn’t it? You think you violated that trust.”

  Jinx fussed with the laptop’s keyboard. Abstract images reminiscent of a modern art gallery’s exhibits flashed on the screen. “Where the hell is Fozzie? He should be here by now.”

  Jinx fought the urge to throw the laptop through the window. But since the windows were undoubtedly bullet—and laptop—proof, he figured it would be a waste of a good computer. Elle had seen through him. It was his fault this op had gone south. Bad intel, and the team had trusted him.

  Which was why he was here. To make things right. And damn, he’d make things right for Elle, too.

  Her hands were on his shoulders, kneading the knots. A groan escaped from a place deep inside him.

  “Shit happens,” Elle said, her lips close to his ear. “You deal with it and carry on.” Her fingers moved from his shoulders to his headset, lifting it off.

  He turned. Repeated the process for hers, tossed it onto Fozzie’s seat. She did the same. Her eyes glistened in the semi-darkness of the cockpit. Her lips parted, inviting him to do what he’d been wanting to do for real ever since the first time they’d faked it. Hell. Before that. From the time he’d seen her in his hotel room.

  As soon as his lips brushed hers, he was lost. There was no helicopter, no jungle, no op. Just Elle. His tongue plunged into her mouth. Ran along her teeth. Her tongue met his. Her teeth scraped his. His fingers tangled in her hair. Her fingers on his scalp sent shivers through him. He pulled her closer. Not close enough. She’d never be close enough. She was making little mewling, gasping sounds. Or was he?

  His laptop dinged. Elle staggered away. Panting, trying to get himself under control, he reached for the headset. But his brain was still immersed in The Kiss.

  The kiss they’d shared before, for Bill’s benefit, was nothing. Jinx could have been kissing his sister—not that he had one, but if he did, that’s how that in-front-of-Bill kiss compared to this one.

  Elle moved to her seat, head down. Hiding those kiss-swollen lips. He slid forward so his aching arousal was hidden by the laptop. On the monitor, two colored blobs approached the helo. Had to be Fozzie and Dalton. He glanced at Elle. Her gaze was fixed on the door. Her hands were on the Glock.

  She looked hotter now than she had when she’d invited him to kiss her.

  Three raps sounded on the door seconds before it slid open. Elle didn’t lower the gun. Fozzie paused long enough for her to see it was him. Jinx nodded. She lowered the Glock to her lap, but her hand was still clutching the grip.

  She’s a damn cop all right.

  He liked it.

  Fozzie came inside, and without bothering to stow his weapons, settled the headset on his ears and started flipping switches. Seconds later, Dalton hoisted himself into the helo, slid the door shut behind him and took the seat next to Elle. Before Jinx managed more than a nod in Dalton’s direction, they were airborne.

  “Where are we going?” Jinx asked.

  “Hotshot’s hurt. Have to evac him out,” Fozzie said.

  Jinx’s palms went as wet as his mouth went dry. “How bad?” This was his fault. And Hotshot was the medic. If he was hurt, who would take care of him? “How did it happen?”

  He shifted to face Dalton. Only then did he notice the bruises. The split lip. The pain etched into Dalton’s face. The deep purple bags under his eyes. And that one of them was swollen half-shut.

  Despite the obvious pain and fatigue, Dalton cracked a smile, wincing as he did so. “Relax, pard. You should see the other guys.”

  Since Fozzie showed no wear-and-tear, Jinx assumed Dalton’s injuries had been inflicted before the current escape. And the other guys were of the bad variety, not Blackthorne’s. Although Dalton’s familiar Texas drawl gave Jinx a semblance of comfort, he couldn’t manage a smile in return. “You know where our guys are?”

  “I know about where they’re supposed to be,” Dalton said. “This is where you and Fozzie work your magic and pinpoint their location.”

  “Excuse me.” Elle reached across the space between her seat and Dalton’s. She’d done something with the gun, because the hand she extended in Dalton’s direction was empty. “Elle Sheridan. Riverside P.D. I’m looking for my sister, Trish. You wouldn’t have happened to see her—she looks a lot like me, but she’s blonde. Or know where she might be?”

  “Dalton, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Might be only in the loosest sense. What we did find out is this guy moves people around. Without warning, seemingly at random. Almost on a whim.” He gave Jinx a pointed glance. “There’s no way you could have had the intel in time to do anything. Who knows why they changed the plan to move Crystal, or when. Or who knew about it.”

  What Dalton said helped a little. Jinx tried to accept that. Deep down he knew it could be true—it was a last second switch, and his contacts didn’t know anything about it. But if that was Aguilar’s SOP, why hadn’t his contact alerted him to the possibility?

  Dalton must have sensed his doubts, because he went on. “When you’re in the field, you learn nothing ever works exactly the way you think it will. You get used to it, until it seems things are going exactly as planned—because you plan for all the possibilities. And sometimes, things go FUBAR.”

  Elle broke in. “Who’s got the map thing? Maybe it might mak
e sense to Dalton.”

  Jinx found it and held it between his fingers over the seat. Dalton smoothed it out.

  “Fozzie’s recon found three structures which we think correspond to the ones on this side of the river,” Jinx said.

  “Any idea what the numbers mean?” Elle asked.

  Dalton shook his head. “Where did you get this?”

  “One of Aguilar’s staff gave it to me earlier tonight,” Elle said. “I’d asked him if he knew where Trish might be.”

  Dalton frowned. “The numbers might have signified how many people were being held in each place. Eight was the most I saw. But we were moved around at least four times since we were… detained. Different people every time. The man thinks playing musical chairs is fun. Anything over a couple hours old would be obsolete.”

  “Who were the other three people in with you?” Jinx asked. “What happened to them?”

  “They were locals. Most likely new drug smuggling recruits.” Dalton made air quotes around the last word. “When Fozzie came bursting through the door, they high-tailed it into the jungle. Probably to wherever they live.”

  “And if Fozzie hadn’t shown up?” Elle said.

  “He did,” Dalton said. “Just like he’s going to find Hotshot, Manny, and Harper.”

  “And Crystal,” Fozzie said. “Hang on, we’re going down.”

  Chapter 20

  Elle wondered why Fozzie hadn’t mentioned Trish. An oversight? Distracted by landing before he could add her to the list? Or because he wasn’t going to deviate from their original mission?

  Once again, the helo settled easily to the ground. Dalton went to the rear and opened a locker. Fozzie got up, his expression grim. “We might have a problem.”

  As if this entire situation wasn’t a problem?

  “Which is?” Elle said.

  “Depending on how bad Hotshot is hurt, we might have to haul ass out of here. I picked up two people inside. If one’s Hotshot, the other’s probably a guard.”

  “Which means Harper and Manny are still missing,” Jinx said.