Hunt climbed carefully over the fallen stones to the inner courtyard. This side of the house had been completely gutted by fire. He entered through a charred gap in the masonry that had once been a set of French doors but was now a yawning cavity. In the main hall, a chandelier lay in the middle of a terrazzo floor. The arms were bent at crazy angles and the crystals were chips of shattered diamonds winking in the darkness. Decades of dust muffled his footfalls. He took a sweeping staircase to the second floor and started checking bedrooms and parlors.
He went slow, working his way methodically through the house in search of his prey. He had nearly exhausted the second floor when he heard a rattle, like wire hangers on a closet rack. There was a soft creak as someone crept over sagging wood floors. Hunt followed it to a room near the front of the house which overlooked the upstairs balcony.
There was another rattle. Now that he was closer it sounded like a shower curtain. Hunt nudged the door with his foot. He was in a master bedroom with a four-poster bed and an ancient oak armoire standing in one corner. A pair of French doors let onto a balcony. Moth-eaten drapes stirred in the breeze. Another door led to a private bathroom. Hunt moved on silent feet to the bathroom and stepped inside with his gun up, looking for targets.
Alejandra Domingo sat on the toilet, a silk bathrobe gathered around her hips and her knees pressed together. One side of her face was still covered in medical gauze. She stared at him with her good eye. “Do you mind?”
The scene caught Hunt completely off-guard. The barrel of his weapon drooped. He opened his mouth to stammer out an apology before his training caught up with years of social protocol. The gun came back up. “Let me see your hands!”
Chapter Forty-Two
NOBLE DIDN’T NEED the text message. Six years in Special Forces had taught him to heed the sounds of nature. Birds and snakes are an ever-present threat to cicadas. When they stopped buzzing, Noble had known something was wrong. He had thrown off the sheets and raced upstairs to Alejandra’s room.
From the balcony overlooking the garden, he had watched a figure slip through the gap in the wall and recognized Foster’s fair haired golden boy. Noble let Hunt make his way across the lawn to the house while he and Alejandra threw together a hasty plan.
She had played her part to perfection. All of Hunt’s attention was focused on her. He had failed to sweep the rest of the room and didn’t see Noble standing behind the bathroom door with a rolled-up hand towel.
When Hunt leveled his pistol at Alejandra and ordered her hands up, Noble looped the hand towel around Hunt’s wrist in one quick motion. The gun clapped thunder. The pedestal sink exploded in a shower of porcelain.
The two men struggled for control of the weapon. Hunt was young and strong, but Noble had more experience. He had been through the same hand-to-hand combat training and could predict Hunt’s moves. He used the knowledge to counter the more dangerous attacks before they could do any real damage.
The gun barrel was wrenched back and forth in the fight. Hunt pulled the trigger out of desperation. The gun barked. The mirror shattered. Alejandra covered her ears with both hands and screamed.
Noble yelled, “Tub! Now!”
She took two long strides and launched herself into an alabaster bathtub. A bullet destroyed the toilet tank a second later. Brackish water flooded the floor.
Noble groped for the magazine eject. His fingers found the small raised knob. The magazine clattered across the tiles. That left one round in the chamber.
Hunt hammered a fist into Noble’s shoulder blade. A lance of blinding pain raced up his back into his brain. Six months ago, a shotgun ricochet had bounced off the hull of a cargo ship and lodge in Noble’s shoulder. Hunt must have familiarized himself with Noble’s file, because he pummeled the old wound repeatedly.
Noble used his legs and shoulders to drive Hunt into the wall. Tiles crunched under the impact. Hunt returned the favor, slamming Noble into the opposite wall. He followed up with a well-placed knee to Noble’s almost-healed ribs.
Noble stomped down on Hunt’s foot and drove him out of the bathroom, into the bedroom where he had more room to fight. Knuckles impacted the side of Noble’s head, causing fairy lights to dance in his vision. He ducked a second haymaker and elbowed Hunt’s jaw. They staggered through the bedroom, trading knees and elbows, still wrestling for control of the weapon. The fight carried them out the bedroom onto the upstairs landing. Their bodies crashed into the railing. Wood splintered, and their weight carried them over.
Noble felt the terrifying helplessness of falling. A scream jerked from his throat. The terrazzo floor came up to meet him. He landed on top of Hunt and the lights went out.
***
Noble’s brain tried to make sense of fragmented information. Every joint in his body hurt. He was lying on a cold floor, covered in dust and grit. He twitched his left hand and felt a layer of dirt under his fingernails. He knew he had to get up, had to move, but couldn’t remember why. His brain trumpeted a warning klaxon until his eyes snapped open. He was on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Pain pulsed in every fiber of his being. He curled his toes and then his fingers. No broken bones.
The fight, the fall: it all came back in a flash.
He turned his head, hearing tendons creak, and saw Hunt on the floor next to him.
Alejandra appeared at the broken railing. “Noble? Are you okay?”
“Think so,” he croaked out.
She looked at Hunt. “Is he dead?”
Noble pressed two fingers against Hunt’s throat and found a pulse.
“He’s alive,” Noble said. He turned over and spotted the handgun. It had come to rest amid the broken arms of the fallen chandelier. Noble pulled himself across the floor. Chips of broken crystal dug into his skin. Every inch was torture. He reached the gun as Hunt was coming around.
By the time Hunt regained consciousness, Noble had pushed himself into a sitting position and thumbed back the hammer. The sound echoed around the spacious hall. Hunt blinked a few times before his eyes focused on Noble. He groaned.
Noble said, “Alejandra, find something to tie him up with.”
Chapter Forty-Three
HUNT FELT LIKE someone had taken a sledge hammer to his spine. He could still move his toes—that was a good sign, but a whole bottle of aspirin wouldn’t put a dent in his headache. The pain was only half of it. A thirty-three year-old man had beaten him twice now. That fact tasted like a mouth full of turpentine. He told himself it was the fall. If not for the tumble from the balcony, he would have taken Noble down.
They had him lashed to a wooden chair with electrical cords in an empty parlor on the first floor. Wire bit into his wrists. His fingers were pins and needles.
Noble had handed his gun to Alejandra with instructions to shoot Hunt in the knee if he tried anything, before limping out of the room. She kept the pistol trained on his chest and watched him with her good eye. Her bathrobe was loosely tied, revealing one naked thigh.
Hunt said, “Your friend Noble is in a lot of trouble. You know that?”
“Who said he was my friend?”
“He came all the way to Mexico to rescue you.”
Alejandra lifted one shoulder. “He rescued me for his own reasons.”
“Do the right thing,” Hunt told her. “Cut me loose. I can protect you, get you a new identity. You can go to America. Maybe I can even arrange for plastic surgery. You could have your face back.”
A humorless laugh worked its way up from her chest. “I don’t want your protection.”
“What do you want?”
“Machado dead,” she said. “Can you give me that?”
Hunt didn’t know what to say to that.
She snorted. “Then we’ve got nothing to talk about.”
He gave up trying to reason with her. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Noble returned ten minutes later with a car battery and jumper cables. He touched the connectors together. Electricity crac
kled. Sparks flashed. The sound left a sick feeling in Hunt’s stomach. It was an effort to control his bladder. He said, “You wouldn’t.”
Noble touched the jumper cables to Hunt’s shoulder.
Every muscle in his body convulsed. His eyes tried to leap right out of his skull. He used every curse word he knew and then made a few up. Spittle flew from his lips.
“Two ways we can do this,” Noble told him. “I can torture you. Or you can tell me what I want to know.”
One jolt was enough to convince Hunt. Any more and he would crap his pants. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Ask me anything you like.”
“Discretion is the better part of valor,” Noble commented. He took a chair from the corner, turned it around, straddled it. “You work directly for Foster?”
“Deputy Director Foster,” Hunt corrected him.
Noble didn’t look impressed. “What are your orders?”
“Neutralize you before you do any more damage.”
“Alive?” Noble asked.
“Unfortunately.”
Noble took a brass key from his pocket. “What’s this open?”
“I have no idea.”
He rapped the key against Hunt’s forehead, causing him to wince. “Try harder.”
“I don’t know.”
Noble nodded, satisfied, and pocketed the key. Then he waited.
Hunt tried not to let the silence unnerve him. It was an old interrogation trick. Don’t ask any questions, just sit there and stare at the subject until they start talking to fill the void. Hunt had used it himself. He pressed his lips together and studied the wall.
“What do you know about Operation RIPTIDE?” Noble asked.
“I know your Army buddy was down here on assignment, the op went sideways, and he’s missing. Instead of tying it off, Burke sent you to find him.”
“He’s not missing,” Noble said. “He’s dead. Someone on your end blew his cover.”
Hunt shook his head. “Bull crap.”
“Is it?” Noble said. “Then why is Foster hell-bent on sweeping the whole thing under the rug?”
“Ops go bad. Agents get killed. It’s a job hazard.”
“You’re awful young to be so jaded,” Noble said.
“You’re awful old to be so sentimental.”
“Careful,” Noble told him. “Torres was my friend.”
“Even the best officers make mistakes,” Hunt said.
“Something about it doesn’t add up,” Noble said.
“You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment,” Hunt said. “You’re not seeing the big picture.”
“The big picture?” Noble snorted. “Here’s the picture I see. The Company puts a man in the cartel. He sets up a pipeline and he’s collecting actionable intel. Before that information can be used, his cover is blown and he ends up dead. No one at Langley seems interested in how or why. How’s that picture strike you, hot shot?”
“It doesn’t always have to make sense,” Hunt said, “Field officers follow orders. You, of all people, should know that.”
Noble shook his head. “Something stinks and you know it.”
“Look, Noble, I’m sorry about your friend,” Hunt said. “It doesn’t give you an excuse to wage a one-man war on the cartel.”
“Who’s going to stop me?” Noble leaned in. “You?”
Hunt boiled with impotent rage.
Noble glanced at his watch. “How long have I got before your team starts to worry?”
Hunt made a show of ignoring the question.
Noble picked up the jumper cables and arced electricity off the connections.
“My check-in is five o’clock.”
Chapter Forty-Four
GWEN PACED the small office on the second floor of the embassy, willing the secure line to ring. Ezra was in a chair clicking a ballpoint pen, staring into nothing. Click-click-click. Every couple of clicks he would spin the pen around and then go back to clicking. Click-click-click. When she couldn’t take any more, Gwen blurted, “Would you stop that?”
He put the pen down, muttered an apology and started tapping a foot, which was almost as bad.
After four days in Mexico City, both analysts were ready to get back to their own beds and familiar food. Covert operations in exotic locales sounded good in training; the reality had turned out far different. All they had seen of Mexico was the airport and the embassy. Instead of world-class resorts and cocktails, they were sleeping on a flea-infested sofa and drinking canned soda to avoid dysentery.
Both had been excited for their first overseas assignment. Mexico wasn’t exactly the other side of the globe, but it was further from a desk than most analysts got in a lifetime. They had secretly relished the idea of going back to Langley with war stories. Instead, the only stories they would have to tell would be about the long hours cooped up in an office on the second floor of an embassy, sifting through police reports and news bulletins.
Now they were just waiting for Hunt to call and say they could go home. It had been a long night. The sun was coming up, throwing an angry orange glow over the rooftops of Mexico City. The hands on the clock pointed to five-fifteen. Hunt’s check-in window had come and gone.
Gwen paced with her hands clasped together, like a woman in prayer. She let out a shaky breath. “This is really happening.”
“He’ll call,” Ezra said. “He’s just late. That’s all. Probably lost track of time.”
Gwen shook her head. “We have to go to the villa,” she said. “That was the plan.”
“And do what?” Ezra spread his hands. “We’re not field officers. We’re analysts. My training is in MASINT, for crying out loud.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Gwen stated flatly. “We’re his backup.”
Ezra swallowed, reached under one of the desks and pulled a plastic case from the side pocket of his duffle bag. A Sig Saur P229 was nestled in the gray foam lining.
Gwen pulled an identical case from a purple backpack.
Ezra checked the action on his weapon and exhaled, puffing out his cheeks. “I haven’t fired this thing since training.”
“Me neither,” Gwen admitted.
They looked at each other. Butterflies zipped around inside their bellies. This was it. This was the real thing. They had wanted war stories. It looked like they were going to get more than they had bargained for.
They stuffed their weapons into their waistbands and went downstairs to a rented sedan parked in the embassy garage. Ezra drove. They rode in silence. Neither wanted to talk about what they would do if they got to the villa and Hunt was dead. Worse, they might get to the villa and find Noble there, still very much alive. There was no telling what he was capable of. He was a former Green Beret. They were computer jockeys.
Ezra stopped in the middle of a dusty lane hemmed in by towering oaks bearded with Spanish moss. Hunt’s rented pickup was twenty yards up the road, parked on the shoulder with the hood up.
Gwen’s face brightened. “Maybe he just had engine trouble.”
“Maybe,” Ezra said.
They sat watching the pickup for several minutes. When nothing happened, Ezra said, “I guess we should check it out.”
Gwen nodded. “Should we take our guns out?”
Ezra thought about it. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”
They pulled out their weapons and performed one last check before getting out of the car. They stood in the open doors for a moment, ready to dive back in if bullets started flying. Ezra was the first to work up his courage. He left the relative safety of the open car door and took a few steps in the direction of the pickup. Gwen followed. They had covered half the distance when someone said, “That’s far enough.”
Ezra froze in his tracks. Gwen let out a small squeak, like chalk on a blackboard.
“Drop your guns in the dirt and turn around slowly.”
Neither analyst even considered anything other than complete co-operation. They dropped their weapons and lifted their hands over th
eir heads, before turning around.
Noble exited the trees with a pistol aimed at them—Hunt’s prized .45 caliber Kimber Custom. Alejandra Domingo emerged from the other side of the road, holding a pair of 9mm Glocks. She was dressed in oversized denims cinched tight around her waist, a baggy tank top, and bandages covering half her face.
“Take three big steps back,” Noble ordered. “My associate is going to collect your weapons. Either of you tries to be a hero and you’ll join Hunt.”
Ezra and Gwen stepped back, keeping their hands up. His comment about joining Hunt left a lump in Gwen’s throat. Tears filled her eyes. Her chin trembled. Ezra was too scared for words. This was not how he had envisioned his career at the CIA.
Alejandra took their guns and stuffed them in her pockets before rejoining Noble at the car.
“You’ll find Hunt in a parlor on the first floor,” Noble told them. He and Alejandra climbed in the sedan, fired it up, and roared backwards down the dirt road, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.
Ezra let out a breath, bent over and put his hands on his knees. “I thought we were dead.”
“I think Greg is dead,” Gwen said.
She grabbed Ezra’s elbow and hauled him toward the house. They passed the pickup truck and saw the battery was missing. There was a second car in the driveway, but the battery was gone from that one as well. Fearing booby-traps, they entered the house cautiously, going room by room, and found Hunt tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth. His blonde hair was disheveled. One eye was swollen shut. Dried blood rimmed both nostrils.
Gwen pulled the gag out. “Are you okay?”
He nodded. “Noble?”
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