Seth (In the Company of Snipers Book 17)

by Irish Winters

  “Eric!” Seth called out to his good friend just as Eric maneuvered his wide rubber skiff alongside the pontoon boat. “Knew it had to be you out here in the dark.”

  “Thank God!” Eric called out. “You made good time. Didn’t think you could do it, not this fast, but damn, it’s sure good to see you.”

  “Yeah, well, it finally stopped raining.” Seth glanced over his shoulder at the long dark stretch between Cuba to Key West, between him and Devereaux. “Came as soon as I could. Eric, Cord Shepherd.” Seth nodded to the belligerent guy with his pistol still trained on Eric. “He’s here to help. Cord, meet former Navy Corpsman and USMC scout sniper, Eric Reynolds, but you can call him ‘Sir’, so put your weapon down.”

  “Ha!” Eric chuckled as he turned to the two men with him. “That’ll be the day anyone sirs me. Seth McCray, meet my good buddies, and two of America’s finest, Sergeant Wilson “Ace” Allen and Corporal Johnny “Tex” Ritter.”

  Sergeant Allen growled, “Make it quick,” but neither man made a move to come aboard.

  “You talked with Alex lately?” Eric asked.

  Seth crinkled his nose at that. “Not since I hung up on him. Right now, he thinks my phone’s fried, or I wouldn’t be here with you.”

  Cord leaned over the boat railing and reached for Eric’s hand to pull him aboard. “Semper Fi. ’Bout damned time we got a couple more Marines to stand with us. You ready to fight, brother?”

  Eric landed on both feet, but lengthened his grip on Cord’s forearm until the two were eye to eye and fist to elbow. “You ready to die?” he gritted out. “Because I’m here to tell you, there isn’t a better man to have beside you in a firefight than former Army Sergeant Seth McCray, you feel me?”

  What was it with all that posturing, staring, and squeezing the shit out of each other’s dirty mitts that Devil Dogs always seemed to do? “Guys, enough already,” Seth barked, more amused than exasperated. “You’re both mean as shit, now what’s the plan, Eric? How do we get Cassidy back, and where is she? Do you know?”

  Eric released Cord’s hand first, no doubt because Cord’s big head was harder than Eric’s, and it’d take another minute or so before his synapses fired strong enough to relay Seth’s question from Cord’s big brain all the way down his arm to his hairy fingers.

  Eric turned to face Seth, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes a different kind of sunshine on a night so dark. Wearing his usual cargo pants with its pockets probably all stuffed with first-aid supplies along with the essentials, like ammo, the man was a sight for sore eyes. “All I know is where we think they took her, to the other side of the island. You guys came in on the west side, but there’s a small navy tucked into one of the bays on the east side.

  “How many ships?”

  “One frigate, two patrol cruisers, a few smaller boats to get supplies ship to shore. Visibility’s pretty much nil at night, so it’ll be rough going. Once we get there, the beaches are coarse black volcanic sand, and in some places, it’s sharp as hell, so be aware of that. You bring any extra gloves? I lost mine in the ambush.”

  Seth whipped open the tarp, pulled up a box of leather gloves, and tossed that to Eric.

  “Thanks,” he growled as he ripped the end of the box open, jerked out a couple pairs and pushed his long slender fingers into the first one that fit. “You have no idea what that sand’ll do to your skin.”

  “I’ve got Vaseline if you need it,” Seth offered.

  But Eric shook his head. “No, thanks. FAST is due anytime now. We need to get you guys ashore and this rig stashed.”

  “What about a Cuban navy. They even got one?”

  Eric shook his head. “No worries. Cuba ranks seventy-fifth in the world for military firepower. Their total naval assets number a dozen patrol craft, which they mostly use to keep their people from skipping the island.” His gaze swept the pontoon boat from bow to stern. “Let me guess, Uncle George left this to you.”

  “That’s a story for another time,” Seth muttered as he secured the bowline of Eric’s raft and prepared to tow. “Let’s go get Cassidy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  They put her in the trunk! The trunk! How stupid did Sly and his prince-buddy think she was? Dev found out soon enough. There was no glow-in-the-dark escape latch—anywhere—and no other cord, toggle switch or hidden button that she could find in the dark. Maybe they weren’t so stupid after all.

  She couldn’t very well escape through the backseat, so she hadn’t even tried, not with his royal highness, Bagani’s ass planted there. Probably Sly’s fat ass, too. Damn it! American-made cars were supposed to come with a trunk safety release, weren’t they? This limo was American-made, wasn’t it? Guess not.

  But there had to be some kind of trunk release cable that opened this coffin on wheels from inside the car, something the chauffeur could trigger from his seat or the steering wheel. Dev searched on her hands and knees while the vehicle took her farther from home.

  If there were a release cable, she couldn’t find it, and time was running out. She hadn’t come across so much as a tire iron or tire-changing kit, either. Too soon she’d be lost to Scottie forever, and that just plain wasn’t happening!

  Angry now, she focused on what had to be the brake light wires. Ha! You are so screwed, Sly, you and your asshole highness!

  It took a few minutes, but Dev persevered, her trembling fingertips tender and raw by the time she shoved those taillight housings out of their metal frames and into the night. But dangling taillights weren’t enough.

  Going for broke, she jerked the wires free, then peered through the hole she’d created. It was plenty dark out there. No headlights behind her. It looked like the limo was on the Overseas Highway, the southernmost leg of U.S. Highway 1, that ran the length of the Keys. Not good. She had to get to Gru before he got run over, and she was not—absolutely, was not!—leaving Scottie to wonder for the rest of his life what happened to his mom. Uh-uh, no way.

  This crazy plan might not work, but Dev also knew there were plenty of law enforcement cruisers along this stretch of road. There was still hope. Back she went searching for a tool, anything, to pry the trunk lid and ‘get the fuck out of there’, as Cord would say. The carpet, though nice and soft, still had edges, which she promptly ripped to the side, until… Ah ha! A flat compartment lid lay beneath that carpet.

  I am almost out of here!

  Excitement ramped up her already frantic breathing, but this was her last chance. Fumbling in the dark, she found her weapon of last resort. A sleek mini crowbar that fit her hands perfectly. All she needed was for one car, just one alert driver on this stretch of highway and she’d be free!

  Sweating in the cramped quarters, she knelt alongside the rear edge of the trunk lid, stuck the flat edge of the crowbar between the car frame and the lid, and… ARGH! What the hell? Is the damned thing welded together?

  With her heart racing now with her fingers slick with sweat, she stabbed the tool into the thinnest space between lid and frame, and tried again, throwing her weight into it this time. It had to work, damn it! She had no other options. She grunted. Cursed like one of USMC’s finest, until…

  At last—thank you, God!—the lid popped just enough to let in a welcome burst of chilly night air. But there was no traffic behind her and no headlights, not that Dev cared. The limo wasn’t speeding, and she wasn’t hanging around.

  Wow. Talk about scary. With all fours balanced at the edge of the trunk, she led with one hand placed below the trunk on the shiny chrome bumper. Then a knee. Then it was go-time. Curling her body into itself, she ducked her head between both arms and…

  Oomph and Damn! Wow, that hurts! The concrete pavement was a painfully hard wall with no give and no mercy. It peeled the skin off her left bicep and thigh on contact. She bounced, rolled, and okay, yeah, she squealed and cried out, too. Who wouldn’t?

  But best yet, the spring latch on that fancy trunk lid had snapp
ed it closed behind her. Lying there on the warm concrete with her head on her arm, she watched Sly and Bagani’s fancy ride carry them away from her. Hopefully, they wouldn’t realize she was gone until they got to wherever they were going. Good riddance.

  “Hell, yeah!” she squeaked out as much enthusiasm for her brave accomplishment as she could.

  Still infused with that mighty burst of adrenaline, she crawled her trembling body off the highway, but wow. She was now in the middle of nowhere, and it was dark out here, wherever she was. Scary dark. Okay, and yes, she was more hurt than she thought she’d be. Jumping out of a moving vehicle might get her out of an untenable situation, but it definitely had its downside.

  During one of those less than graceful bounces, her forehead had met the highway. Hard. She’d thought she’d cracked her skull. But she was free, and for now, that was what counted more than anything. A few scrapes she could live with. Not those creeps in the limo.

  Dev lifted to her hands and knees and crept farther from the highway and into the brush, weeds, and sand to make certain Sly and Bagani couldn’t find her. She was so grateful the limo hadn’t been on one of those miles long bridges that connected Miami to the Keys. But holy hell, every last limb, muscle, and joint hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Even her fingertips. Blood dripped from the lip she’d bitten, another unexpected cost of freedom. Spitting into the sand between her palms, she pushed through the scratchy weeds and brush and kept on going.

  Another thought intruded. There were other scary things along this stretch of road. Florida panthers. Alligators. Maybe even a few endangered Key deer, those tiny white-tailed deer that people hardly ever spotted anymore.

  Dev was so tired, she couldn’t move another inch. Her mind wandered. Key deer aren’t scary, she scolded herself. Cord and Seth aren’t, either.

  Now that she was free and alone, the impulse to fight or flee had left her high and dry. Her energy had fled with it. There under the scrub brush and seagrass, she curled onto her side and pulled her tender scraped knees into her chest, shivering, trying to keep warm. If she were lucky, there wouldn’t be a nest of fire ants nearby. She could catch a few Zs.

  But if she were really lucky, some kind person would come along, not that anyone could find her, as far as she’d crawled into the brush. It was hard to see the road from here, but miracles still happened, didn’t they?

  Damn it, Trish was right. I should’ve bought a new phone.

  Infils rarely encountered enemy or hostile fire due to the days, sometimes weeks spent in thorough pre-planning, practiced rehearsals, and as many what-if scenarios as an Army squad could come up with to preclude the surprise factor.

  Unfortunately, Seth and his team of Marines hadn’t had that kind of time. Even now, they skirted the southern curve of Isla de la Juventud, counting on the stillness of the midnight hour to recover their missing agent, and, as Cord kept saying, to get some payback for the two FAST lives lost.

  Running silent and dark, the pontoon was the perfect ghost for this particular job. She left no wake, and her motor, now throttled down on approach, was more of a whisper on the wind than a rumble. Uncle George had made some adjustments. Pipes from the engine vented the exhaust below water, leaving nothing but a wake of bubbles instead of sound.

  Eric had chosen to remain on board with Seth and Cord, while his FAST counterparts, the sullen Sergeant Allen and Corporal Ritter kept to the skiff. Allen’s gloved fist flexed tight on the tiller. The guy had yet to offer more than a grunt, even when Cord voiced his enthusiasm for “two more Devil Dogs in the fight. That makes four. No way we can lose! Hoo-rah!”

  It seemed even among Marines, Cord had the uncanny knack of alienating everyone.

  “Tell me about the island,” Seth told Eric. “What are we walking into?”

  “It’s a sad place,” Eric said as he nodded toward shore. “The island itself is the largest in the Canarreos Archipelago, which stretches south of Cuba. It’s as narrow and as long as the Florida Keys. To the north, between Cuba and Isla de la Juventud is the Gulf of Batabano. To the east, the Gulf of Cazones, and to the west…” Eric pointed behind the boat, “the Los Indios Channel. You’re looking at the southern side now. It used to be covered in pine forests, but between the continual logging and all the hurricanes these last few years, the lumber industry’s taken some hard hits. Hell, everyone on the island’s struggling. There’s still logging equipment and plenty of men during the day on this side though, so watch out for that.”

  Taking a deep breath, he continued. “Americans used to own parts of the island before Castro came to power and nationalized everything. The Cubans who still live here call it the Isle of Lost Dreams. It’s seen pirates, Spanish conquistadors, American capitalists out for a quick buck, and Castro’s guerillas. You name it, they all came, raped the land, enslaved the people, and left.”

  “Sounds like you’re our resident expert for the night,” Seth said.

  “Not me. Those guys have been here longer.” Eric glanced at the skiff following silently in their wake. “Just so you know…” His voice lowered. “The guys from FAST are not here for Cassidy or us. Their mission is to engage the Saudi Army before it’s entrenched on America’s doorstep. These guys are combat-trained and we’re in their way. Their orders are clear. This is one of those undeclared wars, Seth, and we’re right in the middle of it.”

  “Been there, done that,” Cord growled from where he still stood at the wheel. He nodded for Seth and Eric to step forward, his voice just as low as Eric’s. “The way I see it, guys, we’re expendable, and those guys know it.” He cast one quick glance at the men in the skiff. “Why do you think they didn’t come aboard? The first chance they get, they’re out of here.”

  “Not FAST,” Seth argued.

  “Yes, FAST,” Cord hissed. “Trust me on this. They have a mission to complete and they won’t let a couple contractors like you get in their way. My guys are already on this island—”

  Seth cut him off. “Stevie “Wonder” James, Ryland “Sonic” DeLorenzo, and some guy named Julio,” he told Eric. “Have they caught up with Julio yet?” he asked Cord.

  “Yeah, they’ve got him,” Cord assured, still keeping an eye on his buddies in the skiff as, without a word or a wave, the skiff cut loose, its motor engaged, and a rooster tail churned in its wake as they took off for the island. “What’d I tell you? Those guys don’t need us, and they don’t want us.”

  Seth turned to Eric. “How many men are we looking at? How many Saudis are we up against?”

  Eric ran his fingers through his dark hair. “I’d say two hundred, maybe three. They hit us hard. Cassidy and I were tracking Roland Montego, the man responsible for—”

  Seth held a hand up. “I know exactly what he’s responsible for. Cord here’s been hustling women and children out of Montego’s clutches on a regular basis.”

  Damned if Cord’s chest didn’t swell with those words.

  “Anyway…” Eric hissed. “We weren’t expecting an attack, and there were so many of them. Before I knew it, they had us against the sea, and we were fighting for our lives. If it hadn’t been for some jarhead with a bazooka, we’d all be dead.” He ran his hand over his head again, Eric’s tell when his emotions ran high. “I saw her fall, Seth. I saw her go down, and yeah, she was still kicking and fighting plenty. You know Cassidy, but there were too many. So, so many…”

  “Where is she?” Seth asked.

  “In the prison,” Cord bit out before Eric could respond.

  “In what prison?”

  “Not in prison,” Cord repeated. “In the prison. You know which one I mean, don’t you, Reynolds?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Eric breathed. “They handed her over to Montego, the son-of-a-bitch. I know because I followed those bastards. God, he’s a pig, Seth. He had his men take her to the Presidio Modelo, Seth. Cuba’s infamous Model Prison.”

  Seth put his hand to Eric’s shoulder. The guy was taking the
loss of Cassidy hard. “Tell me about the place. Don’t leave anything out.”

  “Shit,” Eric hissed. “Where to start.”

  Seth found it odd that their roles had been reversed, that he was the one providing emotional support for one of the toughest men on The TEAM. “The beginning works for me,” he said calmly.

  Eric nodded as he started again. “Built between 1926 and 1928, it’s a broken down Panopticon, the supposedly perfect prison where all the cells line the inside walls of a couple wide circular, concrete towers, five or six stories high. The circular cellblocks were constructed around much smaller guard towers, observation posts, so the dictator at the time didn’t need many guards to track the up to twenty-five hundred prisoners housed inside. No man unlucky enough to end up there, ever knew when or if he was being watched or targeted for elimination. There was no humane treatment for prisoners in that place, much less privacy. Back before the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, Fidel Castro had the floors drilled and packed with dynamite to blow the place in case of rebel takeover. The prison’s a rundown museum and a national monument now, but the dynamite holes are still there.”

  “Cassidy’s in a rundown museum?” Seth asked.

  Cord’s head bobbed. “The basements beneath that prison are beehives of dislocated cells, McCray. Castro kept political prisoners secluded there, where he could do what he wanted. I’ve been inside the place before to collect a few women. Montego keeps moving his lair, so yeah. Your girl could very well be detained in one of those cells, and nobody would ever know what he’s doing to her.”

  The thought of any woman in Montego’s cells was disturbing. “Where is this shithole?” Seth asked.

  “Not far from here, in Chacón, Nueva Gerona,” Eric replied.

  “Let me guess, that’s on the other side of the island?” Seth asked.

  Both Eric and Cord nodded. “I already told you that’s where she was. See why I needed you here, Seth?” Eric asked. “I knew I couldn’t depend on FAST, not after two of their men were killed when Cassidy was taken.”