by Terry Odell
“First floor. Emergency-Trauma. Can’t miss it.” And then the doors closed and they were gone.
“How is she?” Miri asked Hotshot.
He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Doing fine. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry. Right. Like that was a possibility. She pressed the call button for the elevator. She pulled Dalton’s huge parka over her face, inhaling his scent. He said he’d be here. Confused as she was about her feelings toward him, she wanted—needed his strength. Someone to hold her, to tell her everything would be fine, and maybe, just maybe, she’d believe it.
She punched the button again. Three times.
“Take it easy, Miri,” Hotshot said. “I got fluids into her, her pulse is steady, and she was awake for a lot of the flight.”
Her knees wobbled, and she locked them. “Thanks. For everything.”
“She’s a fighter. Like her sister.” He gripped her shoulders, and she accepted the comfort he offered.
Fozzie ran up behind her. “Sorry, mates. We have to go. This was a non-scheduled stop, and we’re needed to help clean up the mess.”
Hotshot released her. The men hesitated.
She punched the button again. Five times. “Go on. Save the world. I’m more concerned about Nancy.”
The men walked toward the helicopter. She shoved her hands in the pockets.
“Fozzie, wait!” She ran after them.
Both men pivoted, polite but impatient expressions on their faces.
“Here,” she said. “I forgot. You might be able to do something with this.”
“A cell phone?” Fozzie's shaggy eyebrows arched like furry caterpillars.
“I lifted it from one of the creeps who tried to get friendly. I think Dalton called him Octavio.”
Fozzie burst out laughing. He swept her up in a bear hug and swung her around. “Miri, you little ripper!”
She lowered the parka over her shoulders. “Here. This is Dalton’s.”
Fozzie held up his hands. “Keep it, sunshine. You can give it back when you see him.”
Her step lightened as she ran to the open elevator doors.
* * * * *
Dalton sensed someone’s approach.
“Do not move, Señor.” A new voice.
Without turning, Dalton knew there was a gun pointed at him. His own rifle lay under his belly. All that stuff about your life flashing in front of your eyes when you faced death was bullshit. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his brain, there must have been a few cells dedicated to searching for a way out of his personal clusterfuck, but Dalton couldn’t find them. His universe held two thoughts. I screwed up. I’m dead.
The voice droned on. “I would shoot you right now, but Octavio has claimed that honor. However, I strongly suggest you do not move, or I will have to disappoint him.”
Was there a chance? Dalton dug for a possible plan.
“Ah, my amigo.” Octavio’s voice cut through Dalton’s swirling thoughts. “Excellent work.”
“You’re going to shoot me in the back, Octavio?”
“Back of the head, I think. It is efficient, no?”
Dalton heard the shot. When he heard a second one, he figured he wasn’t dead yet. He rolled, his hands and fingers operating on reflex, to get his rifle into position. If he was going to die, it wouldn’t be with a bullet in the back of his head. Not today.
Two men lay on the ground. One bled from his chest. The other had a neat red circle in his forehead, a pool of blood spreading beneath his skull like a Rorschach inkblot.
Dalton’s vision tunneled. He swallowed huge gulps of air. Seconds—or minutes—later, a familiar voice connected.
“It’s over, Cowboy. Let’s not shoot the good guy who saved your ass, okay?” A shape moved into his field of vision. A hand reached down.
Harper. Dalton lowered his rifle. “Guess I owe you, pard.”
“I don’t keep score.” He stepped back half a pace. “Need another minute?”
“Anyone else looking to kill me?”
Harper gave what passed for a chuckle. “Not at the moment.”
“Then I think I’ll lie here until the world stops spinning so fast.” Above, streaks of pink-tinged dawn filled the sky. “Might as well enjoy the sunrise.”
Harper lowered himself to the ground beside Dalton, his back to the two corpses. Dalton knew Harper’s aversion to killing, even though he was team sharpshooter. Shit, they were corpses, weren’t they? “You check the bodies, pard?”
“First thing. You were napping.” He took a swig of water from his canteen and wiped his mouth. “Want some?”
Not sure he dared lift himself even to his elbows, Dalton shook it off. “Crap. You telling me I actually passed out?”
“First time for everything.” Harper left the canteen within reach.
“How long?”
“Minute maybe. Who’s counting?”
Dalton took a modicum of comfort knowing Harper wouldn’t be one to speak of this display of weakness, the same way no one paid attention to the way Harper did the Technicolor yawn after a kill. “Fill me in.” He yanked his headset off. “This piece of crap’s been fucking useless.”
“Sorry. Your regular gear’s at the compound. That was an extra on the helo.”
“Yeah, well next time make sure I’m not working with second-rate equipment.”
“Hey, your weapons were functional.”
“Thank God for small favors.” He propped himself on his elbows, glad the dizziness had passed. He found the canteen and took a gulp of water, then passed it to Harper. “Seriously, this was not fun.”
“Yeah.” Harper’s eyes went blank. He lifted a finger signaling he was receiving a communication. “Roger that,” he said, rising to his feet. “You ready to travel? Fozzie’s got an ETA about ten minutes, half a klick away.”
Dalton sat, accepting Harper’s outstretched hand, then stood. “What about those two? And wasn’t there a third?”
“Manny took care of him. Authorities will be here, and Blackthorne’s got his PR specialists on it.”
“Blackie can spin anything, can’t he?”
“Like a top. He took care of twelve corpses in Montana—a few drug smugglers in this part of the country should be a piece of cake.” Harper started off at a brisk walk.
“Shit. You go ahead,” Dalton said. “Tell Fozzie I’ll be there ASAP.”
Harper spun around, concern on his face. “What’s the matter? You all right?”
“Fine. Something I gotta do.”
“Dalt. Wait. I’ll come with you.”
“Not needed. I’ll be a few minutes behind you, that’s all.”
“You’re going to warn them, aren’t you? The people in the underground hideaway.”
When had Harper picked up that damn clairvoyant streak? Trying to BS his way out of this one wasn’t worth the effort—or the time. “Yeah. You got a problem with that?”
Harper’s reply was instantaneous. “None. Nobody on the team’s said anything about them. If they stay put for a day or so, they should be clear. The drugs are the bigger picture here.”
Dalton settled alongside Harper as they loped toward the house. “Makes you an accessory, or something, you know.”
“And this would bother me because—?”
Dalton punched Harper’s arm. “Right. Somehow, I can’t get worked up about a few more tomato pickers minus green cards. We gotta figure out how to eliminate the meth part of this equation.”
“We will.”
Harper tapped his headset. “Fozzie, come in. Change in our pickup spot.”
Chapter 33
Miri sat, paced, sat, and paced in the surgery waiting room with Hunter. It was nicer up here than in the emergency waiting room, but the underlying panic when the ER doctor rushed out with surgical consent forms for Hunt to sign wouldn’t go away. So much for their initial diagnosis of minor injuries from the car accident. Couched in vague medical legalese, it said the doctors were going to open her
up and would do what they needed in order to preserve the life of the patient.
Sunlight streamed in from the narrow windows near the ceiling. In the corner, a wall-mounted television played to the morning news. No stories about drug smuggling or illegal immigrants. Too small for the national news, too far away for the local news. Or not worthy of air time. Nothing new or different. Normal, everyday occurrences. The time display on the set said they’d been here three hours. Still no Dalton. She’d left her name at the ER desk, so he should be able to find her. She refused to dwell on the possible reasons he hadn’t shown yet.
Hunter yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth.
“More coffee?” she asked.
He shook his head. She dumped her third cardboard cup into the wastebasket. “I know what you mean.” She sat beside him and gave him a hug. “Nancy’s going to be fine. She’s a fighter.”
“It’s been too long. Something’s wrong.” He stood, trudged toward the desk where a grey-haired woman in a blue smock read a magazine. She glanced up at his approach and shook her head. He backtracked. Collapsed into the chair. “If anything happens—”
“Stop it. You have to be strong.”
“She’s . . . she’s done so much for me. Without Nancy, I’d be another stuck-up, social-climbing, shallow—”
“I said stop. You’re not. And you won’t ever be. Nancy has a way of finding the best in people and bringing it to the surface.” Her voice trembled. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. She could not break down.
“Mr. Sanderson?” A young woman wearing a white lab coat and holding a metal clipboard stood in the doorway.
Hunt leaped to his feet. “Yes. Is it about Nancy, my wife?”
The woman, who appeared barely out of her teens, stepped to his side. “Let’s sit down. Dr. Groveland wanted me to give you an update.”
“How is she?” Miri asked, afraid her legs wouldn’t support her if she stood. She gripped the arms of the chair. “I’m Nancy’s sister.”
The woman gently guided Hunter to a seat, sitting down herself as if he needed someone to demonstrate. She smiled, but there was a sadness behind it. Not a teenager, Miri amended when she saw her in better light. Probably late twenties. A young face, but old eyes.
“What happened?” Miri asked. The woman sat on the other side of Hunt, and Miri leaned forward. “They said things were fine and then all of a sudden nobody would talk to us.”
Cynthia Mason, patient advocate, according to her nametag, studied her clipboard. “Yes, I understand how you must have felt. That happens sometimes, but the patient is the number one concern. Mrs. Sanderson went into shock, and the ultrasound revealed an ectopic pregnancy.”
“Oh my God,” Hunt whispered. “Is she all right?”
Cynthia Mason studied her clipboard once again and spoke words she must have recited countless times.
“Mrs. Sanderson came through the surgery very well, but it will probably be two hours at the very least before she’s admitted to a room and you can see her. They have her on antibiotics.”
“I want to talk to the doctor,” Hunter said. “Why isn’t he here?”
“Dr. Groveland’s team was called to another emergency surgery. I’m sure he’ll be available by the time your wife is situated. He’ll be happy to answer your questions.”
“What aren’t you telling me, Ms. Mason?” Hunt said. He sounded more like the Hunt Miri thought she’d known before tonight. Formal, in charge—almost cold and demanding under a veneer of politeness. What Nancy always called his “Don’t mess with me” voice.
Once more, Ms. Mason consulted her clipboard. Hiding, Miri thought. The woman knew exactly what was written there. She flipped a couple of pages, sighed, and met Hunt’s gaze.
“Mrs. Sanderson should follow up with her own gynecologist.”
“Which she most certainly will,” Hunt said. “But I’m asking you.”
Another sigh. Ms. Mason set the clipboard on her lap and folded her hands atop it. “The ectopic pregnancy ruptured the Fallopian tube. In these cases, it’s standard to remove both the tube and the ovary.”
“But she’s got two,” Miri said. “She can still have children.”
Ms. Mason addressed Hunt. “They found adhesions, scarring and endometriosis. While it’s not impossible to have children under these conditions, it’s highly unlikely. The fact that she got pregnant at all was very much against the odds. The important thing is that she’s all right.”
“I understand,” Hunt said, his lips barely moving. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Thank you for explaining.”
Ms. Mason stood. “I’ll be back once you can see your wife. There’s a cafeteria on the first floor if you’d like something to eat.”
Miri couldn’t imagine anything squeezing into the tight knot of her stomach, much less staying there. The young face with the old eyes blurred, and Miri dropped her gaze. “Thanks,” she whispered.
Hunt stood. He shook her hand and walked with her to the door. He stood there, apparently watching her walk away. Then he swung around, stumbled, and staggered. Miri raced to his side and threw her arms around him in support. Sobs wracked his body. She guided him to a chair and held him as he wept. Whether they were tears of relief or sorrow, Miri wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter.
She wept with him.
* * * * *
Dalton buckled into a seat in the helo.
“That’s some sheila you’ve got, Cowboy,” Fozzie said.
Some sheila was right. Whether she was his sheila remained to be seen. Fozzie tossed something into his lap.
“What’s this,” he said, turning a cell phone over in his hands. “Am I supposed to call someone?”
“Maybe. Your little pickpocket lifted it from Ocatavio.”
“What?” Dalton woke as if someone had doused him with a bucket of ice. “Have you checked it out?”
“Working on it.” The pitch of the turbines rose, and the bird lifted off. “The guy was a message freak. Text, e-mail, an address book a mile long. It’s a gold mine.”
Dalton’s adrenaline surged. “We’ve got to get this to our intel folks.”
“We’ll have to mobilize fast,” Manny said. “As soon as Rafael gets word that Octavio’s dead, he’ll go to ground.”
“Rafael’s always in the wind,” Hotshot said. “But I agree, this is an opportunity. If Blackie will go for it. No client, remember.”
“Yeah. Listen to us,” Manny said. “Since when did we start planning our own missions?”
“What about Homeland Security? The DEA? We’ve worked with them before, and this ties in with the local angle. They can’t send US troops in. But that’s why we work for Blackthorne, right?” Dalton said. “He can find a way. The Mexican drug connection is getting bigger every day—if Rafael’s hooking up, there’s a logical reason for us to go after him in Colombia.”
“Speaking of the Mexican connection,” Fozzie said. “What did you find out about Andrew Patterson? Is he connected?”
Dalton groaned. He’d totally forgotten Patterson. “I don’t know. Blackie can put his investigators on it.”
“I’m sure the cops will take care of it,” Hotshot said.
Dalton wondered. Rich, powerful people like Patterson made bad stuff disappear. Would Blackie keep probing on his own? Maybe, if Grace pushed. This whole thing started because Grace, a former spy, had a bad feeling about Patterson. Or was former spy an accurate term? He stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. Another thought tiptoed in. Blackie and Grace? That was a picture he didn’t need in his head. “Punch it, Fozzie. Take us home.”
“No can do, mates.”
Dalton’s eyes popped open. “What’s going on?”
“We got a 9-1-1,” Fozzie said. “As of this minute, we’re on deployment.”
Everyone’s attention snapped to Fozzie.
“Details?” Hotshot said.
“Quincy’s daughter.”
“Tracy? Again?” Cooper sai
d. “Another wild goose chase?”
“Apparently not,” Fozzie said. “Quincy got a ransom note. He’s got thirty-six hours to come up with three mil, or his daughter is toast. No cops, no feds, no nobody. Tracy’s in Colombia.”
“So our last lead was right?” Manny said. “She was in Colombia.”
Fozzie nodded. “We missed her in Cali. Tracy’s botanical research and Rafael’s shadier botanical endeavors crossed paths. His deal is, he lets her go if Quincy gives him three mil and pulls whatever strings so Rafael’s packages cross the border without question.”
“How can Quincy do that?” Dalton asked. “We know he’s got the bucks, but are his government connections that strong?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Fozzie said. “We have our orders. While Uncle Sam’s minions are dicking around, we’ve got to get in and pull her out. Total communications blackout as of ten minutes ago. Nobody knows where we are. We’ll be at the compound for briefing and additional personnel in under two hours.”
Dalton thought of Miri. And of a chance to do something about Rafael. A battle raged in his belly.
Ten hours later, Dalton sat at the conference table in Blackthorne’s private jet, eyeing Quincy’s pale green complexion. “Relax, sir,” he said. “It’s what we do.”
The man gripped the armrest, his knuckles whitening. “You’re sure this will work?”
“If she’s there, we’ll get her out,” Manny said.
“One more time, mates,” Fozzie said. He looked to his left. “Harper?”
“I’ll be on the roof of the old factory.” He tapped an X on the diagram spread in the center of the table. “I’ll have a clean line of sight into the room where they’re holding Tracy.”
Assuming their intel got it right this time. But Dalton didn’t say anything that might sever Quincy’s fragile hold on his self-control.
“Manny?” Fozzie continued.
“I’m Quincy’s locally hired driver-translator-bodyguard-assistant.”
Manny’s Hispanic heritage made his assignment a natural choice. Normally, Dalton would’ve played the role, but he’d deferred to the team’s argument that since Rafael assumed he was dead, he’d be more useful in a less conspicuous capacity. Like invisible.