Bombshell - Men of Sanctuary Series, Book Three

by Danica St. Como

  He massaged his temple. “New intel. I checked in with the M.E. According to Blake, he ruled Smitty’s death a homicide. Neck broken, dead before he went off the cliff. Traces of chloroform blistering around the mouth and lips. The use of chloroform would explain how Ms. Holokai disappeared so quickly and quietly. Especially the quietly part.

  “People, I don’t need to remind you that this mission is unsanctioned, totally unauthorized. Volunteers only. If anyone wants to bail out, now is the time. Believe me, I will understand. We’ll all understand. The Fibbies are gone. According to Garrett, they’re back in Boston and already working their next case. If we wait to go through channels, Keko may not survive. Make no mistake. The FBI and the NSA are not gonna want to hear about us working on gut instinct, but we’re the best—the only—chance she has. If this goes wrong, we may lose Keko and our asses are gonna fry.”

  Lucian grinned. “If this goes right, we’ll save Keko and our asses are still gonna fry.”

  * * * * *

  Keko kept her hands moving, but not necessarily productive, dragging out the moments. Guys—please be fantastic at your jobs. Make me proud. MacBride, I’ll even move in with you, wash your dishes, do your laundry, have your babies—ten of them—I pinky promise.

  Just get me out of here!

  She attempted to engage her captor in conversation, with the hope of distracting him, taking up more time. “Doesn’t it bother you at all to be a traitor, to betray your country? To help terrorists destroy democracy and murder innocent people? I don’t understand.”

  Captain Perfect gave her a supercilious look. “Terrorists? Stupid woman. You have no idea what goes on in the real world, do you? Democracy only works for those with money. Lots of money. Then it works like a dream.”

  She didn’t have a sleeve on her once sparkly tank top, so she used a rag to wipe her brow. “Okay, since we’re stuck here together, educate me. What’s the real scoop, if you’re not embroiled in an almighty jihad? If I remember my history, democracy and jihad don’t exactly mix well.”

  She must have pricked his ego.

  He pulled himself upright, postured like a rooster. “You build bombs, yet you have the unadulterated gall to castigate me?”

  “Look, fella, we usually blast tunnels and road beds and deep wells, and bring down buildings without damaging anything around them. What we do is just a tad different from blowing up people on purpose, just to make a point. Or to grab their sand to add to your sandbox.”

  “Don’t get all righteous, Ms. Holokai, demolitions expert. Your people are all ex-military, and there are buckets of blood on their hands. Our work is the same—the difference is that we get paid for it, you don’t. You’re poor patriots, we’re wealthy businessmen. Meaningless labels for different results.”

  Ooh, a lead. “What the hell are you talking about? We’re well-paid for the jobs we do.”

  “Seriously? You’re paid a pittance, compared to the money available for people with your talent. Do you have any idea how much your job skills are worth out there, on the open market? Millions. Millions.” He swung his arm toward the nebulous out there. “You still don’t get it, do you? We don’t give a damn who wins battles, who wins wars—as long as the fighting continues.”

  “Huh? Okay, let’s try this again. What the hell are you talking about?” This guy is beginning to freak me out. His mind has gone ‘round the friggin’ pipe.

  “Conflict, you foolish woman. Conflict. Wars generate money—huge amounts of money. Billions. Can you understand the concept? Billions! Billions for firearms, weapons, troop training. We’re not rebels or revolutionaries or jihadists. We don’t care about your so-called righteous causes. Why should we live in mud huts or eat sand every day? We are a consortium of businessmen. The ventures are a straightforward case of economics. Peace brings an end to our income. The right push at the right moment, the right leaders assassinated, the right people moved up the political ladder .

  … We can juggle wars forever.” He straightened his legs, then crossed them again, fussed with his fucking seams one more time.

  “Too bad about bin Laden—he was losing his edge, but the fear of having him on the loose made us a bloody damned fortune. No so much with Gaddafi. No matter.

  We’ll find fanatical tyrants to take their places soon enough. It is purely business, after all.” He smirked.

  His cold-hearted declaration sent chills racing over Keko’s skin. At first, she couldn’t even find the words. Then they tumbled out of her mouth. “You’re fucking insane! Psychotic! You incite riots, conflict, wars, kill innocents by the thousands? For the money? For the fucking money? That’s too horrific to even contemplate. You hide under the vanilla labels of finance and profit, of consortiums? You’re not businessmen, you’re all a bunch of bloodthirsty fucking psychopaths! Murderers. Assassins. And you sit there, all front of the bus, and insist it’s just business. Business!”

  She threw a screwdriver at him. Her hand shook so badly that the screwdriver missed its mark by a wide margin. “Demented goddamn motherfuckers, the bunch of you.”

  Captain Perfect rose, stepped close. Without warning, he backhanded her across the face, the blow hard enough to drop her to her knees. Lording over her, he sneered.

  “Fool. That could be. But we’re very wealthy psychopaths. And I enjoy living above what was, in the past, my piddling corporate pay scale. Now I measure cash in how many inches thick the pile is. If I want a new sports car, I buy a new sports car. If I want a new yacht, I buy a new yacht. If I want women, I can buy them, too. Even with your skills, you are expendable. If we want a new one of you, we can buy one. Probably a quieter model.”

  Keko wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand, stared at the red streak on her skin. “For fuck sake, your overinflated ego defies description, you self-righteous bastard. I should have insisted that you shoot me from the get-go. Preferable to listening to your brand of narcissistic lunacy.”

  “Too late now.” His upper lip lifted, and he sure as shit wasn’t Elvis. “You should know these little beauties—the bombs you built—have a very special mission. If we don’t kill you first, chances are you’ll commit suicide over the sheer guilt that will choke the breath from your lungs over what you’ve done.”

  She rose to her feet, reached the end of her chain.

  He backed away.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Meet the new companions, for however brief a time, of your incredibly naïve President and Vice President.” The weird tone of the man’s voice gave her goose bumps.

  And not the fun kind.

  The scorn oozed from his words. “Hail to the Chief and his second in command.

  President and Vice President, gone, poof! The Speaker of the House will be totally consumed with running the country in the ensuing chaos. The American people, even the fucking doves, the bleeding heart peaceniks, will insist on retaliation. Demand retaliation. Our people will be moving the chess pieces around the world any way we please. Conflicts will continue. Our income is guaranteed for decades. New World Order? We are the fucking New World Order.”

  His mouth twisted in an ugly grin; he bowed from the waist. “And all thanks to you, my dear. All thanks to you.”

  Keko dragged her chair closer, sat down. Hard.

  “Cocksucker. You can’t be serious. It won’t work. Number one, the Pres and Vice Pres don’t hang out together, for that very reason. Number two, you’ll never get these explosive devices past their Secret Service details.”

  He laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. “You don’t need to worry your pretty little head over the logistics. We have it all worked out, down to the last detail. The Secret Service isn’t infallible. The holes in their protocols and procedures have been proven, time and time again. After all, how safe is our illustrious President when an air traffic controller in another country can announce Air Force One’s flight plans on his damned blog?”

  Holy shit, is that true? She cl
osed her eyes, shook her head at the madness. Is this lunatic for real?

  * * * * *

  The sound of vehicles pulling up in the yard coincided with the turn of the last screw on the second bomb. Keko closed the clear plastic covers, then banged her fist on the door for Captain Perfect, who’d gone outside.

  “Your toys are done, asshole.” Sweat dripped from her brow. Without electricity to the site, there was a limit to the amount of lines the generator could handle; the lights and fans were directed at the components. With the workshop shut up tight, when she moved away from the directed fan breeze, the heat took over. The day that began cool and gray was now sunny and warm. The heavy tree canopy killed the breeze, trapped the humidity close to the ground.

  As soon as the door opened, Keko pushed past Captain Perfect to breathe fresh air. “Damn, it’s stifling in there.”

  She stretched the chain as far as it would go, giving her about six feet from the building. “Hey fuck-face, don’t touch anything!”

  “Watch your mouth, bitch.” He cocked his fist, as if he would strike her again.

  Keko stuck her jaw out, daring him. “Oh golly gee whiz, what will you do, shoot me?”

  Without warning, someone grabbed Keko roughly from behind, held her so she couldn’t see his face.

  She yipped in surprise. “What the … .?” A fleeting impression of a swarthy man with a need to shave. And bathe.

  “Get your hands off me, you freakin’ barbarian.”

  The man grabbed her hands. In a smooth move, he duct-taped her wrists behind her back again.

  “Don’t turn around, woman, or it will be my great pleasure to shoot you where you stand.”

  Captain Perfect unbolted her chain from the floor, handed the loops to her new jailer. What felt like the muzzle of a pistol was shoved hard against the middle of her back.

  “Move, American bitch.”

  All righty then, this boy’s a far cry from a good ol’ New England patriot. “Fuck off.”

  “Shut your filthy mouth, woman, or it will be my great pleasure to cut out your tongue.” He pushed the muzzle between her shoulder blades. “I said move.”

  She tried to dig in with her feet, which proved tough to do with the poorly fitted socks. “I want my jacket and shoes.”

  “What makes you think you will have any need for them?”

  “Do you have any idea how long it takes to find the perfect Christian Louboutin stiletto half-boots in black suede? Do you know how much those suckers cost?”

  He shoved her again.

  Keko’s body, stiff after working bent over the devices for hours, couldn’t navigate the rough weedy terrain without difficulty. Dragging a length of the heavy chain across the ground didn’t help matters, nor did her feet being swathed in oversized socks. The woolly weave picked up every thorn, plant sliver, and stick.

  Moving her eyes, not her head, she did what recon she could. On the other side of the work shed were four small cabins arranged in a semi-circle; they were obviously not in the best state of repair. Parked in the overgrown yard, between the cabins and the workshop, were two long-bodied, fifteen-passenger, shuttle vans, with heavily tinted windows. White in color, fairly new, not rusted or beat up. No company logo. Nothing to identify them or attract attention.

  From the far side of the vans, a spate of male voices spoke excitedly in what sounded like a Middle Eastern tongue, which Keko could not identify. They made no effort to keep the ensuing racket subdued. They must feel awfully secure here. Not good for me. She tried not to turn her head too far, but ended up twisted ever so slightly to catch any helpful intel.

  The movement must have been noticed. Her captor rapped the side of her face sharply with the butt of his automatic pistol. “Keep your eyes forward. Do not force me to take further action.”

  Keko stumbled, moaned in pain. Well, that was fucking brilliant.

  He shoved her again, directed her away from his confederates until she reached the rear of the last cabin. Despite her previous bravado, chills ran up her spine. Okay, does he plan on shooting me here?

  A small wooden shed with rotted slats stood about thirty feet closer to the edge of the woods.

  Again with a fucking shed. I don’t goddamned well think so!

  Before she could do more than direct a kick his way with her free foot as her last hurrah, the man slung her over his shoulder, carried her the last few yards, then threw her down on the wooden floor inside the shed. With her hands still trussed behind her back, she cursed as bits of tree bark and log debris bit into her shoulder.

  He secured the end of her chain to another newly installed ring on the floor. “I would rather whip you for insubordination for the enjoyment it would bring, then shoot you, and be done with it. But, we may need you alive. My compatriots argue to use you for their pleasure before you die. This may yet come to pass.”

  The jailer nudged the side of her face with his foot, but it was a halfhearted effort. “Pray to your own useless god during your last hours on Earth, and know that he cannot save you.”

  She spit out a chip of pine bark.

  “Kiss my ass, fella. Maybe I like whipping, so stop teasing me with promises of a good time.” She didn’t have time to protect herself from the next kick. This one had some effort behind it. She heard Kamaka’s voice in her brain— Miss Keko, when will you learn to keep your poi hole shut? She could still taste the blood in her mouth from Captain Perfect’s love tap; now her gut ached where her jailer caught her with the toe of his sturdy combat boot.

  He jiggled the door latch from the outside, ensuring the door stayed closed. His boots crunched the tree debris underfoot as he marched away.

  Buddy boy, not only do you smell like a goat, but you have no idea what you’re letting yourself in for. My death will be avenged, you can bet your camels on it.

  Pulling herself into a sitting position with her hands still bound behind her, Keko maneuvered her fingers beneath the hem of her ruined shirt, then under the waistband of her panties.

  She took in a deep breath. Held it. MacBride, baby, sorry we won’t have the chance to duke it out in bed again. You certainly opened my eyes to new possibilities. She exhaled. Here goes. Secured with duct tape to the skin above the crevice of her buttocks was a simple timer mechanism. She pressed the button, began the countdown.

  Ten minutes, asswipes, until you all meet Allah. Ten minutes until you discover if the legend of the seventy-two virgins is true.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thursday, late morning

  Adam grabbed Mac’s arm in a death grip, to prevent him from breaking cover, when Keko’s captor manhandled her and tossed her into the shed. “Stand down, frogman. Not yet. Our position is advantageous. Don’t blow our cover. She’s tough, she’ll manage. Wait for Lucian.”

  Mac had to nod his agreement before Adam would release his iron grip.

  Lucian appeared on cue, silent as a hunting owl at midnight. He kept his voice low. “Quite a party, hoss. The SUV must belong to the dude in the spic n’ span field uniform. Smitty’s old Jeep is parked next to it, so we’re definitely in the right neighborhood. Each of the two vans unloaded six bearded curly-haired yay-hoos. One of the jolly fellas took Keko to the shed, then returned to his scout troop.

  “They all marched into the building Keko vacated, a baker’s dozen, chattering like a flock of excited turkeys. One of them carried a pair of briefcases, with what looked like metal covers. Either he’s bringing in something important, or expectin’ to carry out the crown jewels. Don’t know why two cases, though.”

  Adam kept his voice as low as Lucian’s. “All inside the garage? No guards?”

  “None that I can see, which is odd. Unless someone is hiding in the other buildings, but the cabins are in really rough shape. The covered porches are rotted through, the windows all broken out, so I’m thinking the cabin floors might not hold anyone.”

  Mac shook his head. “They must be feeling mighty secure to be this careless.”
<
br />   “Either mighty secure, or dumb as wooden fence posts. I’m tending toward the disposable cannon-fodder aspect. Possibly simple transporters. I don’t know why two vans, though, unless they’re using the buddy system. Go from point A to point B, fast-food drive-throughs, don’t stop, rotate drivers. So, dumb as fence posts is good for us.”

  Lucian re-tied his long hair into a ponytail to keep it out of the way. He took his Marine Corps cap from his back pocket, then settled it on his head, brim facing backward. He secured his sidearm, slung his rifle strap over his shoulder. “Ready to go, hoss.”

  “Is there enough cover to reach firing positions?” Adam asked. It was his job to take out the insurgents. He adjusted the strap on his sniper rifle.

  “Absolutely. All sorts of usable overgrowth. Especially if we move now, while they’re inside.”

  The men suddenly heard knocking and pounding, which appeared to be coming from Keko’s prison.

  “Shit, she’s trying to escape. They’ll hear her. Cover me.” Mac crouched like a runner at the starting line, then sprinted across the clearing toward the shed before either of his friends could stop him.

  Adam brought his rifle to his shoulder, cocked and ready. “His dick is going to get us killed.”

  Lucian broke out his firearm, checked the slide. “Hoss, you’d do the same if it was Lorelei.”

  “Shut up, Dr. Phil.”

  * * * * *

  If I’d planned on being kidnapped, I would have damn well-worn hiking boots. Her hands took a beating as she rolled around on the wooden floor. The metal shackle ripped into the flesh of her ankle. Where are those nice padded cuffs when ya need ‘em?

  Keko kicked the socks off her feet, so she had better control. She lay on her back, knees raised, aimed both bare feet to pound against the door again. As dilapidated as the building appeared, the latch on the shed door didn’t seem to be giving way. She knew it was fruitless, but felt she should do something, anything, to escape.