Wrath of the Gods (A James Acton Thriller, #18) (James Acton Thrillers)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Rosa shook her head and tapped the scar on her shoulder. “Cut it out.”

  Laura shook her head. “No, it’s too dangerous. Besides, they can’t track us now. We destroyed their tracker.”

  Rosa glanced at the glass powder on the ground where Laura had crushed the display, the remnants tossed into the bushes. “But what if they have another one?”

  Laura paused then looked toward where the others were. “I only saw one. Did you see another?”

  “No. But where we’re going, they’ll have many and will know we’re coming.”

  Laura frowned as she stared toward the north, then at the scar. “Okay.” She pulled her knife. “Any idea how deep it is?”

  Rosa pushed her finger into the scar, the small hard nub just below the surface. “Not very.”

  Laura used the confiscated lighter to heat the blade and Rosa gulped, feeling weak. “Umm, you know what you’re doing, right?”

  Laura stuffed the lighter in her pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. She handed it to Rosa. “Get the tweezers out. Small silver thing at the top.”

  Rosa pried the tiny device out. “This?”

  “Yes. Now sit down, I don’t want you collapsing on me.”

  Rosa sat, Laura kneeling beside her. “I’m going to do this quickly, okay. It’ll hurt like a bitch, but it’ll be over fast.”

  Rosa squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away, realizing Laura had never answered her question. She cried out, slapping a hand over her mouth as Laura sliced at her arm. “That’s one…”—another slice—“…and we’re done.”

  Rosa turned to examine Laura’s handiwork, the pain already subsiding.

  “Tweezers.”

  Rosa handed them over.

  “Okay, this is the worst part.”

  Rosa’s eyes shot wide as Laura used her fingers to spread open the bleeding wound then reached in with the tweezers. Rosa gasped in pain, biting down on her finger as tears rolled off her cheeks.

  “There’s the little guy!”

  And then the pain was over.

  “Got it!”

  Rosa opened her eyes and saw Laura holding the tiny device she hadn’t seen since the day it was injected. It hadn’t been covered in blood then, and she had never imagined it would hurt so much to have it removed. In fact, if she thought about it, no one had ever discussed how they would be taken out. It made her wonder if anyone ever survived long enough to worry about it.

  Laura placed it on a rock then smashed it with the butt of her handgun. She cleaned the wound with some hydrogen peroxide from the first aid kit she had taken from the campsite, then taped a dressing over the wound. “There you go, good as new.”

  Rosa gently pressed against the bandage and winced.

  Laura packed up the supplies then pointed toward the wound. “When we get back to town, we’ll have that properly looked at. You might need some stitches.”

  Rosa nodded, wondering how she would pay. “Is that expensive?”

  Laura grabbed her and gave her a hug. “Don’t you worry about that, I’ll take care of it.”

  Rosa smiled and returned the hug, feeling good about herself for the first time in months.

  You chose the right side.

  53

  Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  “We’ve lost the signal.”

  Chris Leroux spun toward Randy Child. “What?”

  Child motioned toward the large display. “The signal’s gone.”

  Leroux rose from his chair and walked toward the display showing the path the lojacked survivor had taken, the pulsing dot indicating an active signal, now gone. “Malfunction?”

  “Doubt it. Those things are designed to last a long time.”

  Leroux’s eyes widened as he turned back toward the others. “You don’t think—”

  “That they cut it out! Dude, that’s sick!”

  Leroux exhaled loudly, agreeing with Child’s assessment. But what other possibility could there be? His eyes narrowed. “They still work if the subject is dead, right?”

  Child nodded. “These ones do. Bodies in the morgue, remember?”

  Leroux grunted, realizing his question was stupid. “Okay, something happened to kill the signal. If they were killed, then we’d still be getting a signal unless it was a miracle shot that hit the device.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Agreed. So either it malfunctioned, or was disabled somehow.” He stared back at the screen. “Either way, we know which way they’re headed.” He glanced over at Sonya Tong. “Any luck on the drones?”

  Tong shook her head. “No, the Mexicans are still refusing. They’ve launched their own and said they’d let us know if they find anything.”

  Leroux frowned. “Lovely. So much for cooperation.”

  “I think they’re pissed at us for some reason.”

  Leroux grunted. “Huh. I wonder what that could be.”

  54

  Municipal Police Detachment

  Tepich, Mexico

  Officer Hector Santana stared at what had once been a small though efficient police station. Bodies were strewn about, bullet holes scarred the walls and furniture, and blood stained too many surfaces. Fortunately, they were all alive, the dead limited to those who had attacked them.

  And there was only one reason for that.

  The Americans.

  Who they were, he had no clue. Probably some special DEA team. It didn’t matter. They had saved his life, though probably sealed his fate. Too many of El Jefe’s men were dead today, and he and the other police officers here would take the blame. No one would believe Americans had shown up and saved the day. They would be blamed for the deaths. He would be blamed for killing one and arresting another earlier.

  And they had what El Jefe wanted.

  The bodies.

  They were obviously after the transmitters, just as the Americans had been. They had been excited by the discovery, and he wasn’t certain why. These people were dead. Why would someone want to track corpses? He paused as he spotted a tablet computer held in one of the dead attacker’s hands. He pulled it from the man’s stiff grip and stared at the display. A cluster of red pulsing dots were shown, the overlay clearly of the police station.

  And then it dawned on him.

  There was obviously something that all these transmitters had in common, and if that information fell into the wrong hands, it could lead to every single drug lab El Jefe had.

  He looked at the others, fear gripping him, for what he now held was the key to putting El Jefe out of business for good. And it was something El Jefe would stop at nothing to possess.

  Nothing.

  He gripped the tracker tight.

  I’m already dead.

  55

  Forward Staging Area

  Mahas, Yucatan, Mexico

  “I hope Red starts shaving his head again. That damned fuzzy thing he’s got going right now is freakin’ me out. He looks like a tennis ball decked out for Valentine’s Day.”

  Spock snorted. “Oh, man, he’s so hearing that one.”

  Niner shrugged. “I can outrun him.”

  Atlas eyeballed Niner. “Not for much longer with those chicken legs.”

  Niner lifted one foot up onto a toe, twisting it and striking a pose worthy of a Paris runway. “These legs?”

  “Those legs.”

  “You’ve been checking me out in the shower again, haven’t you?”

  Spock slapped his forehead. “You had to get him started.”

  Atlas waved his hands. “Don’t be blaming me. He’s always going there. The boy’s confused.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” added Spock with his best Seinfeld impression.

  “Hey, I could give a shit which side of the vine he swings on, I’m just sayin’, pick a side and move on.”

  Niner opened his mouth to defend himself when a large, black Chevy Tahoe rounded a corner, followed by a black seda
n, both racing toward them. Dawson put a hand on his sidearm when the vehicles came to a halt. The door opened, and a man sporting government-issue sunglasses stepped out.

  “You White?”

  Dawson nodded and a set of keys were tossed to him.

  “Courtesy Langley. There’s a care package in the back.” The man climbed into the idling sedan, its tires chirping as the driver pulled a 180.

  Dawson tossed Niner the keys. “You drive.”

  Niner grinned at Atlas.

  Atlas rolled his eyes and motioned toward the SUV. “This thing’s as big as a boat.”

  “So?”

  “They say women make better ship captains.”

  Spock spat the water he had just taken a swig of and Dawson clamped down on his cheek, trying to stop from laughing. As he closed the door, Inspector Alfaro rushed over, waving his hand.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Sightseeing.”

  “Again?” Alfaro eyed him for a moment. “You didn’t happen to go sightseeing in Tepich earlier?”

  “Why?”

  “There was an incident at a police station.”

  Dawson shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

  Alfaro stared at him then pointed at his vehicle they had borrowed earlier. “Then how do you explain the three bullet holes in the door?”

  Without missing a beat, Dawson replied, “You live in a very dangerous country.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention it?”

  Dawson shrugged. “I’ve been to Chicago. Felt like home.”

  Alfaro shook his head then came to a decision. “I can’t let you leave with your weapons.”

  Dawson unclipped his holster, removing his sidearm. “No problem.” He handed the weapon over followed by his MP5, the others doing the same. “I’ll expect to get those back when we return.”

  “From sightseeing.”

  “Exactly.” Dawson pointed ahead and Niner hit the gas, leaving Alfaro behind. “Let’s go see where this El Jefe lives.”

  “I hear it’s in a lovely part of town.”

  Dawson turned around to see Atlas and Spock going through the care package. “We good?”

  Spock grinned. “Oh yeah, we good.”

  56

  South of Tepich, Mexico

  Acton tumbled, his foot catching on a hidden tree root. Reading reached out and grabbed him by the arm before he did a face plant, helping steady him.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re lucky I have reflexes like a cat.”

  Acton gave him a look, suppressing a smile. “By cat, you mean Garfield, right?”

  Reading chuckled. “With an attitude like that, I might just let you fall next time.”

  Acton opened his mouth to deliver his retort when he stopped, a voice slightly raised from Diaz, the tension in the air obvious among their captors. Three men were now missing, and it seemed pretty clear to Acton that they were dead. After all, if the shots they had heard were from Diaz’s men, they’d be back by now.

  And they weren’t.

  “Let’s pick up the pace. We’re only a few kilometers from the compound and I want to get there before dark.”

  Intentionally slowing these now scared men could get them killed, so Acton complied. He was still tied at the waist to Reading, Reading to Morales, but their hands and feet were free to facilitate their movements. The problem was they were too close together, and their enemy was separated. There were only three now. If he were to try and jump Diaz, there was no way Reading and Morales could get to the others—the rope was too short. They’d just end up yanking him away from Diaz.

  His fingers casually ran over the knot then past it, not wanting to risk being caught. It was large and amateurish, which meant it would be difficult to untie. There was simply no way they would be overpowering these men as long as they stayed separate.

  “I can’t take it any longer!”

  Diaz stopped, and they all turned toward one of the two men bringing up the rear. “What?”

  “I have to know!” The man’s eyes were wide, sweat beading on his forehead, his movements rapid along with his breathing. He was having a panic attack, which could make him dangerous. “Maybe we’re moving too fast for them to catch up! Or maybe they’re hurt!”

  “Who cares?” replied his companion. “Less to share the ransom with.”

  “You fool, there’s no ransom! El Jefe will just kill them as soon as we get there, then all of this will have been for nothing. They’re slowing us down.” The man glared at Acton. “We should kill them now.”

  Diaz chewed on his lip, his eyes drifting between the prisoners, the panicked man’s words resonating.

  And Acton couldn’t let that happen.

  “Did I tell you just how rich I am?”

  Diaz paused, his eyes focusing on Acton. “No.”

  “Hundreds of millions of dollars. Even El Jefe will want his share of that.” Acton stepped closer to Diaz, the rope tugging on Reading. “Keep us alive, and after we’re free, I’ll personally make sure each of you gets a million in cash.”

  Greed spread with a smile across Diaz’s face.

  57

  Santana Residence

  Tepich, Mexico

  Officer Hector Santana yanked open the door and stepped inside the home he had lived in for almost twenty years. It was humble, but it was his, containing all the memories of a life well-lived.

  “Is that you, Hector?”

  “Yes.” He strode quickly through to the kitchen, the sounds of his wife already preparing food for him, echoing through the hall.

  “I’ll heat you up some dinner. It won’t be as good as it would have been earlier, but at least it’s something.”

  His nostrils twitched with delight from the smells of hours ago. But he shook his head, turning off the stove. “No, there’s no time. Are you alone?”

  Her eyes narrowed as she laughed at him. “What kind of question is that? Of course I’m alone.” She eyed him. “What, you don’t trust me?”

  He grunted, shaking his head, there no time for humor. “No, I mean are any of the kids visiting?”

  “No, of course not.” She stopped. “What’s going on? You’re frightening me.”

  He pointed toward the bedroom. “Pack a bag. You’re going to your sister’s.”

  Her eyes widened. “What? No I’m not. I’ve got too much to do tomorrow. Besides, you know how she is with people just dropping by. She probably won’t let me in the door!”

  He took her by the arm and led her toward the bedroom. “Something happened. Something bad.”

  “What?” The fear in her voice was palpable, the realization that this was serious, finally taking hold.

  “A lot of people are dead. A lot. And there’ll be a lot more before this is over. I need you out of town so I know you’re safe, and we don’t have much time. The last bus for Mexico City is leaving in half an hour, and I want you on it.”

  She nodded, rushing ahead of him and grabbing their only suitcase. “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.”

  She stopped tossing things inside the bag and turned to face him. “I want you to come with me.”

  He shook his head. “No, I might be the only one who can stop this.”

  58

  Quintana Roo Cartel Compound

  Tepich, Mexico

  El Jefe sliced into his sixteen-ounce prime rib, the blood spilling out onto the plate, mixing with the garlic mash. He dipped the tip of his steak knife into the neat serving of horseradish and removed a generous helping, smearing it on the meat. He bit into it and chewed, closing his eyes as he moaned in ecstasy.

  Rita giggled and he opened his eyes before swallowing. He stabbed the air with his fork, pointing at the steak. “There’s nothing like a good, rare steak, grilled just right.”

  Rita took a dainty bite, moaning herself, giggling like the airhead she was. She was perfect for her purpose. A convenient place to park while the wife wa
s away. He frowned. She’d be back tomorrow, and chaos would return to the household—chaos he didn’t need, not with the trouble Galano was causing him.

  But she was the mother of his children, so he couldn’t just kill her, not without hurting his daughters, and if there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was seeing tears in their eyes. They were the best part of him, and he loved them dearly. He just hoped they grew up to make him proud.

  Otherwise, he’d have to slit their throats.

  The door burst open and his tech guy, Rayas, stormed in, his face red, sweat pouring down his forehead, his portly frame swaying side to side as he rushed toward the table.

  “Rayas, you’ve gotta drop a few tons or you’re going to have a heart attack.”

  “Si, señor.” Rayas eyed the food, distracted from his purpose.

  “You interrupted our dinner to stare at my steak?”

  Rayas tore his eyes away. “No, um sorry, El Jefe, but we just got a call from one of the cops on our payroll. Our guys sent to hit the police station are dead. All of them!”

  El Jefe rested his hands on the table, still gripping his utensils as a rage built within. “How?”

  “Don’t know. Somebody showed up. Maybe Federales.”

  “Are they still there?”

  “No. They spoke with Santana then left. Santana left as well, but he took the tracking tablet.”

  This put El Jefe over the edge and he leaped to his feet, the chair skidding across the floor as he whipped his knife at the wall, the blade embedding itself deep into the plaster. Rita yelped, curling up into a ball in her chair. El Jefe pointed at Rayas. “Send everyone. I want them all dead. And I want those damned transmitters.” He lowered his voice to a growl. “And find Santana and bring him to me. I want to kill him personally.”

  59

  South of Tepich, Mexico

  Laura listened as a heated discussion took place between her husband’s captors, dissension clearly in the ranks.