In her line of work, Juliet butted heads regularly with alpha males. She'd grown accustomed to their games of one–upmanship. But these SEALs were a different breed of animal from the police she worked with. They didn't waste time throwing their weight around. They maneuvered like a well-oiled machine. And whenever a teammate spoke, each man listened intently, giving equal consideration to his colleague's opinion—especially Kuzinsky's.
The first thing they'd done was to set up the adjoining offices as a temporary command post, propping up the broken desk and laying out their equipment. An intelligent-looking man, who went by the name of Hack, set up a hotspot, got his laptop on line, and started to confer with an OGA, or other government agency, as Tristan kindly explained to her. She figured the OGA had to be the CIA.
Two more SEALs, nicknamed Bronco and Wolf, studied the old factory through specialized viewers that apparently detected the presence of human activity even through brick walls. The hard part was interpreting how many humans were present and where in the building they were located. In less than ten minutes, they thought they had something.
"Master Chief." Bronco called both him and the lieutenant into the room with the corner window. "We might have located the recovery targets. Check it out."
He handed Kuzinsky his binoculars while Wolf surrendered his to Lt. Sasseville.
"We've got signatures on the lower level putting out a normal range of movement. But there are more people on the second story who are hardly moving at all. Given that the windows up there are boarded, I'd say the tangos hang out on the first floor and keep their captives upstairs."
Juliet crept forward, dying to take a peek as Kuzinsky pointed the viewer at the building and considered the signatures for himself.
"I agree," he said.
Juliet's heart thudded. "Can I look?" she asked, peering at the gadget's display.
"You're not going to see anything you recognize." But he showed her the screen all the same and, sure enough, the squiggly lines meant nothing.
"Haiku," Kuzinsky called, whisking the viewer away to address the Asian-American SEAL handling their radio. "Tell HQ we have a fix on the recovery targets' location. Hack, let the OGA know."
Relief surged through Juliet, crashing over and retreating like waves on the shore. It was too soon to rejoice, but the rescue effort had officially begun. Emma and Sammy would be free sooner rather than later. She glanced across the room as Tristan looked up from the map he was perusing. He sent her a reassuring wink.
She jerked her gaze away, squashing the affection that bloomed inside her.
"So, Master Chief." Hack stopped fingering his keyboard. "Sorry, but there are no floor plans of the factory to be had on short notice. If they exist at all, they're on microfiche in some obscure government archive. I do know that the building went up in 1912. It became a bottling plant for Fanta in 1956. I've got satellite views and two old photos taken back in '86, but that's all there is."
Lt. Sasseville and Master Chief moved to stand on either side of him.
Master Chief studied the screen then pointed. "Looks like these were taken on the lower level, facing the rear of the building. Stairs run up the eastern wall."
Juliet inched around the room to get a peek at the black and white photos showing a large room filled with assembly line equipment and intermittent cement pillars.
"Pretty safe to assume the building hasn't been remodeled since," Lt. Sasseville drawled.
"Yes, but is the second story one big room like this one?" Master Chief crossed his arms and frowned. "I need men on that roof tonight to get a better feel for the layout." He pointed to the satellite image of the building's rooftop. "I'm assuming this door leads to stairs. Be a hell of a lot easier to take the stairs than to rappel off the roof and have to kick in the boarded windows. Also, I'd like to make sure the roof can hold the weight of a helo before we land a bird on it."
"I'll take first squad onto the roof with me tonight," the lieutenant volunteered.
Juliet flicked her gaze around the room wondering who first squad included.
"You'll need to go over the wall, cut the barbed wire."
Tristan spoke up suddenly. "Hey, we discovered some intel today." Everyone looked up at him. "We witnessed a duty rotation at twelve noon. It might happen again at midnight."
Master Chief consulted his watch. "First squad heads over as soon as it's dark then. Take the viewers with you and try to get a feel for where the hostages are located. If a fresh wave of tangos arrives, keep a count on their number."
"Do you want us to stay put over there?"
Kuzinsky shook his auburn head. "No, you'll roast when the sun comes up. Head back over here at zero two hundred."
Juliet hoped she had misunderstood. "You're not going to rescue them tonight?"
Every single set of male eyes turned to her, and she had to catch herself from taking an awed step backward. It was like standing on Mount Olympus, minus the goddesses.
She watched Master Chief send Tristan a look that clearly asked, Why is this woman here?
"I told you, Juliet," Tristan said softly, "we have to reconnoiter first."
"Right." Curling her hands into fists, she turned quickly, still under their watchful eyes, and stalked from the room before she embarrassed herself. They were going by the book, being professional, and she should thank her lucky stars they were there.
Reconnoitering made absolute sense. In her line of work, she did it all the time, stacking up the evidence before she made her move. Often, that was the only way to ensure that the perps were indicted and went to jail. Up until that moment, however, she hadn't fully appreciated how gut-wrenching it was for her clients to wait for her to take action.
She wanted action and she wanted it yesterday!
Leaning against the wall to calm herself, she tried to accept that at least something good would come from all of this. When she went back home and got to work again, she'd be more sympathetic to her clients' emotional state than she'd been in the past.
And she was going home. Soon.
And I won't be alone when I go back, she assured herself.
* * *
The steel door swung open, admitting light into the dark upper room.
"Jerónimo." One of the jefe's men called him from the lit stairwell.
It was finally time. Jeremiah had been pacing the dark room, envisioning the steps he would take to secure his liberation and then to contact his SEAL team. He knew they were somewhere nearby, unable to pinpoint his exact location but waiting and hoping for the least sign from him.
Making his way to Emma and Sammy's hammock, he bent over them to offer quick assurances. "I have to go."
Emma's fingers dug into his shoulders.
"Please, be careful," she whispered.
"I'll be back," he swore.
"Jerónimo. Apúrate." The guerilla swung the muzzle of his rifle into the room. Hurry up.
Emma's warm lips pressed a feverish kiss against the corner of his mouth, reminding him of their passionate union earlier. He'd promised it wouldn't be their last—and he intended to keep that promise. Sammy's delicate hand reached up and squeezed his shoulder, and he ruffled her hair before moving away from them.
As he crossed the room to the exit, he spared a thought for the Glock still immersed in the toilet tank. Better in there than on him, he decided. The risk of being caught carrying it out of the building wasn't worth the added insurance. Besides, unless his escorts numbered more than four, he didn't need a pistol to turn the tables on them.
Stepping into the bright stairwell, he lifted a hand in parting, only making out the ones he left behind by the whites of their eyes. The door clanged shut between them. With a heavy heart, he turned and trailed the man down the stairs into an area reeking with cigarette smoke and tequila.
The leader sat playing cards with his men. They all looked up at Jeremiah with varying degrees of hostility. Waiting for them to finish their game, he crossed to Sergio's hammoc
k to check on the patient. The man lay coated in sweat and lost to hallucination. His infection had progressed so far it was doubtful whether Bactrim would be able to restore him to health.
A collective groan broke over the table as César produced a winning hand. Pushing back his chair, he ground out his cigarette and ordered two of his men to follow him. The threesome walked over to Jeremiah.
"This is Hércules and Toro," César announced in heavily accented English. "They will take ju a la farmacia."
Jeremiah assessed his escorts. Both men were aptly named, being among the narco's heftiest henchmen. Each one carried an AK-47, along with a second weapon—a pistol for Hércules and a machete for Toro.
César told them in rapid-fire Spanish not to steal anything aside from the antibiotic—something about the police chief forgetting their agreement if they destroyed another local business.
Jeremiah made himself a mental note—local law enforcement was in bed with the narcos.
Hércules stood there scowling at him. "What if he tries to run?" he asked in Spanish.
"Ju shoot him if he runs," César responded in English so Jeremiah understood completely, then in Spanish, he added what sounded like, "but only in the leg. I need him alive."
Suddenly, the leader patted Jeremiah down, feeling for weapons, making him glad he'd left the pistol upstairs. "See, he has nothing on him. He's harmless. Go now. I want that medicine by midnight."
Clapping a hand on Jeremiah's back, Hércules propelled him toward the main door. Toro swept it open and, in the next instant, Jeremiah was stumbling off the stoop and crossing the yard toward the gate. Fresh air—cooler in contrast to the sweltering building—cleared the stench of cigarette smoke from his lungs.
He had no idea how far they would walk before reaching the pharmacy. The farther away it was, however, the more opportunity he would have to catch his escorts by surprise. He didn't doubt his ability to take them both down at once. He had envisioned every conceivable scenario in his mind and planned accordingly to avoid injuring himself. But luck still played a hand in it.
Lifting his gaze to the hazy night sky, he spied a few pulsing stars in the heavens.
Okay, Universe. I'm going to need your help tonight.
* * *
"Heads up, Master Chief. We've got movement in the arena."
Lt. Sasseville's warning coming over the radio snatched Juliet out of a light slumber. Jerking awake, she realized she'd fallen asleep with her back against the wall. A peek at her phone, which she'd been ordered to dim, showed that it was quarter to eleven. First squad, comprised of Sam, Bronco, and two guys named Bam-Bam and Cougar, had snuck away about an hour earlier to reconnoiter the roof while Tristan had stayed behind, along with Master Chief, Haiku, and Hack.
Their first report was a good one. The lower levels could be accessed from the roof via a set of stairs, the door to which would have to be blown open. Following that report, first squad had applied themselves to locating the recovery targets' location on the second story. They'd decided the captives were all in the same space near the front of the building. After that, they'd fallen silent while keeping an eye out for the night shift. In those quiet hours, Juliet had drifted off to sleep. The lieutenant's heads-up brought her wide awake.
"What's happening?" Master Chief Kuzinsky asked as he got up from the only chair in the room and stretched.
"We've got three men exiting the gate," Lt. Sasseville reported, prompting Kuzinsky and Tristan to snatch up night vision goggles and rush to the window. Juliet tamped down the urge to join them.
"Whoa," the lieutenant's voice exclaimed on the radio. "I think that's Bullfrog, leaving with two tangos."
What? Juliet scrambled to her feet and hurried to the window. Only Bullfrog? Where was Emma? Sliding into the space next to Tristan, she strained to see him, but the building next door blocked their view of the street.
"That's him," confirmed the voice she knew was the SEAL named Bronco.
"Do they see Emma?" Juliet whispered, wanting Tristan to convey that question.
Kuzinsky ignored her. "We're in pursuit," he said to the men on the roof. "Tristan, you're with me. The rest of you, stay put." He skewered Juliet with his dark eyes.
As they snatched up headgear and weapons and checked their radios, she hovered next to them wanting to articulate her fears. One horrible question loomed large in her brain: Did Bullfrog's lone appearance mean he was the sole survivor?
Tristan caught her eye. "We'll keep in touch via our headsets," he promised.
"Please," she whispered.
In the next instant, he and Master Chief vanished from the interior room to catch up to Bullfrog and company.
"How come we can't hear them?" she asked Haiku.
"There's no transmission unless they tab their mikes."
Terrific. Returning to the window, she strained to see any other movement, caught sight of something fleeting, but then all was still. The street stood eerily quiet.
On tenterhooks, she waited for an update. Suspense pinched the tops of her shoulders and her neck. She paced from the window to the inner office and back again, while Haiku and Hack kept perfectly still, poised to respond at the least indication.
Studying their silhouettes, she marveled that they could keep so quiet. The cops she'd performed stakeouts with tended to belch and fart and scratch themselves while waiting.
At long last, Kuzinsky's hushed voice floated out of the radio.
"We're ghosting Bullfrog about four blocks northeast of the factory. Destination unknown."
"You waiting to find out?" Lt. Sasseville asked, and Juliet realized for the first time that even on the rooftop of the factory, the other SEALs were wired in and listening, too.
"Leaving that up to Bullfrog. He doesn't know we're here yet. Stand by."
"Roger that."
Juliet held her breath. Even if this wasn't the rescue she so longed for, at least Bullfrog would know if Emma and Sammy had escaped the bus inferno. They had to have escaped. For them to have left her utterly alone in this world was unthinkable.
* * *
Now or later?
Jeremiah queried his intuition for the right time to make his move. The chill pooling in the pit of his stomach had kept him docile so far. But the opportunity to free himself was dwindling fast. Where the streets had been quiet so far, increasingly, he noticed signs of life. Cars and motorcycles moved along a nearby road. Lights shone from occasional windows. If he didn't want any witnesses hampering his escape, he'd better act soon.
He played it through his head, one last time. Roll left. Heel strike to Toro's back while seizing Hércules' rifle and jamming the butt into his nose. Wrest the rifle from his grasp in time to counter Toro's recovery and attack.
The twittering of a songbird nearly broke his stride. He pretended not to recognize Tristan's signature whistle, but his spirits rallied instantly and a great weight lifted off his shoulders. His teammates were here already! Hooyah! Not only that, but they had eyes on him!
Toro had cocked an ear toward the sound, but he kept right on walking, slightly ahead of Jeremiah. Hércules, deaf to anything but his own muttered threats, prodded Jeremiah once more between the shoulder blades.
He didn't hesitate before gesturing discretely for Tristan to intervene.
An infrared dot appeared on the back of Toro's head. No doubt there was one on Hércules, as well. In the next instant, there came an almost silent pop! pop!, and Toro hit the ground with Hércules falling simultaneously.
Jeremiah bolted from the scene, sprinting in the direction of the fired shots. Adrenaline lent him added speed. He darted into a side street and ran straight into Tristan, recognizable only by the breadth of his shoulders, as he was dressed in black, his face smeared with camo paint. He caught Jeremiah by the arms and swung him up against a building.
"Hey, you good?" he asked, eyeing him with concern.
"Yeah, yeah." But lightheadedness broke over him suddenly, and he had to s
ink into a squat, putting his head between his knees. "Haven't eaten much lately."
The sound of a candy wrapper being torn open encouraged him to straighten. He took the power bar Tristan held out to him. "Thanks."
A pebble crunched beneath the sole of a shoe and Jeremiah swung around, but it was only Master Chief, recognizable by his stature.
"Let's get out of here," he said, moving swiftly past them.
* * *
Jeremiah barely got through the makeshift command-room doorway when a woman threw herself at him, making him think of Emma.
"Juliet," he exclaimed, recognizing Emma's sister. "You're here, too?"
Emma hadn't been exaggerating when she told Sammy that her aunt was looking for them. He'd thought she would have stayed on the ship and returned to New Orleans by now.
"Of course I'm here." Short nails dug into his upper arms as she all but shook him. "Tell me they're alive," she ordered in a fierce, but fear-filled voice.
"Yes, they're alive," he assured her. "Emma and Sammy are fine," he added, except he couldn't shake the feeling that they were in more danger than ever. What had begun with the chill pooling in his stomach had morphed into a full-blown premonition as he'd watched Tristan and Master Chief drag the bodies of the dead narcos into an alley and conceal them. By the time they'd made their way to the safe house—the same tall building he'd spotted the day he'd broken a bit of plywood of the window and looked outside—he was certain something bad was about to happen.
He set Juliet at arm's length. "They're going to be okay. We're going to get them out of there." He said it as much to convince her as to convince himself. He'd made Emma a promise, and they had a lot of work to do if he was going to keep it.
"Here, drink this." Master Chief handed him a bottle of orange juice, and he quickly chugged it down.
"Now tell us what you know," Master Chief ordered.
He started from the beginning, recapping their tale of capture and including last night's altercation that had resulted in Joe's injury. "We have to go in tonight," he insisted.
Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) Page 19