The four SEALs in second squad just looked at him.
In the faint glow of Hack's computer monitor, he could make out Master Chief scowling at him. "Why?" his leader demanded. "What are you seeing?"
His colleagues had learned to take his intuition seriously, and his insistence had gotten their immediate attention. But he didn't want to give voice to his premonitions with Juliet in the room, so he offered up a secondary reason.
"When César's men don't come back, he's going to assume someone's on to him. Either he'll relocate the hostages, or he'll just... get rid of them like he did to the others on the bus."
Juliet's stifled gasp made him wince. There just wasn't any delicate way to talk about this.
Feeling Emma's pull on him, Jeremiah broke away to gaze out the window in the adjoining office. With a painful tightness in his chest, he stared up the street at the dark factory building. Silence filled the room behind him.
Emma. He could sense her fear from here. She was starting to doubt whether he would make it back. I'm right here, English.
Kuzinsky's stealthy footfalls announced his approach. He stood next to him a moment. "You know I hate being rushed," he stated.
But the resignation in his tone told Jeremiah he would act tonight. His eyes closed and he exhaled slowly. They were going in. The hostages would soon be rescued.
"We've already got men on the roof," Master Chief pointed out, talking himself into an insertion, "and you can describe the layout of the entire building, correct?"
Jeremiah turned to face him. "Absolutely."
"All right then. Let's go talk to Sam."
Together they returned to the inner office to get on the radio. Master Chief snatched up the transceiver. "LT, do you copy?"
"Affirmative."
"Bullfrog says we need to execute tonight. He'll describe the building's layout and anything else we need to know. What are your thoughts?"
Sam hesitated. "Works for us," he said. "Is this before or after the night shift rolls?"
Jeremiah had almost forgotten about the rotation of César's men. A fresh influx came every night at midnight. According to his watch, which Tristan had recovered from a pawn shop, they had half an hour before the next shift rolled in. Putting out a hand, he requested the handheld, and Kuzinsky gave it to him.
"Hey, it's Bullfrog," he said. "What if we show up in lieu of the night shift?"
He described the rescue the way he saw it unfolding, with first squad coming off the roof at the same time as he and Kuzinsky knocked on the front door in place of César's men. With two avenues of escape cut off, the narcos would all flee out the rear exit where Haiku and Hack would pick them off.
"Yes, do it," said Juliet from across the room.
Jeremiah felt a jolt go through him. Her voice was so like Emma's.
"Bullfrog?" It was Lt. Sasseville questioning his sudden silence.
"I'm here." He deliberated telling Juliet to be quiet. Any distraction at this juncture could not be tolerated.
"Okay, we're happy to do this any way you—oh, fuck. What now?" the lieutenant interrupted himself.
"We've got company," drawled Bronco, who was with him.
The unexpected announcement sent every SEAL, including Jeremiah, dashing to look out the window.
No, no, no! He raged at what he saw—a total of three vehicles idling at the factory gate. Someone got out and cut the lock with a pair of bolt-cutters, letting the chain hang free. That same man swung the gate open, and the convoy proceeded inside, disappearing behind the ten-foot walls.
Just like that, Jeremiah's plan to rescue the hostages went up in smoke. His intestines twisted slowly into knots. The newcomers had to be the source of his latest premonitions.
Kuzinsky donned his headset and tabbed his mike. "How many unfriendlies, Sam?" he asked.
Jeremiah heard the answer coming from the speaker in the other room. "I count six—make that seven."
"Shit," said Tristan, who was standing next to him. And from the far wall, he heard Juliet give a moan of denial.
"Heavily armed," Sam's voice added. "Looks like they may be enemies of César Salvador's—or not. Someone just opened the door for them. Wait a fucking minute... Isn't that—?"
His voice cut out as he released his mike to confer with one of his teammates. A second later, he added in an excited whisper, "You're not going to believe this, Master Chief. One of the newcomers is El Cuchillo, or a dead ringer for him."
Astonished silence filled the temporary operations center.
Jeremiah's heart sank. He tore his gaze off the factory to gauge Kuzinksy's response.
Kuzinksy went perfectly still. Then he swiveled on his boots and marched back into the inner office. The remaining SEALs followed him, ready to take orders.
"Hack," Kuzinsky rapped out, "tell the OGA our suspicions, and ask them if El Cuchillo has a presence in Mérida. If he does, tell them I want ten more men here within the hour. We can't let that sonofabitch get away a second time."
Jeremiah swallowed down bile burning his esophagus. Suddenly, this wasn't a simple rescue operation. SOCOM and the CIA's top priority wouldn't be the safety of the hostages. It would be the capture—or unavoidable death—of the notorious drug overlord. He'd escaped confinement the last time they'd captured him. He wouldn't be so lucky this time.
Chapter 18
At the sound of vehicles pulling into the yard, César Salvador glanced up from his brother's waxen face, a splinter of alarm sliding beneath his skin. Hércules and Toro should have been the ones showing up with the medicine, but they hadn't left in a vehicle, so who was outside?
"Quién es?" he demanded, waving one of his men to the window to check. Only a few loyal men held keys to the gate and none of them owned vehicles.
Chucho, who'd imbibed a fifth of rum over cards, rolled out of his hammock and staggered to the window. Peering through the adhesive tint, he stared a moment then turned back with a look of alarm. "Es El Cuchillo!" he cried.
A humming sound filled César's ears. He swung a panicked gaze around the filthy lower level of the building. Of all the times for El Cuchillo to drop in unexpectedly—this was the worst. Not only had his soldiers made a mess of their living space, but most of them were wasted, sleeping off their last hour as they waited to be relieved of duty.
What did El Cuchillo want with him at this hour—surely not his fealty money? He had to know it was too soon for that.
A crisp knock at the door left César no time to conceal the steel safe standing conspicuously against the wall. On leaden feet, he crossed the room to let the capo in. Summoning a wide, plastic smile, he threw the door—and his arms—wide open.
"Jefe!" It was best to make El Cuchillo feel welcome. After all, without the overlord's protection, the police chief would have chased César out of Mérida months ago.
"Welcome, Tío,," he continued, pulling the older man inside and embracing him with as much warmth as he could pretend to feel for a man who was not his uncle and would just as soon kill him as look out for him. "Come in, all of you."
He waved the posse inside—all but one man, who turned his back on them in order to guard the front entrance.
The much-feared capo stopped just inside the threshold and looked around. Envisioning the room through his superior's bespectacled eyes, César cringed.
"You must forgive the filth my men have made," he said, blaming his underlings for the state of the place. "Chucho, secure the door," he ordered. "Pedro y Sutura, clean off the table. Get El Cuchillo a chair. Rápido!"
Fussing and clucking, he escorted the gran capo to the table as his men worked desperately to clear it. For his part, El Cuchillo remained stoically silent. His gaze fell upon Sergio, lying half-dead in his hammock.
"What's wrong with your brother?" he asked.
"An infection," César admitted. "Some of my men have gone to fetch medicine for him. Please, sit," he added, gesturing to the chair he had pulled out. "Can I get you something—tequi
la?"
The capo's hair—it had turned silver since César had last seen him in prison—glinted under the halogen lights as he turned his head to consider the table. This isn't a social visit, César realized. In fact, El Cuchillo's men had positioned themselves throughout the room, surrounding his inebriated narcos in a menacing semi-circle. Every one of them bore sneers of contempt and scars to prove their mettle. An assortment of weapons bristled from their bodies. César's greatest ambition was to become one of them.
"I have come for my fifty percent," El Cuchillo announced, confirming César's realization.
His mouth turned dry. "Of course. Of course, Tío. But you must know it's too soon." He spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "It's only been days that I have held these gringos. Not all of the ransom money has been paid—in fact, very little."
The spectacles that gave El Cuchillo such an intelligent demeanor magnified the chilling ruthlessness in his muddy-brown eyes. "How much do you have?" he inquired, fingering the knife at his waist that had given him his fearful nickname.
César sent a dismayed glance to his safe. Every last dollar he had stolen from the tourists, the money he'd made pawning off their jewelry, and every withdrawal he'd managed to get at an ATM from the captives' bank cards would be taken from him tonight. His heart broke at the thought of parting with it.
He would have to comfort himself with the sum that he'd made the old couple transfer to his secret bank account.
"All that I have is yours," he stated generously. His men gaped in astonishment, but even in their sotted states they were quick to glean the reason for César's charity. El Cuchillo would just as soon slaughter them all than put up with any competition. If they wanted his protection, it would have to be on his terms.
Crossing to his safe, César toggled the lock, gathered up the contents, and carried the bills to the table where he spread them out making it look like more money than it actually was.
"Help yourself, compadre," he invited.
Without any outward expression, El Cuchillo pulled out a chair and sat before the bills to count them.
"Suturo," César hissed, "get him a drink!"
As Suturo laid out three shot glasses, filling them from a bottle that trembled in his hands, César took the chair next to his overlord.
"How is your wife?" he asked, determined to engender feelings of camaraderie in the formidable old man. Back in jail, they had gotten to know each other fairly well.
El Cuchillo reached for the fifties first. "She is sick," he said, counting them by two's.
"Don't tell me!" César professed his dismay. "I'm so sorry to hear it. Give her this money. Tell her it is from her husband's most loyal friend."
With a snort of disgust, El Cuchillo kept right on counting.
* * *
"OGA says they've secured the perimeter, Master Chief," Hack announced. "They've picked up two of César's night shift already and plan to snag the rest. We're cleared to approach the building."
In the muted light of the temporary operations center, Juliet's heart beat a painful tattoo as she watched Kuzinsky jam three spare magazines into the loops of his webbed belt. What was supposed to be a simple rescue operation had turned into an inevitable firefight where the main objective was to capture or kill a high-value target. No one had so much as mentioned her sister and niece since El Cuchillo came on the scene.
"Bring all the firepower you can carry," Kuzinsky said to his underlings. "You remember what happened in Palenque."
The comment wreaked havoc on Juliet's imagination. El Cuchillo had obviously put up a fight before he was taken the last time. The fact that Kuzinsky expected a similar outcome turned her blood to ice-water.
Hack looked up from his laptop. "The OGA wants access to our radio frequency," he reported.
"Oh, come on," Tristan scoffed. "We don't need them meddling in our operation."
"Give it to them," Kuzinsky said to Hack. "Don't forget who we're dealing with, Halliday," he added.
"Only the biggest, baddest capo in Mexico," Haiku chimed in.
A shiver traced Juliet's spine, top to bottom. Hack shut his laptop and the room went dark. As he began sliding it into his pack, she realized that he was leaving, too. They were all going to jump into the fray and just leave her there.
"What about my sister and niece?" she demanded, speaking up suddenly. "Who's going to protect them when the bullets start to fly?"
With an apologetic glance at Kuzinsky, Tristan made his way quickly toward her.
"Listen," he said, pulling her into the room with the window so others wouldn't overhear. "Your sister and the other hostages are still a priority. We've got this covered. You don't need to worry."
"Like hell I don't," she protested, focusing on the man she'd recently shared so much with. Yet Tristan's face, slathered in camo-paint, looked unfamiliar, and suddenly, he was a stranger, simply a man doing his job with no emotional connection to her or to her family. After all, he had Bullfrog back.
She curled her hands into fists and tried to keep her voice down. "You're already outnumbered. You know El Cuchillo is heavily armed and that he's going to resist being taken. Who's going to protect the hostages if you're all busy shooting?"
"We'll protect them," he reassured her. "We've done this a million times. We know what we're doing."
"Let me help," she pleaded. "I really want to help."
He heaved a sigh. "You can't help us, Juliet. I hate to say this, but you'd only be in the way. Having you around would only serve as a distraction. "
That word again. She wished she'd never used it in the first place.
"Here, take this," he urged, pressing something metallic into her palm.
Recognizing the familiar contours of a nine millimeter, her fingers closed instantly around its reassuring weight. The thought that she could use it to kill men who'd stolen her family elevated her pulse.
"Only use it to defend yourself," Tristan added. "You're going to be up here all alone, for a while anyway."
Like hell I'll be up here. Releasing the clip she was heartened to feel that it was full of bullets.
"Let's go," Kuzinsky called from the other room. "We're moving out."
Tristan caught the end of her chin and forced her gaze up. "Don't do anything stupid," he warned, as if sensing her private thoughts.
She knocked his arm away. "You promised me we'd get Emma and Sammy back."
"Hey." Her vehemence obviously surprised him. "We will. It's all good, honey. Everything's going to work out. You'll see." He went to hug her but she pushed him away.
"Go," she ordered.
With a sigh and a searching look, he turned and disappeared out of sight—and seconds later, out of hearing.
"And don't call me honey," she muttered, but no one was left to hear her.
Right then, it was crystal clear that, despite the camaraderie she had enjoyed with Tristan, in spite of his ability to make things seem better than what they were, and even in the face of her devastating attraction to him, they had no future together. If she were the kind of woman to indulge in a long-term relationship—which she wasn't—she could never do it with a man who answered to orders before he followed through on his personal commitments.
She'd thought they had an understanding. Apparently not. Tristan couldn't be counted on to ensure that Emma and Sammy emerged from the current situation unscathed. She would have to do that herself.
* * *
"Two thousand twenty three." El Cuchillo laid the last dollar bill down on the pile he'd created while counting the money. Helping himself to a second shot of tequila, he then leaned back in his chair and sighed.
To César's hopeful eye, he appeared slightly more relaxed.
"This is not nearly enough money to ensure my protection," the capo stated with a shake of his head. "You will have to give me more. Much more."
César's chest hurt. "And I will, Tío. I will," he assured him. "Soon the ransom money will come flowing in
. I will give you fifty percent on top of all this. Please, it's yours. Buy something special for your wife."
"Hmph." By the glint in El Cuchillo's dark eyes, he saw straight through César's generosity to the fear that engendered it. "I tell you what," he continued, slamming the shot glass onto the table and making César jump. "I will take three female hostages with me now, and leave you with all the ransom money."
At first the offer struck him as a good deal. The ransom notes had all been sent. Money would be transferred into his secret account whether the captives upstairs lived or not. On the other hand, he had gone to the trouble of capturing the Americans. He felt unmistakably possessive—especially of the women.
"It will cost you less to feed them," the capo added.
Yes, but he had planned to sell them to a pimp after the money came in, and now El Cuchillo would do that, profiting from the price they commanded. White women had to be worth more on the black market than he'd realized.
Regret vied with greed. For a split second, he weighed his odds of overcoming El Cuchillo and his posse and keeping the money and the women for himself.
But in his peripheral vision he could see the capo's henchmen tensing in anticipation of a backlash. Given their firepower and their fighting experience versus that of his wasted, good-for-nothing hoodlums and his unconscious brother, he stood zero chance of winning such a battle.
"Of course, jefe. You should have asked me for the women earlier. All that I have is yours," he repeated. "Come, come." Pushing back his chair, he gestured for the capo to rise and join him. "Inspect the women for yourself and pick out any three who please you."
El Cuchillo's dark eyes slid over him looking for weapons, but César carried none. Gesturing for two of his most trusted men, the capo rose and followed him.
On his way up the stairs, César turned and called down, "Cucho, turn on the upstairs lights!"
* * *
The lights blinked on unexpectedly, so bright that Emma flinched.
She'd been lying in her hammock as stiff as a board listening to the voices penetrating the concrete floor. The worry that Jeremiah would come to harm and not make it back kept her from falling asleep. People had entered the building recently—could he be one of them? Perhaps he'd brought the local police with him. The words she could overhear were clearly in Spanish.
Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) Page 20