by Cindy Gerard
“Tell Stephanie we say hi,” Doc added with a grin.
“I’m sure she’ll be tickled as hell to know you were all thinking about her before sunrise.” With his cell pressed to his ear, Joe lowered his voice to a soft caress, making it clear to all that Steph had answered.
“Hey, babe, wake up. It’s me,” he said, and walked out of earshot.
Stephanie and Joe. Wyatt was still getting used to it. For as long as he’d known Joe Green, Wyatt had never seen him with a woman. That didn’t mean he hadn’t ever been involved, it was just that Joe was a very private kind of man. The big guy was the silent, stoic type, professional to a fault, and pretty much dedicated to the job to the exclusion of having a personal life. In combat situations, he was a machine: cold, hard steel. The BOIs didn’t call him Mean Joe Green for nothing.
But a little more than six months ago, Joe had been assigned protection duty for Stephanie Tompkins. And something major had happened between them.
Steph was the daughter of Ann Tompkins—who just happened to be a deputy attorney general in the Justice Department—and Robert Tompkins, former adviser to President Billings. The Tompkinses, in turn, just happened to be a second family to each and every one of the BOIs.
Wyatt thought of their son, Bryan Tompkins, as his brother in arms. Hell, Bry had been like family to all of the BOIs, and he sure as hell shouldn’t have died on a mission gone wrong in God-forsaken Sierra Leone. He’d been too young, too good, and, like the others, Wyatt knew he would miss Bry until the day he died.
Yeah, Bry had been their brother, and since he’d been gone, the Tompkinses had treated the BOIs like adopted sons. Sam Lang had even named his own son after Bryan.
“Come home anytime,” Robert and Anne Tompkins had told them at Bryan’s memorial service. “You’ll always be welcome. Always have a safe place to land.”
That had been a lot of years ago. Time enough for all of them to part ways with the military and regroup again with Nate Black at Black Ops, Inc. Time enough for some of them, like Gabe and Sam and Reed and Mendoza, to meet and marry some of the most amazing women Wyatt had ever known.
Time enough, maybe, for Joe to realize that there was a woman worth loving. That woman was Stephanie, and damn if it didn’t look like Green might actually become a true member of the Tompkins family someday.
It had been apparent ever since the conclusion of that op—which had also sent Rafe Mendoza undercover to infiltrate a drug cartel in Colombia—that Stephanie and Joe had shared more than warding off the hired guns of a corrupt U.S. senator who had sent a detail to eliminate her.
Unfortunately for the senator, Stephanie, an NSA cryptologist, had ferreted out a security breach that led directly back to the senator. Consequently, Steph had become a regrettable “loose end” in an international plot to destroy the U.S. electrical power infrastructure and in the process drop the already ailing economy to its knees.
Thanks to the BOIs—specifically, Rafe and a tough-as-nails DIA officer by the name of B. J. Chase—now B. J. Mendoza—the senator and the Russian mafia and the Colombian drug cartel which were all in league with an al-Qaeda operative had been thwarted. A catastrophic event had been averted.
The U.S. government remained eternally grateful to the BOIs. Joe and Stephanie remained tight. And now Stephanie and her NSA connections were going to return the favor and help the team pinpoint the Mara Salvatrucha stronghold.
At least, that was the hope.
“She’s on it.” Green rejoined the guys at the table that was covered with maps and charts. “She put a shout-out to a buddy at the NRO, but he’s in a marathon closed-door meeting. Something very top-top. Could be ten, possibly twelve hours before he gets back to her, but she has hopes she can find out who’s tasking the spy birds and get us what we need.”
“So what’s the interim plan?” Doc asked.
Wyatt used a black felt marker to circle a dozen different locations on two different maps. “Looks like we get to play jungle boogie.”
The areas they’d pinpointed were a couple of hours south of San Salvador, deep in a triple-canopy rain forest. It was not only off-road, but the last several clicks appeared to be no road.
“We hit them one by one, pray we get lucky, and, if not, hope Steph gets back to us with an exact location before we run out of potential targets.”
Mendoza crossed his arms over his chest, his expression thoughtful.
“Something on your mind?” Wyatt asked.
Mendoza’s eye was transitioning from red to purple, but the ice was keeping the swelling down. “What if this Vega guy’s info is bogus? Are we seriously putting all of our eggs in his basket?”
“Yeah, that’s the money question,” Wyatt agreed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“What do we know about him?” Doc stood and stretched, then walked to the coffee pot for another refill.
“Only that Sophie says he’s solid.” He thought of her sleeping in the bed where he’d held her, naked and spent, her heart beating wildly against his.
“And what does Papa Bear say?” Gabe asked around another yawn.
“I say I’d like to have a little talk with Jorge Vega,” Wyatt responded, jerking his thoughts back to the moment, “before we head off on a wild-goose chase.”
“Or an ambush.”
Gabe had pretty much put the hammer to the nail, and, judging by the looks on the other faces surrounding him, the rest of the guys were thinking the same thing.
“Clock’s ticking, but I think I need to make time for a little up-close-and-personal with Vega,” Wyatt said. “See if I can figure out his angle. Maybe even get a little more intel out of him. If he knows this much, he could know more.”
Wyatt walked to Sophie’s desk. He would feel guilty for rifling through it for her address book if so much wasn’t at stake. When he found what he was looking for, he scribbled down Vega’s address and located it on the city map.
Doc looked over his shoulder. “At this time of the morning, with traffic at a minimum, it shouldn’t take more than half an hour to get there.”
“I’ll need a weapon.”
“Got you covered.” Gabe hitched his head toward the door. “H&K in the Suburban.”
“I’ll go along for the ride.” Colter pushed away from the table.
“We’ll all go,” Green said.
Wyatt shook his head. “You three stay here with Sophie. I don’t want to leave her vulnerable. Doc and I can handle this. Oh, and call Crystal.”
He stopped on his way to the door, checked his watch, and realized that, like Stephanie back in Virginia, Crystal, along with Reed, Nate, and everyone else at Juliana’s Bahía Blanca estate in Argentina, would most likely be sleeping. “Check that. Let’s not mess with the redhead at this hour. Text her so you don’t wake up the entire house. Tell her we need anything she can scare up on Diego Montoya.”
Doc frowned. “Montoya? Should we know that name?”
“He’s a big-money coffee baron here in San Salvador. He’s also a big question mark. Met him last night at the charity event.”
“You’re thinking this Montoya has something to do with the abduction?” Gabe asked.
What Wyatt was thinking was that he didn’t like the creep, and it was quite possible that the only reason he didn’t like him was his blatant interest in Sophie. Then again, there was something about the guy, something underlying his arrogance, that didn’t set right.
“I don’t know,” he finally admitted, stopping with one hand on the door. “Gut feeling. Just see if Crystal can find any connection to Montoya and organized crime, any shady dealings, whatever. Have her check on Vega, too. And while they’re at it, see if they can find Hugh Weber. Sophie’s ex,” he explained, not going into details. “He’s got his own security firm that he operates out of San Salvador. Has a history with kidnap recoveries. Right now, he’s out of country on an op and out of touch. We could use his help if we could find him.”
“Will do,” Gabe said
.
“If we’re not back in three hours,” he added as Doc walked out the door ahead of him, “call Nate, then get Sophie the hell out of here.”
15
Even though their past joint kidnapping ventures had been highly profitable, Vincente had begun to consider that it might be time to break the partnership. Now, in the middle of the night, was one of those times.
He did not like complications. The news that had reached him today had been disturbing. So he’d lulled himself to sleep on tequila, sex, and a slow-simmering rage.
Now he was forced awake again, opening bleary eyes to pitch dark except for the crack of light seeping in through the door Juan had dared to open.
He breathed in the scent of stale sex and sweet weed. The light from the hallway sliced across the tangled sheets, illuminating the rose and skull tattoo burned into Esmeralda’s naked back where she lay beside him. He hadn’t wanted Justina tonight. He’d wanted to wound someone. Esmeralda was younger, sweeter, cried so pretty when he hurt her.
“What?” he demanded on a hoarse growl as Juan entered the room.
Juan held out a cell phone. “He says it’s important.”
Complications, he thought again as he leaned up on an elbow, reached for the phone, and pressed it to his ear. Only one man brought him complications these days. “Speak.”
“We’ve got a problem.”
He grunted out a laugh. “No, you’ve got a problem. There are men in my territory. Three Americans. One Latino. All of them asking about the girl. You said this would be easy money.”
A quick $250K, his half of the ransom for the girl. After expenses, of course. Payoff for the policía would take a substantial chunk of cash.
“No resistance, you said,” he continued, reckless with his anger. “And yet who are these men? And how do you intend to make them go away?”
“I’ll take care of them,” his partner said. “In my own way. Right now, there’s an issue that needs your immediate attention.”
Vincente seethed with rage when he hung up the phone a few minutes later. Only the day before, this man had dared to call him out for taking the wrong child? Now Vincente had to fix a problem of his creation.
So be it. He would give this matter immediate attention. And tomorrow, he would remind his late-night caller who owned this city. Inform him that there would be no more complications. No more interlopers on his turf.
“Juan!”
His lieutenant appeared at the door.
“Tito and Benito. Get them here now.”
Five minutes later, his two soldiers had been dispatched to clean up the “big” man’s mess. Vincente would cover his ass. No matter that he was pissed. No matter that tomorrow, they would meet, and there would be new terms dictated for their partnership.
He lay back on the bed, rolled to his side, and slapped Esmeralda hard on her tight bare ass. She awoke with a start and shot to her knees beside him.
He smiled, reached out, and tweaked a tight pink nipple until she cried out. “Blow my head off, baby,” he whispered, and forced her head down to his jutting cock. “Yeah. That’s sweet. Very sweet …
“Tomorrow,” he grated out between clenched teeth as she labored over him. “Tomorrow, I think we will get your tongue pierced. A gold stud, yes?” He fisted his hands in her hair and guided her head to take him deeper into her mouth. “A gold stud to please your big gold stud.”
“The U.S. could take a cue from El Salvador’s street-numbering systems,” Doc said as he directed Wyatt toward Vega’s residence, then went on to explain that every city had a parque central— central park—at the intersection of the main street and the main avenue. The avenidas— avenues—always ran north and south, and those west of the main avenue bore odd numbers while those east of the main avenue bore even numbers. Same process went for the calles—streets.
“Makes getting around a snap, even in the dark,” Doc said after directing Wyatt to take a right turn.
It wouldn’t be dark much longer. They were pushing sunrise. Not a good thing, considering they didn’t want to be seen.
“Okay, slow down. There. That would be Vega’s house up on the left.”
He reached between his legs to retrieve a mini Uzi from the floor beneath the passenger seat while Wyatt circled the block. Other than a car parked by the curb two blocks down, all was quiet. Wyatt doubled back, then parked on a side street a block away. As soon as he killed the motor, Doc handed him a loaded H&K P10 9mm pistol and an extra magazine.
They slipped soundlessly out of the vehicle and tucked into their Kevlar vests. Keeping their profiles low, they cut across two backyards until they reached Vega’s house. It was a single-story rectangular structure in an upscale neighborhood. The backyard was enclosed in a six-foot-tall wooden privacy fence. Wyatt could hear a pool filter humming away inside the fence.
“You’re sure this is the right place?” he whispered as they scoped it out for the best method of entry. This wasn’t going to be a “friendly” visit. They didn’t have time to play nice. Wyatt wanted to scare the piss out of Vega before he made it clear that the truth, like Vega’s life, was on the line. They had no intention of hurting him, but it would be nice if they had the right guy.
“Guess we’ll soon find out,” Doc said. “Yes,” he quickly amended when Wyatt glared at him. “I’m sure.”
They had their heads together conferring about whether to simply walk up and pound the hell out of the front door or scale the backyard fence and break in, when three distinct pops shattered the night silence.
“That came from inside.” Doc hunkered down, taking cover. “Jesus. Sounded like a fucking cannon.”
A .45-cal, Wyatt figured. A subsonic round without the distinctive sonic crack of his 9mm.
“Someone else had a need to question Vega?” Doc speculated.
“Or shut him up.”
When another shot rang out, Wyatt took off for the front of the house. With Doc right on his heels, he rushed toward the front door, trampling flowers and bushes on the way, hugging the exterior stucco wall that still held the heat from yesterday’s scorching sun.
The door stood open a crack. With a quick nod that told Doc he’d go left and high, Wyatt burst inside, leading with his H&K. Doc came in low with the Uzi.
The foyer was empty. So were the living area and the kitchen. Wyatt touched a finger to his lips when he heard voices, then hitched his head in the direction of a hallway. A narrow sliver of light arrowed across the tile floor. He followed the light to where it ended at a door that stood slightly ajar.
He could hear mean laughter on the other side, interspersed with rapid-fire Spanish. They were gloating over the kill. High on adrenaline and blood lust.
Doc held up two fingers.
Wyatt nodded. Yeah, he heard two distinct voices, which meant there were two guns to contend with. With another nod from Wyatt toward Doc, they took positions on either side of the doorway. They’d made these kinds of entries so many times their actions were as automatic as breathing: move and shoot, get off the X and out of the fatal funnel of the doorway.
On Wyatt’s signal, they charged into the room.
Both men inside swung around to face them, automatically lifting their weapons.
Wyatt rolled left, and Doc rolled right, both leaning on their triggers. Wyatt popped at least three rounds into one man’s chest with his H&K before the shooter ever fired a round from his handgun. Doc’s aim was just as deadly. The second shooter dropped like a stone, blood trickling out of a dime-sized hole right below his eye socket.
Wyatt’s ears rang like church bells; the scent of gunsmoke and blood filled his nostrils as he rose quickly to his feet, rushed to the downed men, and kicked the weapons out of their reach. Not that it mattered. They were both dead. Lifeless eyes stared up from faces covered in tattoos typical of MS-13 gang members.
He slowly turned to the other man lying spread-eagled on his back on the floor. Doc had already reloaded and was quickly cl
earing the rest of the house.
“Vega?” Doc asked when he returned to the blood-splattered room.
Wyatt nodded. “Bastards tortured him,” he said. Vega had been shot at least half a dozen times. “They shot holes through his hands, into both feet and knees.”
“Figure they found out he ratted them out to Sophie?”
“Either that, or they wanted to find out what he knew.”
For one split second, as he stood there, the sound of gunfire still ringing in his head, the scent of blood and death permeating his senses, and Vega’s dead eyes staring up at the ceiling, Wyatt felt a hatred so strong it was dizzying. Hatred for the corruption that lowered men to such inhuman levels. Hatred for all the similar scenes he’d either come upon or been the cause of during the course of his life.
Hatred for himself.
Yeah, he was supposed to be one of the good guys. Yet here he stood. Playing in the very same sandbox with the very same toys, right along with bottom feeders like MS-13.
Good guy. Bad guy. In the end, there was a very fine line that separated them.
“Savage?”
He stared another moment at the poor bastard, Vega, a man who had been trying to do the right thing and was dead because of it. Then he headed back out into the night. “There’s nothing we can do here.”
If Doc wondered about Wyatt’s silence on the ride back, he was wise enough to keep his questions to himself. They rolled back into Sophie’s drive a little before six a.m., fifteen minutes after a sunrise Jorge Vega would never see.
Gabe looked up when the front door swung open. “That was fast.”
Doc responded to the guys’ curious looks when Wyatt shouldered on into the house without a word. “Doesn’t take much time to question a dead man.”
“Dead man?”
Wyatt stopped cold.
Sophie.
He turned and saw her standing in the hallway. Clearly, she’d overheard Doc’s remark. He hadn’t wanted her to find out about Vega’s execution. He glanced at Gabe and saw by the look on his face that someone had filled Sophie in on where they’d gone.