by Cindy Gerard
They’d tied her wrists together in front of her. The rope cut into her skin. She barely felt it, or the fingers banded around her upper arm like talons, as she was dragged to a stop.
Someone whipped off the hood. She blinked against the sudden light, willed her eyes to focus, then felt every muscle in her body freeze when she saw the man directly in front of her.
Vincente Bonilla. She’d seen pictures of him in newspaper articles about Mara Salvatrucha gang crimes. None of those grainy black-and-white shots, however, had conveyed the consuming evil in the MS-13 gang leader’s face.
“You must be some woman for a man to go to such lengths to help you.” Bonilla spoke from his “throne,” where he held court like a medieval king in the middle of a squalid room in a derelict building that hosted more than one kind of rat. “Look at me when I talk to you, chica.”
Not a chance. She was not his slave, and he was not her master. She looked down at her hands instead, hands covered in Doc’s blood that had dried to a rusty brown.
She closed her eyes and tried to block the picture of Luke bleeding out on her kitchen floor. He’d died for her. And for what? Bonilla was still going to kill her.
“I said, look at me when I talk to you, bitch!”
When she still refused to lift her head, the man holding her arm gripped her jaw and jerked her head up, forcing her to confront Bonilla.
“Yes,” Bonilla said with a satisfied smile. “I can see why a man might choose to die for you. Later, chica, I hope to find out just how much you’re worth.”
She fought to keep her knees from folding. Forced herself to hold his gaze now, let him see her defiance.
Bonilla glanced at the man holding her and jerked his head in a quick nod. “Bring her to me.”
The gangbanger dragged her forward and shoved her to within inches of Bonilla’s tattooed face. The hand that had gripped her jaw fisted in her hair and jerked her head back. Pain stabbed through her neck.
She bit back a cry, wouldn’t give Bonilla the satisfaction of knowing he’d hurt her.
His laugh was ugly as he reached out and drew his index finger along the side of her face. She knew what he was going to do before he did and swallowed back a gag when he slid his finger over her lips, then slipped it inside her mouth and stroked it across her tongue.
His smile was feral and amused. “You will be a fast learner,” he promised. He leaned forward, pressing his foul mouth over hers and replacing his finger with his tongue.
Yeah, she thought when the bastard squeezed her breast with brutal pressure, I’m a damn fast learner.
She clamped her teeth down hard.
Bonilla jerked convulsively away from her and roared in pain. “Bitch!”
She’d known when she bit him that he’d make her pay for it. He didn’t make her wait. He hauled back and slammed his closed fist into her jaw.
Crashing pain, consuming and electric, ripped through her head, and she felt herself falling. Felt another hideous onslaught of mind-shattering pain when she hit the filthy tile floor.
27
It was dark outside, but the lights were on inside when both vehicles roared to a screeching stop in Sophie’s driveway. The front door stood wide open.
A cold fist clenched around Wyatt’s heart and squeezed the breath out of him. Sheer adrenaline had him bolting out of the SUV, M-4 shouldered. He sprinted toward the door, peripherally aware of Green and Mendoza breaking right and running around the side of the house toward the backyard. Aware on a tactical level of Hugh and Gabe flanking him, automatically falling into assault entry mode, Wyatt fought a crippling fear of what they would find inside.
He stepped gingerly over the threshold, combat-alert, dread ratcheted up to overdrive. When he saw the devastation, shock sucked the breath out of his lungs like a vacuum.
Jesus.
Destroyed. Everything. Destroyed.
An overkill of holes riddled the walls in an abstract grid fashioned of bullets. Glass windows were shattered. Art had been shot off the walls. Stuffing poked out of upholstered furniture that looked like it had been splattered with double buckshot. But a shotgun hadn’t done this damage. This was the work of an automatic rifle.
This was the work of a kill squad.
Sophie.
All Wyatt could think about was Sophie.
“Clear right,” Gabe shouted beside him.
“Clear left,” Hugh followed suit, his voice tight with tension.
Wyatt crept slowly forward, afraid of what he’d find, afraid not to look.
“Dead banger,” Green announced as he and Mendoza appeared out of the dark by the sliders. Rifles shouldered, they stepped over a body and walked through the destroyed patio doors into the house.
“Jesus,” Rafe muttered when he saw the destruction.
Satisfied that the area was clear, Wyatt sprinted for the bedrooms. Adrenaline burned through his chest like hot wax. Hugh was right behind him, as frantic to find Sophie as Wyatt. Gabe followed on their heels as the three of them cleared the bedrooms.
Nothing. No one. No signs of a struggle in that part of the house.
“Doc. Oh, Jesus God, it’s Doc!” Mendoza roared like wounded animal.
Wyatt raced back into the living room, following Mendoza’s voice, then skidded to a stop when he saw the look in Joe Green’s eyes. Joe stood just inside the kitchen, his gaze fixed on the floor behind the counter on a spot Wyatt couldn’t see. What he could see were the heels of Mendoza’s boots, toes down where he knelt on the floor.
Green shook his head, then dropped to his knees beside Mendoza’s feet.
Wyatt sprinted around the counter and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Colter on the floor.
Jesus, there was so much blood. Inching across the floor like spilled paint. Covering Mendoza’s hands as he checked for vitals.
Wyatt’s own blood turned to sludge.
“He’s got a pulse.” Mendoza’s voice rose with guarded excitement as he leaned over their fallen brother. “Weak. Thready. Fast. And, fuck, barely there.”
He pressed his cheek against Doc’s nose. “He’s breathing. Just barely. Get Doc’s kit. His kit, his kit! Someone get his goddamn medic kit!” he shouted, just short of hysterical.
Wyatt joined Mendoza on the floor when Green bolted out of the kitchen in search of Doc’s medical kit. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know!” Mendoza’s eyes were wild with a fear bred by helplessness. “Doc’s the Doc. He fixes this kind of shit. Shit!” He swore again, raked a shaking hand through his hair, then pulled himself together. “Okay. What would Doc do? Stop the bleeding. Gotta stop the bleeding, right? Gotta keep him from going into shock.”
Wyatt didn’t say it, but he was afraid it was already too late to worry about shock setting in. Doc’s skin was pale, cool to the touch, and clammy. “Let’s get him on his back,” he said, forcing himself to push back his concern over Sophie.
Sophie, who was gone. Who was still alive—had to be alive. Otherwise, why would they take her?
He helped Mendoza carefully turn Doc onto his back, then sucked in a sickened breath when he saw the size of the hole in his side.
Jesus, how can he still be alive?
Mendoza swallowed hard and pulled his KA-Bar out of the sheath on his belt. He cut away the blood-soaked shirt surrounding the wound with shaking hands. “Get me a towel. Towel!” he demanded, frantic to save his friend.
Wyatt was already in the process of raiding Sophie’s cabinet drawers. He grabbed a handful of dish towels and shoved them into Rafe’s outstretched hand.
“Compression, right? It’s all about compression.” Mendoza pressed the stack of towels to the seeping hole in Doc’s belly. “Where’s that kit? Gotta be some Quick-Clot in there.”
Green came flying back to the kitchen just then. He skidded on the blood and went down, full out on his side. Without missing a beat, he scrambled to his knees, ripped open the bag, and ramme
d around inside until he found the clotting agent they’d all seen Doc use to field treat wounds.
Only once, though, had they seen a wound this big. This bad. Wyatt glanced at Green as Mendoza worked frantically to stem the blood flow, applying the quick-clot and replacing the blood-soaked towels with trauma dressings. Wyatt knew that Green and every one of the BOIs in the room were thinking of Bryan Tompkins, who had bled out in the mud and the rot and the gore of Sierra Leone. They couldn’t lose Doc, too.
“We’ve got to get him to a trauma center.” Mendoza glanced up at Wyatt, desperation clouding his eyes.
Wyatt looked to Hugh for information.
“You’re wasting valuable time on a dead man. We need to find Sophie!”
Only because he understood where Hugh was coming from did Wyatt resist planting a fist in his face. “Where?” Wyatt demanded on a roar.
“Closest hospital is Rosales,” Hugh said, having the sense to back off. “It’s a good forty minutes out.”
Gabe stepped into the kitchen, carrying an armload of sheets and bath towels. Green stood up and helped him fold the sheets into a litter, while Wyatt and Rafe carefully and quickly bound a bath towel around Doc’s torso in a makeshift compression bandage.
“He needs blood.” The quiet desperation in Rafe’s tone laid bare the depth of his fear.
Each and every one of them had been patched up by Doc at some point. Each and every one of them owed him his life. Now Doc’s life was hanging by a thread, and they felt helpless to save him.
“He’ll get it.” Gabe laid a hand on Rafe’s shoulder and squeezed. SOP required that the team knew one another’s blood type. And while each man there would bleed himself dry for Doc, the blood he would get would be Gabe’s. If he made it to a hospital.
“Let’s get him loaded.” They all gripped a corner of the sheet. “On three.
“Rafe, you need to go, too,” Wyatt said after they’d carefully loaded Luke’s limp body into the back of the Suburban.
Rafe gave a jerky nod, made a quick swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand, and climbed into the back with Doc.
“Call Nate. He needs to know.”
Gabe nodded and climbed in behind the wheel.
Wyatt didn’t have to look at Green’s face to know he wanted to go with them to the hospital. Hell, so did Wyatt. But Sophie was out there somewhere. And he needed both Green and Hugh to help him get her back.
He stood in the dark, hot night, watched with a lump in his throat as Gabe sped off to the hospital, following Hugh’s directions.
“Look, I’m sorry about your man,” Hugh said, breaking into Wyatt’s thoughts as he stood there wondering if he’d see Doc alive again. “But you’d just as well face it. Gut-shot like that? He’s not going to make it.”
Green spun around, got right in Hugh’s face. “Shut the fuck up!”
They were all stretched wire-tight. Just when it looked as if Hugh might not have the sense to back down in the face of Green’s rage, Wyatt’s cell phone rang.
He didn’t recognize the number on the digital readout. A sick feeling boiled through his gut. He glanced at Hugh and flipped open the phone.
“Savage.”
“Wyatt.” Sophie. Scared.
Wyatt’s heart slammed against his ribs. “Sophie, where are you? Are you hurt?”
A wild desperation filled Hugh’s his eyes when he heard Sophie’s name. He grabbed for the phone. Wyatt turned away from him, gripped the cell phone tighter against his ear, straining to hear her.
“No, I’m not hurt … but Doc … Wyatt, they killed—” That was all she got out before he heard sounds of a struggle.
“Wyatt Savage.” A gravelly voice grated over the line. “So, I finally speak with the man who has torn apart my operation.”
Bonilla. Wyatt fought to control his rage at the thought of Bonilla having his hands on Sophie.
“You hurt her, you’re a dead man, Bonilla,” he promised with stone-cold intent.
“Speaking of dead men. I trust you found yours where my men left him?”
A crippling wave of guilt swamped him. He’d wanted to smoke out Vincente Bonilla, but not at the cost of Doc’s life.
“You have caused much trouble, Savage. Cost me much money and many resources. I am way behind you on the body count.” A total void of emotion made Bonilla’s words all the more chilling. “The beautiful Sophie Weber will be a good start on settling the score, I think. Unless you want to pay to get her back.”
“I repeat. You hurt her, you’re dead.”
Bonilla laughed. “Perhaps we can negotiate a trade. Your life for hers would be a start, eh?”
“Sophie and the child,” Wyatt demanded. “You want the money, you trade for both.”
“Fine, but the price is double,” Bonilla agreed.
“Name the place.”
“La Cola del Diablo. Three hours. And come alone.”
The line went dead.
28
Hugh looked like a wild man when Wyatt hung up. “If that bastard hurts her, I’ll kill him.”
“You’re going to have to stand in line.” Wyatt rushed into the house. He dug through the rubble until he found the area maps on the floor. “La Cola del Diablo. What is it? Where is it?”
“Jesus.” Hugh’s face went pale. “La Cola del Diablo. The Devil’s Tail.”
Wyatt spread the maps out on the kitchen counter. “Show me.”
Hugh joined Wyatt at the counter. “It’s a spit of barren land in the middle of the jungle.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “About an hour south of the city.”
Wyatt scrubbed both hands over his face, his mind racing. “Why does he want to meet up there? Why not in the city, where he’d be in his element?”
“Because La Cola del Diablo is sacred ground to Mara Salvatrucha. They claimed it as gang territory years ago,” Hugh said impatiently.
“Bastards don’t know sacred from sacrilegious.”
“Trust me, it’s sacred to them. And they’d died protecting it. It’s the ritual he’s after. The Devil’s Tail is Bonilla’s killing ground. It’s where he stages his ceremonial executions.” Hugh looked worried. “What exactly did he say?”
“That if I wanted Sophie and Lola, I was to come alone and bring double the initial ransom.”
“Fuck that,” Joe said. “Even if you had the money, he’s not going to let you walk away from that alive. He’s not going to release Sophie or the girl, either.”
“So we figure out a way to make that happen.” Wyatt turned to Hugh. “You know how he thinks. How’s he going to play this?”
Hugh rolled a shoulder. “He’ll want to make it a spectacle, gather all of his lieutenants and put on a big show for them.”
“That would explain why he gave me three hours. He needs time to gather the troops. What kind of numbers are we talking?”
Hugh cupped his nape and shook his head. “His elite force is made up of thirty or so, maybe. All of them have maimed, tortured, and murdered to reach their lofty status.”
Wyatt nodded. “Okay. So he’s pissed that we put the hurt on his operations, wants to kill me in front of his big mouths. The ones sure to spread the word about how big and bad he is to keep the ranks in line.”
“And he’ll want to do it ugly. Beef up his ‘legend’ status,” said Joe.
Wyatt smiled with grim understanding. “Hell, he sees me as a recruiting tool.”
“He sees you fucking dead,” Hugh said. “And when the smoke clears, he’ll still have Sophie.”
“Like hell he will.” Wyatt’s phone rang again. Nate Black’s number showed up on the readout. Wyatt swallowed hard, then answered. “You talked to Gabe?”
“Yeah. Doc’s hanging on, but it’s bad,” Nate said. “Juliana’s reaching out to the medical community there. She’s tight with a trauma surgeon on staff at Rosales. He’ll take care of him. Now, fill me in on what’s happening.”
That was Nate. He was hurting over Doc as badly as the res
t of them, but he wasn’t going to wallow in what they couldn’t fix. The best thing any of them could do for Doc right now was to get the bastards who had done this to him. And the best thing he could do for Sophie and Lola was to keep a cool head.
Wyatt nutshelled the call from Bonilla, bringing Nate up to speed on what he’d be up against at La Cola del Diablo.
“What do you need from me?” Nate asked.
“The fucking moon, but I’ll settle for a distraction. Something to get Bonilla to forget about Sophie and Lola long enough to give us a window to get them out of there. I don’t suppose Uncle has any boots on the ground that you can reach out and put the touch on?”
The United States still had a number of Spec Ops units and resources stationed in El Salvador, the Army’s Special Forces—a.k.a. Green Berets, Green Beanies—most notable. Nate was a former Marine, but he had solid Army connections.
“What’s our time frame?” Nate asked.
“A little less than three hours.”
“Keep the line open. I’ll be back in touch,” Nate said, and disconnected.
Sophie saw nothing but pitch dark, felt nothing but stabbing, all-encompassing pain as they shoved the hood over her head again. She was hauled roughly to her feet, dragged back outside again, and shoved into a vehicle. A van, she thought, recognizing the sound of a door rolling on a track before it slammed shut. An engine roared to life, and the vehicle started moving.
For long moments, she just lay on her side on the cold metal floor of the van. Her head felt as if it had been split with an axe. A throbbing ache pounded in her jaw, warning her against opening her mouth in case Bonilla had broken her jaw when he’d hit her.
She squinted into the dark. Saw nothing but black cloth. Smelled nothing but dust and fear. Heard nothing but an incessant ringing in her ears, the beat of her own heart … and the ragged sound of shallow breaths.
Not hers.
Oh, God. Someone or something was in here with her.