Seduction Under Fire

by Melissa Cutler

  He tossed a photograph on top of the pile, the image zoomed back to encompass the landscape and water for a good ten miles in either direction, and pointed to the water edging the first property on the north side, four estates from their target. “We’ll swim in from here. Once we’ve breached the shore, we’ll follow the fence line of Milán’s property to the foliage under the south-side balcony. From there, subduing the tangos will be as easy as plinking cows with a BB gun. To get in that position, though, we’ll need a diversion for the guards.”

  Aaron took Camille’s cell-phone detonator out of his pocket and set it on the table. “That, I can handle.”

  * * *

  Camille woke in darkness. Lying prone on the hard ground, she rolled to her side with a wince. Her head was killing her.

  The layer of crust on her lips tasted like blood. Not surprising.

  She squirmed her way to a seated position with her back resting against the wall to take stock of the situation.

  Damn. Once again she was a cartel hostage, imprisoned in an empty, cell-like room. This time, her hands had been bound in front of her with zip ties. This time, she was without Aaron or a rusty chair or even a window.

  She was clothed, which was a bonus, because the air was cold and pungent with the smell of dirt. As if maybe she was in a basement...or a dungeon. She looked at the bare ceiling, made visible by the thin strip of light streaming under the door, and hissed through the pain when the back of her head hit the wall.

  She’d done the right thing, pushing Aaron from the taxi. If they’d both been captured, they’d both be trapped in this room with little hope of rescuing either themselves or Rosalia. If they’d both jumped from the car, the chance of one of them getting shot would’ve been too great. But with Aaron free, he could get help from the ICE unit standing by to rescue Rosalia, which was all that mattered to Camille. They could follow the tracking device to the cartel’s stronghold, save the little girl and shut down the cartel.

  Whether or not that’s where Camille had been taken remained to be seen. Either way, sitting around waiting for help wasn’t in her blood.

  She tested the zip tie around her wrists. Made of heavy-duty nylon cable, it had been tightened to a snug fit that cut into her skin.

  No problem.

  She crawled to the thick metal door and listened for a sound of approach but heard none. Satisfied that she had at least a couple of minutes to work, she tucked her knee up close to her body and untied a shoelace.

  One of the first lessons she’d learned as a Special Forces cop was of the innumerable benefits of paracord, the superstrong nylon rope used for parachutes and a million other tactical applications. Jacob taught her that the simplest way to guarantee a ready supply was to use it as shoelaces. Military-grade paracord wasn’t sold at every corner store, especially in Mexico. But Walmart carried the next best thing, a braided polyester utility cord. She’d swapped both her and Aaron’s regular laces for it—and thank goodness she had because it was about to break her out of prison.

  Once she’d cleared the lace from the shoe, she tied simple loop knots at either end and secured one loop around her shoe. She threaded the cord through the zip tie, then slipped the second loop over her other shoe. Voilà. She had herself a genuine friction saw.

  Rocking back to balance on her butt, she pedaled her feet in the air, moving the cable fast over the zip tie like a saw. It snapped within seconds.

  With her ear to the door again, she listened. No sound. Excellent.

  She made quick work of lacing her shoe and stood, turning in a slow circle. Now for the hard part. How the hell was she going to break free from a square cinder-block room with a solid metal door? She looked at the broken zip tie in her hand and had her answer.

  Five minutes later, she’d finessed the lock open and eased into a dark, quiet hallway.

  Voices filtered through the ceiling, adding evidence to her theory that she’d been locked in a basement. It’d be helpful to know for certain, but what she needed, more than anything, was a lethal weapon. At the moment, all she had at her disposal was the broken zip tie. While it had made a great lock pick, and would probably work well as a shiv, unless she was within striking distance of someone’s artery or eye, she’d need to come up with something that packed a bigger punch.

  Somewhere nearby, she heard a faint sneeze. A child’s sneeze.

  Step by quiet, deliberate step, she approached the nearest door and put her ear to it.

  Minutes ticked by. The talking continued upstairs, but Camille was starting to wonder if perhaps it was a television.

  She moved to the second door and listened. After a minute, something inside the room rustled. Then, with the voice of a little girl, the person in the room began to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

  Camille sagged with relief against the door. Rosalia. And she was alive and within her reach. She put her ear to the metal again to double-check that the girl was alone. The worst that could happen would be for her to walk in on Rosalia sitting with her father.

  When she was certain Rosalia was alone, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  Rosalia sat in the middle of a small bed covered in a faded yellow quilt. She had a doll in her hands and seemed to be making it dance to the song she sang. When she saw Camille, she startled.

  “It’s okay, Rosalia. I’m a friend of your mom.”

  Rosalia blinked up at her, considering. Camille closed the door and looked around. This room had no window either and was as cold as Camille’s holding cell had been. A pile of clothes sat in one corner and a few toys lined the wall. A bucket sat near the door and one whiff told Camille it had been used as a toilet. At least the bastards had provided Rosalia with a bed.

  “I remember you,” Rosalia finally said. “From my papa’s other house. Your hair’s different now. It’s brown like mine.”

  Camille sat on the bed. It wiggled as though the frame was barely holding together. “Yeah. My friend helped me with it.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  She took the girl’s hand and smiled. “Oh, Rosalia. I am so happy to see you. What do you say we find a way out of this place so I can get you back to your mommy?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Stand over by your clothes for a minute. I need to get something from under your bed.”

  With Rosalia out of the way, Camille wiggled a metal bar of the bed frame until it snapped off. Still not as effective as a gun, but a hundred times better than a zip tie. Despite that, she tucked the tie into her pocket. One never knew when a shiv might come in handy.

  * * *

  Fifty yards from shore, water slapped at Aaron’s face as he treaded water in the Sea of Cortez alongside the rest of the ICE unit. The wet suit offered some protection, but even in Mexico’s tropical climate, the winter sea was frigid and choppy. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to fire his gun anytime soon because he was losing the fine motor functioning of his fingers.

  They’d stopped one property over from their target to assess the situation.

  Milán’s backyard was decoratively lit, with each palm tree and flowering bush individually illuminated by spotlights on the ground. The windows of the house were dark with drawn drapes, save for one on the first floor, which glowed with the light of a television behind sheer white curtains.

  The swimming pool threw its artificial blue-green light around the patio and lit the two guards from the bottom up, highlighting their legs, weapons and necks as they stood between the pool and the house, facing toward the sea. Their hands rested on rifles that hung at gut level in front of them.

  Aaron’s objective was to position himself along the dock between the yacht and the speedboat. Then he’d blow up the delivery truck.

  When Santero gave the go-ahead signal, Aaron inhaled deeply and swam as fast as he could toward the boats. Though his lungs burned, he pushed himself to remain underwater until his arm hit the yacht. After another big breath, he submerged again and traced his
way to the right, along the curve of the hull, until he hit the slimy underbelly of the dock between the two boats.

  Santero had matched him stroke for stroke in the water. As they’d agreed on, Dreyer, Wells and the rest of the team were farther back, behind the yacht.

  Aaron slung the waterproof pack he’d carried onto the dock, but his fingers fumbled with the tiny zipper. Santero tsked impatiently. After a few clumsy attempts, Aaron shoved his fingers in his mouth to warm them. As soon as the painful sting of life returned to them, he tried again and this time, he succeeded.

  He powered up the cell phone and dialed the numbers he’d memorized.

  A deafening boom resounded all around them as a fireball belched into the sky, momentarily transforming night to day. Splinters of wood and debris rained over the house.

  In sync with Santero, Aaron plunged underwater, swam under the dock and kept going all the way to the far edge of the property. He was aware of the rest of the team doing the same but kept his focus on moving through the water as fast as humanly possible.

  A quick scan told him the guards had gone to investigate and the backyard was empty. On Santero’s command, they swam ashore and sprinted into the shadows of the fence that ran along the side of the house. The air on land felt downright balmy against Aaron’s face and hands compared to the water, and his limbs rapidly regained full functionality. They divided into two groups, with one team scaling the balcony on the south side and the other on the north. Aaron had been paired with Santero, Alderman and Dreyer.

  Distant shouting and the footfalls of men running inside the house spoke to the effectiveness of Aaron’s diversion, but he didn’t stop until he reached the side yard, out of view of the backyard and the flames peeking over the rooftop from the burning truck. If he had to guess, he’d say the explosion had set the front of the house on fire, too. It had taken her days of meticulous engineering, but Camille had built a top-notch bomb.

  He hoped she heard it and knew he’d come for her.

  * * *

  Camille stood over a semiconscious Two Down, whom she’d trussed with the curtain cord. Not that he’d be getting up anytime soon with the whack to the head she’d doled out. Staring down the barrel of Two Down’s gun, she allowed herself a small grin of triumph until, over the blare of the television, she heard Rosalia whimper from behind the sofa.

  Sadness swept through Camille as she thought of all the violent acts the little girl had witnessed. By incapacitating Two Down in front of Rosalia, she’d added to her terrible memories. But Camille couldn’t think of any alternative ways to get them out of the house safely.

  A rumble like a powerful earthquake shook the house. The air grew thick with smoke, as though the house was on fire. Bits of drywall crumbled from the wall. Books tumbled from shelves. Camille dived over Rosalia, shielding the little girl’s trembling body with her own. “It’s okay, sweetie. I’ve got you.”

  She held tight to Rosalia, and though it seemed improbable, a tendril of hope flared to life. Could it be that Aaron had come for them?

  Men’s voices hollered from the second floor along with the sounds of people running, reacting, assessing the damage. Camille pressed into the back of the sofa as two men darted through the room, shouting in Spanish.

  “What were those men saying?” Camille asked in a whisper.

  Rosalia looked at her with frightened eyes. “I don’t know. Something about a Mérida cartel. Something bad. I want my mommy.”

  La Mérida Cartel? Camille blinked, wrapping her mind around a new possibility. Maybe Aaron and his ICE unit weren’t responsible for the explosion and the house was under attack from a whole new enemy. Maybe Rosalia and Camille had landed in the middle of a war between two rival crime families.

  “Time to go, sweetie. Give me your hand.”

  Rosalia shook her head but otherwise didn’t budge.

  Camille grabbed a lamp and ran to the window. Beyond the yard, three boats sat tied to a dock. Maybe one of them had keys in its ignition.

  She heaved the lamp through the window, then swept Rosalia into her arms and ran.

  * * *

  Aaron, Dreyer, Alderman and Santero shot grappling hooks onto the balcony and yanked the scaling ropes to set the hooks against the wrought-iron rail. Given his experience as a rock climber, Aaron reached the balcony ledge first. The sliding glass door was closed, and the room beyond was dark and curtained. He ungracefully threw himself over the rail and onto the floor. The others followed.

  They pulled their rifles around from their backs. These weren’t M16s like Aaron had used before, but M4 Carbine semiautomatics designed not to choke up after an ocean swim. He loved the way the instrument felt in his hands, solid and precise and deadly.

  Santero unhooked a stun grenade from his utility belt. Aaron had protested the plan to use a stun grenade until Dreyer assured him they were used all the time in combat when civilians were present. The flash and bang temporarily disoriented people inside the blasting range but didn’t cause any pain or permanent damage. While Aaron hated the idea of Camille and Rosalia being within a blasting range of any kind, to get them out of Milán and Perez’s grasp safely, he’d agreed to the grenade use.

  Dreyer shattered the glass from the door with the butt of his rifle.

  “Hooyah,” Santero shouted. He plucked the pin out and shoved the grenade through the hole.

  An earsplitting bang and bright flash lit up the room beyond. Aaron heard a similar boom from the balcony on the north side. Both teams breached the house simultaneously.

  A man wearing blue pinstriped pajamas staggered toward the hallway door on the opposite side of the room.

  “Freeze,” Santero boomed.

  Dreyer and Alderman rushed the guy and slammed him to the wall. Aaron held position at the hall door and heard the snap of cuffs being applied.

  “Look familiar?” Santero asked.

  “Milán,” Dreyer answered.

  Well, well. The big man himself.

  Grabbing hold of Milán’s shirt, Dreyer shook him hard. “Where are they, the woman and the girl you kidnapped?”

  “Screw you.”

  Santero edged toward the door. “We don’t have time for this. Alderman, lock him to the bathroom plumbing while we clear the building and search for Fisher—”

  He stopped talking at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Aaron aimed his M4 at the door as it opened.

  Rodrigo Perez stood in the hall, barefoot and shirtless. Black tattoos wrapped around his neck and down his torso and arms like a spreading fungus. A single scar sliced through the cleft of his chin. His bloodshot eyes zeroed in on Aaron. “You,” he growled.

  Aaron squeezed the trigger.

  Like a frightened rabbit, Perez turned tail and took off.

  Aaron squeezed off another round, then sprinted after him.

  The world around him fell away. His breathing was even, his mind calm. No way was this rabbit going to disappear down a hole and escape. Perez had a head start and knowledge of the house’s layout, but there was infinite power in being the man in pursuit instead of the one running for his life.

  With each footfall through the hallway, then down a spiral staircase, Aaron felt his control of the situation hardening like steel in his spine. He tasted vengeance on his tongue, tasted his anticipation of the moment he overpowered Perez. Every horror Aaron and Camille had gone through in Mexico traced back to this man. The hurt, the fear, the constant struggle for survival—all because of Perez.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Perez veered right across a living room with a blaring television and through a swinging door. Aaron trailed, shouldering through the door and into the kitchen. Perez skidded to a stop in front of a knife block on the far side of a rectangular island.

  Aaron hit the island, leaned into it and fired. The shot pierced Perez’s shoulder. With a grunt, Perez swung around and threw a knife in Aaron’s direction.

  Aaron ducked.

  Adrenaline must have numbed P
erez’s pain because he seized the opportunity to bolt from the kitchen, a long-handled knife in his hand.

  Aaron fired a round in his direction. He pushed through the door and ran across the living room in time to see Perez disappear out the back of the house through a broken window, the knife flashing in his hand. What an odd weapon of choice. Surely the man had an arsenal of firepower at his disposal, so why a knife?

  Santero and Dreyer caught up with him. “Wells and his team secured the basement. No sign of Fisher and the girl, but they found evidence that they might be on the property. They’re searching the rest of the house.”

  Aaron gritted his teeth. Come on, Camille. Where are you?

  One thing at a time. For now, he had a rabbit to catch. He snapped a fresh magazine into his gun. “Perez jumped out the window. But he’s not going to get very far.”

  “We’ve got your back,” Dreyer said, running behind him.

  They leaped from the house to see Perez had made it as far as the dock.

  “The bastard better not have a key to one of those boats,” Santero muttered, squeezing off a handful of rounds.

  Perez leaped onto the deck of the yacht and disappeared from view.

  “Cover me,” Aaron said, running.

  The yacht’s cabin door opened. Perez must’ve been crawling because Aaron couldn’t see anybody. He cleared the rail of the boat and nosed his gun around the doorframe. “Nowhere to go from here, Perez. Come out with your hands above your head.”

  “Think again,” said Perez from inside the cabin.

  Santero and Dreyer moved into position on either side of the door. Santero pulled another stun grenade from his belt and handed it to Aaron. With a signal, Santero kicked the door open and Aaron tossed the grenade in.

  Flash. Boom.

  Aaron rushed in. Dreyer flicked on the light.

  Perez stood amid the smoke near the stateroom door, his eyes watery and blinking, a sneer on his lips. His knife rested across Camille’s throat.

  Chapter 17