Her fingers spread toward his on their own will. Stop!
She fisted her hand and drew it back into her lap.
“Here we are, Kaz.” Bobby eased the car to the curb and passed back three brown envelopes.
Kazi handed one to the guys. “Okay, we’ll enter the station through different doors and in thirty-second intervals. Each person grabs a backpack.” Kazi stepped into the night air and moved to the boot of the car. Flanked by Neeley and Griffin, she lifted the small blue case. “Each bag has clothes, some euros, and—“
“How in blazes did you manage to pull all that together between the time we saw you on stage and the time we met up?” Neeley balked.
“She’s better than the ruddy Boy Scouts—’always prepared.’ “
Kazi ignored their banter and pushed on. Time wasn’t on their side. “Remember, get in there; get on the train.”
“I don’t like this.” Griffin scowled at her.
Heat spread through her chest as she took in his meaning. “We’ll hook up on the train once it’s moving.”
Griffin yanked a bag from the boot and stalked toward the station. In seconds, he fell into the teeming bodies that poured through the doors and streamed into the station. Even the late hour did not deter travelers. Thank goodness.
With a nod, Neeley trailed his partner.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Bobby whispered as he eased the boot closed. “Those men—I can get you out of here without them knowing. It’s messy, Kacie. That black guy looks mean.”
Nah. That wasn’t mean. She’d seen mean in Roman. In Boucher. In Carrick. In Griffin, she saw…
Well, it really didn’t matter as long as he wouldn’t put her in danger or betray her. And of those two things she was confident when it came to Griffin Riddell. “I’ll be fine.” She strolled into the station mindful of but not bending to the pain in her ankle, determined to see the mission through to the end. And it would definitely be the end…of everything.
Somewhere in Miranda, Venezuela
Surrounded by more than two dozen armed guerillas, Range cradled the AR-15 rifle. Blood, laced with ungodly amounts of adrenaline, sped through his veins like an uncapped fire hydrant. Is this what Canyon thrived on? Range’s breathing sounded hollow in the gear that had been provided. Shots sounded hollow. The muzzle flash seemed fake. Like some grisly, animated computer game—but it wasn’t fake. It wasn’t a game.
This is for keeps.
The lethal precision of the men around him propelled him yet also repelled him. They had experience that tightened their response times, practiced in killing and breaking into a facility like this. Guilt clung to him thicker than the heavy air and sickening stench of sweat as they plodded down the cement corridors.
A man jumped from the side.
Range pivoted and fired. In the space of a heartbeat, as the man fell and the blood squirted, he realized he’d made his first kill. The thought rankled him. Pulled at him.
The space narrowed and the confrontations lessened. Ahead, three or four men rushed farther into the cavelike structure.
“The Colonel,” as the rebels around him called the man who’d recruited him, slapped his shoulder and pointed. “They’re leading us straight to him, yes?”
The words seemed to haul Range’s mind back into gear, out of the gruesome events unfolding. He chided himself—what did he think? He’d come down here, do a waltz, and they’d go home, happy, safe, alive?
A barrage of shots and fights erupted ahead. Guards and guerillas clashed. Bodies filled the bottlenecked hall. Double pocket doors slid open. Five or six men backed into the area, firing and defending their position. One swatted toward the wall, and the doors slid shut.
“Stop them!” the Colonel darted forward.
Range stayed with him, eyes glued on the closing doors.
Behind the guards, two more doors opened. That split-second opportunity rammed all the oxygen into the back of Range’s throat. On a dingy table lay a man in bloodied, tattered rags. He looked Latino, dark hair, tanned skin, wraith-thin.
Until he turned his head.
In the three seconds it took his brain to reengage, Range realized the brown skin coloring was actually bruises. The dark hair was oily and matted. The weight…starvation. Blue eyes swollen from abuse locked on Range.
“Canyon!” Range lunged forward, the shout of his brother’s name a gargled mix of frantic fear and adrenaline.
With a whoosh, cement slammed together, severing his visual connection.
“No!” He pushed forward.
Shots pinged through the wood door.
Range ducked to the side, a blaze of fire searing down his arm. He winced and checked the spot. A thin line of red peeked out from the sleeve.
“Frag out!” came the shout.
The leader shoved Range backward.
Red-hot fire and wind blasted across his legs and arms.
“Go, go, go!”
On his feet, Range lurched into the smoldering debris. Around the corner. Three men pried at the other doors, shouting, grunting.
“Power’s down,” the leader snarled.
Range stuffed his grazed arm through the strap of the weapon and pushed his way into the others. Through the wood and cement came a large crash. Shots.
Range stilled, an acidic backwash coating his tongue. God…?
Fingers digging into the seam, he quickly saw the futility. He spun toward the control box and ripped it open. After removing a few screws, he tugged out the wires.
“You can’t hotwire it.”
“No, but if I fry the circuits, the power lock will disengage.” He spliced through two wires, stepped back, grounded himself with his rubber boots, then pinched the wires together. Voltage shot through his hands…his wrists…his arms. His teeth clattered.
“Oy!” came a torrent of cheers.
He stumbled around and saw the men prying the door open.
The Colonel clapped his shoulder again. “!Muy bien, mi amigo!”
Back at the doors, he aided the others, his ears trained on the sounds of fighting from the other side. Grunts. Thuds. Chains rattling. “They’re killing him!” He hadn’t come this far to have Canyon die within feet of him. Range threw everything he had left into dragging the door open.
Finally, he pushed himself through the narrow divide. He stumbled but righted himself. And stopped cold.
Clothes hanging off him, his right arm dangling at an unnatural angle, blood coating his chest, a gaping wound near his neck that oozed, Canyon stood, his legs wobbling as severely sunken yet swollen eyes came to Range. His body swayed. A smirk slid into his face as blood dribbled down his chin. He staggered and grinned.
His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Canyon dropped hard.
Green World Health Compound, Uganda
“Marie!” Scott lunged forward, pushing her to the ground as wood peppered his face. He rolled, holding her against himself as he maneuvered them into a safe position. Scooting off, he probed her for injury.
She winced and groaned. “I’m…okay.”
“Bull.” He pinned her to the ground. “Stay.” He scrambled to the shed, dragged two M16s out, stuffed a handgun in his belt, and filled his pockets full of magazines. Crawling back to her side, he locked on to her. “How’re you doing?”
“Bleeding.”
He smirked. “And they wonder why you’re the doc.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s just a graze, I think.”
Trusting her word, he did a press check on the handgun, then drew up the M16 and scanned the perimeter through the scope. “I don’t see him.” He whistled and waited for the response.
Ten yards ahead, a flutter of movement bristled just seconds before a whistle.
Good. Ojore was in the school. He shouted a code and his apprentice answered.
Marie gave a soft laugh. “You’re like Robin Hood and his merry men with your whistles and codes.”
“It keeps us alive,” Scott sai
d. “Think you can make it to the school?”
She lifted her head off the ground and looked in that direction. Head dropped back down, she grunted. “Yeah.”
“I can carry you.”
That riled her. “Only when I’m dead.”
“Promises, promises.”
Supporting her, Scott helped Marie to her feet. They slunk around equipment and buildings, moving much slower than he’d prefer. The threat lay before them—a twenty-foot stretch of open area. They had to cross it to get to the school. But that would most likely expose them to the sniper. Where is that devil?
Vibrations wormed through his feet, stilling him.
Then the monotonous thumping.
“Chopper!”
A strange howl filled the day.
Screaming, a missile shot toward the school.
BooOOOOoomm!
Maryland Airstrip
The wreckage seemed ripped from a bad action movie. Marshall used two leather headrests to propel him toward the door.
“No!” Mario rushed into his path. “You can’t do anything.”
Marshall tried to shove past him, but the energy drained from his legs. His head spun. He hesitated.
“Company straight ahead,” the pilot shouted from the cockpit.
Marshall and Mario jerked toward the front. Another SUV. The vehicle banked right. Doors flew up. Marshall went for cover, but as he did…“Wait…wait!”
People dumped onto the tarmac. Not in suits. Or uniforms.
“It’s them!” Rel said. “That’s got to be Sydney and the others.”
Sure enough—three women armed not with weapons but with children. Face alight, Rel spun to him. “She said her brother was creating a distraction!”
He checked the accident. “I hope he got out.” With the train barreling through, it effectively formed a barrier, preventing the cops from getting to them.
“We’ve got time.” Marshall hurried to the front where the door still sat ajar. To the pilot, he said, “Ease up to them. We’ll get them on board, then get out of Dodge.”
“You got it.”
With that, Marshall scrambled down the steps. He sprinted to the women. “On board, now! Now!”
He scooped up two children and turned, surprised to find Mario at his side. His friend gathered a child and scampered back into the plane, passing the child to Rel. Marshall handed a little girl to Rel, then another, reaching back for another hand. An adult hand took hold, and Midas’s wife, Dani, surged forward, her baby strapped in some harness thing. Cowboy’s wife, Piper, ambled up right behind her, then Sydney. He followed her up the five steps and into the jet. As he turned to shut the door, two things happened—a bullet whizzed past his face followed by another that narrowly missed his shoulder, and Mario shouted for the pilot to take off.
With a grunt, he grabbed the door handle, yanked it closed, and slammed down the bar, sealing it shut. He tumbled back and to the side as the craft ramped up for takeoff. Stumbling, he made his way past the others…the women, crying children—the families of Nightshade.
“Thank you,” Dani said as he dropped into a leather chair.
“Don’t thank me yet. That was the easy part.” He huffed only then noticing the tears pouring down Sydney’s face. He eased forward.
“Her brother was driving the other SUV.”
CHAPTER 26
Cyprus, Golding Residence
You should be resting,” Olin said as he set a hand on Aladdin’s shoulder.
“If he is anything like his uncle,” Golding said, “he will rest when he’s dead.”
Azzan Yasir’s head sagged, his eyes dropped, but he typed. Clicked. Continuing his efforts to surf back channels and hidden networks in search of the team, of Max, of Dighton. Hours, countless hours, spent digging in a cesspool of data and history.
“Rest awhile, Aladdin.” Olin ached for the team as much as the young man. “Your mind needs to recuperate. You are probably missing things—“
“I’m not. “Azzan scrolled down a page, his blue-green eyes reddened from the punching bag they’d used him for and from deprivation. “Every minute out there is a minute they could face death.” Brows tense, he flipped to another screen. Then to a separate monitor.
Olin met Golding’s gaze in surrender before he ambled to the kitchen where Charlotte handed him another cup of tea. He sipped the hot brew. He should not be giving up. The men were the best. That’s why he’d recruited them. Why he put the money behind their training and missions, convinced the chairman to fund vital interventions. And now that the team was in hot water, nobody blinked or cared.
“Legend and Cowboy are on the way back.”
Olin nodded as he set the mug down.
“I’ve got a couple of eyes on them,” Golding said.
Though Olin shouldn’t be surprised, he couldn’t fight the feeling. “You always did have more connections than Waterloo station.”
Golding smiled beneath his trim, thick black beard.
“Now, if we could just get those connections connected to the rest of the team.”
“Patience, my old friend.” Golding nodded to the assassin. “You think I have connections—wait till—“
Aladdin sat straight. His fingers flew over the keyboard.
Golding rushed to his side. “What is it?”
“Authorities in Virginia. Air Traffic Control is flagging a rogue jet.” His fingers, unbelievably, moved faster over the keys. Clicks, groans, and a few more keystrokes. “It took off from a Maryland airstrip. Registered to a Mario Santana.”
“We don’t know him,” Olin said. “Wait. Angel Santana at one time owned one of the most lucrative airlines, and he was friends with many senators. He may be our link. I’d bet my life that’s the Kid.”
“Stupid enough a move, taking a jumbo jet…” Aladdin grumbled as his eyes probed streaming data. “Ground reports are several dead at an accident involving a train, all racing to the airstrip. ATC and the feds are not happy.”
Calmly, Olin placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let that happen.”
Thudding at the front door brought Olin around.
Golding strode to the foyer with confidence and opened it. He stepped back, and in flooded ten men, all bearing laptops or large cases. “Gentlemen, welcome.”
Again, surprise lit through Olin as the Israelis entered. Curtains were drawn. Folding tables erected. Systems unloaded, plugged in, networked. Fifteen minutes later, Olin’s ears buzzed from the din of quick, quiet conversations on coded frequencies, secure channels, and clacking keyboards.
Golding’s amusement filled his olive complexion. “Nightshade rescued our homeland.” A deeper sense of satisfaction rolled over his face as he considered the men. “Now, we rescue Nightshade, nachon?”
“Sydney’s brother is alive,” Aladdin announced.
A man next to Aladdin spoke, his voice commanding and authoritative. “Santana aircraft, Kilo-Bravo-Foxtrot-two-one-three, this is Oscar-Mike. Switch to encrypted channel four. Repeat, channel four.”
Nerves buzzing, Olin watched the data sliding down the screens of the monitors.
“Is that safe?” Charlotte’s soft voice seemed to boom from behind him. “Talking to them so openly?”
“Yes,” Olin said as he waited for the man’s fingers to move, for him to speak, anything to show the Kid had picked up the message.
“But can’t someone else get in on that call or overhear it? What if they figure out where we are?”
The agent looked at her, his deep brown eyes piercing. “They won’t. And the only intercept,” he spoke quietly but firmly, “would be from inside the aircraft. But let’s assume your men are smart enough to take care of any unfriendlies. The channel is encrypted to that aircraft only.”
“But there is a risk,” Olin said. “They might be able to track us here.”
The man’s eyes flashed. “Unlikely.” He jerked back to the console and repeated his command to the plane to switch to an encrypted
channel.
Static washed through the blue monitor haze-drenched room. “Oscar-Mike—it’s about time. This is Kilo-Bravo-Foxtrot-two-one-three.”
Intense relief knocked the pent-up breath from Olin’s chest. A half groan, half laugh escaped with it. “Praise God!”
Shouts erupted as the agent nodded. “Kilo-Bravo-Foxtrot, what is your status?”
“Good…good. We had a couple of wingmen. They flashed us then left. I take it we have you to thank for their sudden departure.”
“Roger that,” the agent said with a smile that lit his face. “What is your fuel status?”
Seconds lingered between the question and answer, making Olin worry. Didn’t the Kid know he had enough gray hair from this mess? “Enough to get us where we were going—the Caribbean.”
The agent frowned. “Who is your pilot?”
“Uh, some dude Mario knows. Hang on.” Muttering overtook the connection before he returned with a name.
Several hands went to work accessing the man’s name under Olin’s watchful eye. Within seconds, two other agents shook their heads. Attention fastened on the monitor in front of him, which tracked the movement of the aircraft, the first agent resumed his dialogue with the Kid. “How many are in your party?”
“Elev—twelve, I think. A lot of kids.”
Olin hesitated. “He must have the wives and children with him as well.” Acute and warming, the relief was unlike anything he’d experienced. Putting a team of experienced men in danger was one thing—they were trained for it—but when the women and children were indirectly involved, a new depth and wave of grief transferred to his shoulders. Olin glanced to Golding. “You are about to have a very full home.”
Though Golding offered a smile to Olin, it did not reach his eyes. He bent forward, his gaze locked on some data. He spoke in a hushed, foreign tongue to the agent handling the air chatter. In seconds, a flurry of action erupted around the room.
Firethorn (Discarded Heroes) Page 26