by Kris Norris
Another two sprints, and they were in the middle of the complex, hiding in the shadows, trying to guess which damn way McCormick would go. He’d want something remote, despite the area already being isolated. Maybe close to the water to board a ship.
Or toss her body off the pier.
He pushed the thought aside—checked his watch. Forty minutes. Ten past when they should have gotten a signal.
Fine. They’d do it old-school. Search every damn inch of the place, if needed. Start at the far end closest the water, then work back. Use every damn skill they’d learned in the Teams. McCormick was going down.
“I’ve got a ping.”
Colt stopped mid-step, turning back to Kameron. She moved in beside him, holding out the phone. A small blue dot showed on the map—mid-way along the pier—close to the water.
Colt offered up a silent prayer. He still had a chance, but they weren’t close to saving her, yet.
Ice drew his finger around the area. “Fuckers are boxed in. Nothing between those buildings and these containers but open space. Lots of it. He’ll have a SOG team armed with thermal scopes. Most likely cameras panning the perimeter.”
Colt nodded. It was a freaking strategic nightmare. “They’ll pick us off like flies before we can get close enough to take them out. See how far away Cannon is.”
Ice nodded, spoke quietly into his com. “Twenty minutes. Everyone is.”
“Damn it. That asshole knew we’d follow. Split us up on purpose to limit our resources. But I don’t know if she has that much time.”
“You got an idea?”
“Just one.”
Six groaned. “Fuck, I know what you’re thinking. You do realize the water’s barely above freezing, right? We’ll lose dexterity if we’re in it too long.”
“Then, I suggest we be quick. Figures our resident SEAL is off on some red-herring ride. This is exactly the kind of shit Hank loves.” He glanced around. “Everyone up for this? Kam?”
Kam huffed. “Please, I’ve done a few Ironmans. I’m not afraid of a bit of cold water.”
“Yes, ma’am. Six?”
“I hear it speeds the healing process. So, stop worrying, and let’s go get your girl back.”
Chapter 22
Brett was coming for her. Ellis knew it. Felt it on a cellular level. Something hot-wired into her psyche. A quiet confidence that settled inside her with the soul-deep knowledge that he was close. No questions, no doubts. It was a simple fact.
Just like she realized something was wrong. That McCormick wasn’t playing the game the way she’d anticipated. Ellis wasn’t sure how she knew. If it was the muffled sounds in the background. Voices. More than there should be if he was planning on interrogating her for information about the files then killing her. McCormick didn’t do witnesses. Didn’t subscribe to having extra manpower. A few well-trained, loyal men. That’s all. So hearing over a dozen different voices was off.
Or maybe it was the fact she was sprawled across a mattress on the floor, hands bound in front of her instead of behind. She should be tied to a chair, the fucker who’d drugged her looming over her. Making threats. Maybe working her over a bit, first, so she’d be more likely to talk. True, even if they had tied her to a chair, she wouldn’t have been coordinated enough to do more than slump against the restraints. She wasn’t sure what they’d given her, but it felt a hundred times stronger than what she’d had previously. When they’d wanted her conscious, yet complacent. Now…
It was like attempting to swim upstream. White water crushing her backwards. Pushing against her every attempt to gain ground. Just keeping her eyes open for more than five seconds took all her strength. All her focus. Forget moving her arms or legs. They simply twitched whenever she tried. Sent shooting pain up her spine to explode in her head. Not that looking around would have helped. All she could distinguish were extreme contrasts—black versus white. Everything else was just gray. Nondescript. Even time was a distant concept. She existed as either awake or not. In pain or not.
Ellis faded, resurfaced seconds, minutes, maybe days later. Still on the mattress. Still surrounded by a field of gray. Shouldn’t Brett be here by now? Had they discovered she had a second tracking device on her—in her, actually? Were they jamming the signal? Completely isolating her? Was it even functioning? Her only other backup plan had been infecting McCormick’s computer with a virus when she accessed the files. One that would send his IP address to Brett’s phone. Give them one last way to pinpoint her location. But so far, she hadn’t moved off the mat. Hadn’t even seen McCormick since the exchange.
Her instincts were right. This was bad. Some of the fuzzy feeling had lifted—allowed her to listen more closely. Scraping sounds. Like men moving boxes. A low horn signaled in the distance—three times.
A boat. Leaving the harbor. The answer manifested more than her puzzling it out. Just appeared out of the fog inside her head. They were at a pier. Brine. She smelled it, now. Heavy in the air. Infused on the mattress beneath her head. Definitely close to the water.
Was McCormick going to dump her in the ocean? Without grilling her? Even barely conscious that sounded wrong. The man wouldn’t leave evidence around that could crucify him. He wasn’t stupid. Excelled at executing strategic moves. Simply killing her was a tactical mistake. Unless…
This was part of a larger plan—one she hadn’t even considered. Like moving his base of operations. That would explain the extra men. The noise. Why they were at the harbor. What if he was loading everything onto a boat and bugging out? Going somewhere the accusations against him wouldn’t matter? Would go unchecked? It made a weird kind of sense. Avoiding airports or other means of travel. Just sail off into the darkness. And once he reached international waters, he’d be free.
Ellis needed to get the hell out of there.
She tried to move her fingers—gasped against the surge of pain behind her eyes. The sense of shattering inside her head. It sent bolts of blinding white light flashing behind her eyelids, searing everything from her thoughts but breathing. Air in. Air out. Until it eased—allowed her to open her eyes, again.
More shapes, now. Four walls and a door—small square window near the top. Some kind of mesh inside the glass. There was a ratty blanket down by her feet. A bucket in the far corner. For a moment, she flashed back five years—black ops site. Waking up just like this. Spending every day and night chained to the damn wall until she’d caved. Broken.
It hadn’t seemed like that at the time. More like a choice to keep living. But she knew that wasn’t the case, here. There were no second chances with McCormick. She’d burned the only bridge she’d had. It was either escape, or die.
She tried, again. More pain. More white streaks. Not quite as blinding. As debilitating. A few more attempts, and she succeeded in pushing onto her elbow long enough to scoot back—brace her shoulders against the wall. It wasn’t much. Wouldn’t save her ass, but damn it felt like a massive victory.
Were those footsteps? Coming toward the door? They stopped outside. A shadow passed in front of the window. Large. Obviously tall based on the positioning. There was a metallic scraping sound, then the handle rattled. Turned.
She held her breath, wondering if she could find the strength to push to her feet. Defend herself. Or if pretending she was still out would give her an edge.
The tumbler disengaged, then the door cracked open.
Stand? Sleep?
She couldn’t make up her mind. Couldn’t follow one train of thought long enough to take a course of action. As if the messages got interrupted. Erased before her limbs could process the instructions. Just like in Brett’s bedroom that first night. Frozen in place.
A creak, more space, then it stopped. Just stopped several inches open. The door remained like that, more voices shouting in the background—English. They were definitely speaking English even if her brain couldn’t quite understand the words—before it slammed shut. The sharp tap of boots rushing away.
She had to move. Now
. It was her only chance. Get up and out the door before someone else came to check on her. All she had to do was stand.
More pain. Burning through her legs as she dragged them out in front of her. Took her three tries just to bend her knees—scrape her heels back. She managed to scoot her butt toward the wall, actually sit straight.
The room swam a few times. Left, then right. Tilting on a forty-five before finally leveling out. She let it settle, palming both hands on the floor once it had stabilized—pressing against the concrete as she leaned forward. Her balance shifted, nearly tipping her onto her face, but she managed to slide her arms forward—catch herself.
Her hands levering on the concrete got her fully upright. Swaying, but upright. True to form, they’d left her in only her underwear. No shoes. No socks. The mattress cold beneath her feet. In fact, everything was cold. The air, the wall, her skin. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t noticed it before, but it was impossible to ignore, now.
Just more motivation to get moving instead of standing there, shivering. Waiting for her core temperature to drop. Incapacitate her further.
Ellis took a step, teetered then slammed backwards into the wall. Sent shooting pain through her shoulders and back. She rested for a moment, tried to square her hips more, then tried, again. She got off the mattress before her knees buckled, this time. Dropped her in a heap on the floor.
This fall drew blood. Cut a line down her arm. At least the cold helped numb it. Stopped the bleeding fairly quickly. Only left a smear on the floor when she dragged herself across it to the far wall by the door. Not how she’d planned on getting there, but the end result was all that mattered.
Another few minutes of levering off her bound hands, using the wall as a brace, and she was standing, again. Gathering her strength to try the door. She didn’t know if it was locked. She hadn’t heard one engage after the guy had suddenly left, but that didn’t mean much. She hadn’t been able to process what was being shouted in the background, so not hearing a lock tumble wouldn’t be surprising.
A deep breath and a slide of one foot, and she had her weight balanced. Still teetering but steady enough she could lift her arms—reach for the handle without falling. She grasped ahold if it, leaning too far forward, when the damn thing turned beneath her palms. She had just enough time to shove herself back, stumble backwards three steps onto one knee, before the edge smacked her in the face. Maybe broke her nose.
Two men crowded the doorway. Huge black silhouettes against the backlit room. The weapons strapped to the thighs standing out in harsh relief. She could just make out the ends of what looked like assault rifles jutting out to one side as they paused on the threshold, staring at her as if they hadn’t expected to find her inside.
And she knew, this was the only chance she’d get. That if she was going to fight, it was now. Before they’d made their move. Grabbed her. She lunged at them, reaching out, ready to sweep out their feet as she pummeled their shoulders. Once they were down, she’d steal one of their pistols—blast her way out. She had a moment of forward motion, of her knee coming up, only to trip when her damn leg dragged behind her. Threw her off center.
She hit hard, her head bouncing off the concrete. The force rolling her onto her back. The room faded, filled with colored dots exploding against the darkness. Hushed curses and footsteps sounded beside her, then hands on her shoulders. Another pressing down on her neck, then moving along her limbs.
Had someone said her name? Ellis couldn’t be sure. The effects of the drugs, the deep-searing cold. The endless throbbing in her head. She tried to blink, but it was just a hint of gray against the black. A fleeting image of her future. Of it all fading away.
She made one last attempt to open her eyes, stumble to her feet. She wouldn’t give up. Wouldn’t quit. There was a flash of a man’s face. Of blue eyes staring down at her. Then, nothing.
Chapter 23
The water was cold. Freezing, in fact. Not that Colt had expected anything different. Even in the summer, this section of the Pacific didn’t get overly warm. And it was only early spring.
But Colt wasn’t thinking about the cold. About the numb feeling in his fingers. The way the air chilled his wet skin, beaded goosebumps along his flesh as he ducked in behind a section of the large crane positioned just to the left of the warehouse. His team moving silently in behind him. He was focused on the building. On identifying the threats and getting inside. On how every second he used up was one less Ellis had.
It only took a minute to spot the cameras. The snipers on opposite ends of the roof. The patrols circling the building. Six made a few hand signals. Readied one of the rifles at his shoulder. Kam took the other. Colt had raised an eyebrow. Not that he doubted her determination, but she’d been MI. Not exactly known for their sniping skills.
She grinned, then took up the same stance Six had. And fuck if that rifle didn’t look disturbingly natural in her hands.
Colt didn’t have time to question it. He and Ice were going in. Trusting Kam and Six to eliminate any threats the two men couldn’t see. Keep a corridor open for them to get back out. Hopefully get clear just as the cavalry arrived. Colt wouldn’t outright kill McCormick, but if the guy’s head happened to pop up in his crosshairs…
He glanced at Six and Kam, acknowledged their signals. They’d take out the snipers as Ice and Colt readied themselves. Two silent shots and they were off—moving fast, staying low. Reducing their profiles as they ran across the open space. The cameras went out first. Four shots, four hits. They’d have to deal with the guys who investigated the disruptions, but that was a distant thought.
Two men appeared in front of them. Walking toward the water. Colt took one, Ice the other. Head shots. Dropped them where they stood. A slight whooshing sound, and the guy about to fire off to their right jerked back, feet flying out in front of him.
Six. Definitely.
Another man dropped standing beside the door. From the angle, it had been Kam. Looks like the lady had some serious rifle skills. Ones he’d ask about, later.
Ice sprinted ahead, hid the man in the shadows then covered the side of the building while Colt headed for the door. He tried the handle. Unlocked. This was why being cocky got people killed. McCormick assumed he’d covered all his bases. Obviously hadn’t thought anyone would get past his defenses. Big mistake.
Colt opened the door. Went in low, Ice high. Sweeping the area. One guy, off to the right. Bullet between his eyes inside of a second. An adjoining door with a large window beside it led into one half of the warehouse, but it was dark. Deserted.
They cleared the room then moved to the next. Empty. As was the short hallway leading off of it. It ended at a set of stairs. What looked like a few offices on the upper level.
Ice went first, sweeping each side once he reached the top, then covering Colt’s ass as he raced up the stairs. There were three doors. Only one with a bolt on the outside, though it looked as if it hadn’t been fully closed.
Ice waved, guarding the stairwell as Colt headed down the short corridor. He paused to listen at each door, then checked the rooms to ensure they were clear. Ice joined him at the far end.
Colt slid the bolt all the way over, then palmed the handle. They went on three, twisting it open then shoving it aside, only to pull up short. Ellis must have been about to try the damn door handle because she was reeling backwards, tripping onto one knee. Her movements looked stiff. Slow. As if her brain couldn’t quite get the signals through.
She blinked, then lunged toward them. And damn, she might have swept Colt’s feet out if she’d managed to execute the move. Instead, her leg dragged behind her, shifting her balance and smashing her head and shoulder into the concrete then rolling her onto her back.
He was at her side before she could groan, cupping her shoulders. Wincing at the large cut across her forehead, another on her arm. The bastards had stripped her down, again, her skin pale, her fingertips and lips tinged blue. “El?”
Ice kn
elt beside him, doing a quick body sweep. He grunted, checked her forehead, then rolled her against his chest, lifting her into his arms.
Colt should be the one holding her. Carrying her. But that was just his damn pride talking. His heart. Because Ice was the medic. The PJ. The guy who’d carried all of them at some point over the past twelve years. Dragging their asses back from behind enemy lines. Saving their hides. This was his wheelhouse. His job. Infringing on that would be a slap in the face. And Colt respected the man too much to let his ego cloud his judgment.
Which meant Colt was going out, first. Clearing the way. Making sure nothing got to Ice and Ellis. That Colt would be the one to draw fire. Take a hit if needed. Make any kind of sacrifice necessary to ensure they made it out unscathed.
The thought had him moving. Down the hall, then the stairs, constantly sweeping. He capped one guy when he walked through the doorway, cigarette leaving a smoky trail behind him. Colt grabbed the guy’s ankle—dragged him over the side, then keep going.
Through the next room then toward the exit, only to dive for cover when bullets started flying. Spraying glass across the floor, across him. Punching a few holes in the metal siding separating this room from the main warehouse.
Colt waved Ice back, keeping him out of the room as he returned a few pulls of the trigger. Sent the men scattering for better cover.
Colt wasn’t sure what had tipped them off—finding some of the downed men. A missed check-in—but the damn workers from the far end had shifted into the adjoining space. Were hunkered behind what looked like machinery and smaller crates—impossible to tell for sure with the lights out. Just large shadows scattered around the floor. And just Colt’s luck, it looked as if all the men were fucking SOG guys. Trained. Skilled.
He’d trained, too. Every day for over twelve years. And there wasn’t a challenge he couldn’t overcome. A threat he wouldn’t conquer. He crawled closer—used one of his blades to get a better picture of what he was up against. He still couldn’t make out what the shapes were, but he guessed about a dozen men, judging on the muzzle flashes. The odd head bobbing up. From the sound of the discharges, he’d bet a mixture of semi-automatics and pistols. Likely M16s. A couple of AK-47s. Some Sigs tossed in for good measure.