Something moved, a deeper shadow, crouched within the dense canopy of trees. Something that didn’t belong there. He looked down at the girl again. To whoever was watching it would look like he was giving her a stern talking to over her behavior. “Just like we practiced, okay?”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m scared.”
“Me too but it’s gonna be okay. Do you trust me?”
She nodded. “Yes. Michael—I’m sorry I was so—”
“Shhh, I know. Ready?”
She nodded again, watched him as he pulled his Kimber .45 off his hip, keeping it low and tight against his thigh. “Run,” he said, breathing the word softly, relieved when she turned without hesitation, her bare feet digging into the sand as she pushed herself into motion.
As soon as she was cleared, Michael brought the gun up. Leveling it at the trees, he squeezed off three shots in rapid succession, aiming into the canopy. If he was wrong, if it was an animal or one of the maids trying to sneak onto the private beach they’d come out running. The silhouette startled but didn’t bolt… and it didn’t return fire either.
He cut a fast glance at Christina. She was almost to the H2, legs pumping fast and hard against the soft give of the sand. He used the key fob to unlock the SUV’s rear hatch—it popped open just as she reached it. Christina shot him a fleeting look before she scrambled inside and shut the hatch behind her.
Good girl.
As soon as she was inside, he locked the SUV, relying on its armored body and bulletproof windows to keep her safe. He stood, making his way toward the stand of trees quickly; vision zeroed in on the shadow huddled against the thick trunk of a tree. “Los tres primeros fuero ndirigidos alto intenciona damente. Los tres siguientes no habrá.”
The first three were aimed high intentionally. The next three won’t be.
The shadow shifted, mere seconds before it lost its courage and bolted deeper into the trees. He followed, dodging branches and clumps of bushes. “Stop,” he bellowed loudly, raising his gun, aiming it into the center of the shadow. He wasn’t sure if it was the tone or the actual word that did it but the figure did as he said, stopping short.
It was a woman.
The cartels weren’t above using women and children as decoys and assassins. Her hands went out and up, fingers splayed wide. “Date la vuelta. Despacio.”
She did as he said, turning slowly. As soon as he got a good look at her face he dropped the gun. It was Lydia Reyes, Christina’s mother. “Goddamn it,” he swore softly. “Mrs. Reyes, what are you doing here?” It felt strange calling her Mrs. Anything—if she was older than Frankie he’d eat his hat.
“I just wanted to see her… please, please don’t tell him,” she said, her eyes darting wildly from his face to the SUV behind him. “I just… he won’t let me see her.”
“You had breakfast with her this morning.” He ignored the twinge of guilt he felt when he said it. It was true—Lydia and Christina had breakfast together every morning but they were under constant supervision. Reyes claimed that his wife was unstable. Michael was pretty sure it was all about control.
“I know but… I never get to see her,” she said, struggling for an explanation. It was unnecessary—he understood what she meant. Christina was like a living, breathing doll when her father was around. A pint-sized Stepford Wife. It was unsettling.
Still he shook his head, shifting from side-to-side. “Mrs. Reyes—”
“Lydia. Please, call me Lydia.” She took a step forward, her dark eyes wild with desperation. “I know you care for—” she must’ve thought better of her words because she stopped, changed direction. “Please… can I just talk to her?”
Bad idea.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s late. We’re getting ready to head back to the compound.”
“Oh… okay. I understand.” She dropped her hands to her sides and turned to leave. “Could you just…” she said, turning her face in his direction. “Could you tell her that I miss her?”
He nodded and she turned to walk away.
“Wait.”
She stopped again, turning fully to face him, hope etched plainly on her face.
He was going to regret this.
“We’re here every day; usually get here right after lunch.” He said it fast, before he could change his mind. “Approach from this spot so I can see you coming. And come alone.”
Her breath caught, hands fluttered at her sides, clutching at her skirt. “Thank you… thank you, Cartero.”
“Don’t call me that.” The frown that settled onto his face must’ve frightened her because she took a step back.
“I’m sorry, it’s what I hear Alberto and his men call you so I thought…”
He cleared his throat and looked away. “It’s not my name. My name is Michael.”
“Thank you… Michael,” she said, a small smile trembling on her lips. “Tomorrow?”
He nodded and watched her walk into the trees, waiting until she was gone before he turned and made his way back to the H2 where Christina hid.
Using the key fob, he popped the hatch. “Christina, it’s safe to come out now.”
The lump under the ballistics blanket didn’t move.
“Christina.”
“You have to say the magic words. I can’t come out unless you say them,” she said, her voice muffled beneath the cover.
The magic words. The code they’d worked out to let her know that he wasn’t coaxing her from hiding under duress. “Pink Pony,” he said. Christina tossed the blanket away and launched herself at his chest, her little arms winding tightly around his neck, legs wrapped around his middle. His throat, suddenly hot and dry, worked itself against the well of emotion he usually kept in check. Without thinking, he lifted his hands to hug her back.
“Who was it?” she said into his neck. “Did you kill them?”
He kept a running list of bad ideas and getting close to this kid was at the top of it. Instead of holding her, he wedged his hands between them, he set her away. “It was no one.” He lifted her over the seat. “Get buckled up—it’s time to go.”
9
Barcelona, Spain
2015
Livingston Shaw glared at Michael from across the gleaming expanse of his polished desk. “Are you certain that it was one of Reyes' men that took the Maddox boy?” Shaw said, somehow managing to make him feel as if he were personally responsible for the abduction of the senator's grandson.
Michael stared at the spot directly above Shaw's head—his favorite—and took a deep breath before answering. “Yes. I recognize the tattoo on his neck from the surveillance footage.” All of Reyes’ men were branded with the same tattoo—common practice within the cartels.
He’d decided to keep the rest—that not only was it one of Reyes’ men but his son—to himself. The scar was unique to Esteban. The tattoo wasn’t. If Ben objected to him lying to his father, he didn’t say a word. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that he was currently sleeping on his father’s sofa.
“Reyes is based in Columbia. He’s a little far from home, isn’t he?” Lark said, from his position beside Shaw’s chair.
Michael made himself look at him. “Trust me, he’s here,” he said, thinking of his run-in with Estefan a few nights ago. “He’s been looking pushing his way into Cordova’s territory for a while now. He must know Cordova’s about to get his ticket punched.”
“You think this has something to do with the Cordova op?” Shaw said, his interest obviously piqued.
The thought turned his stomach. Knowing that he'd had a part in making such a thing possible tightened his jaw. “He’s had his eye on Cordova’s trafficking operation for a while now,” he said.
Shaw arched an eyebrow. “And you know this because…?”
Michael shrugged. “Because I’ve had my eye on him.”
“So, why didn't you make the connection sooner?” Another accusation. He shot his former partner a warning lo
ok. He had to take Shaw's shit but not Lark's.
“I think you're missing the point my partner’s trying to make here, Jolly Green.” They both turned to find Ben still stretched out on the couch behind them, eyes still closed. He cracked a lid and aimed one sky-blue eye at his father. “Reyes is behind the snatch and grab of Leon Maddox's grandkid.” Ben smiled. “Which means we might have a chance of getting him back.”
“Okay—fine. Reyes has a daughter, right?” Lark shrugged. “I say we snatch her and demand a trade.”
“No,” Michael said.
“Why? Easiest way to—”
“I said no.” His tone closed the subject.
Lark tipped his head back and let out a loud crack of laughter. “You slay me, man. Really? Like you're some kinda saint. You killed more people than cancer and you get twisted over one little kidnapping?” He shook his head. “What the fuck did that crazy cop bitch do to you?” Lark said.
Michael’s heart stopped. Time slowed to a crawl. His stomach clenched like he'd been kicked in the gut. He looked at Shaw and saw he was watching the exchange with avid interest—and not one ounce of bewilderment.
He was suddenly sure that Lark had told Livingston everything there was to know about Sabrina. Who she was. How he knew her. That she mattered. Shaw’s knowledge of her made her a tool to be used against him, or worse—a liability to FSS.
In the space of a second, he weighed his options and decided on a course of action. He'd have to be fast. Take Shaw out first. Two to the head, then—
“Hey.”
He turned to see Ben standing in front of him.
“Probably not a good idea.” Ben tipped his chin down and he followed with his eyes to find his Kimber gripped in his fist, finger on the trigger. He didn't even remember pulling it.
He shot Lark a look over the kid's shoulder before looking back at Shaw. He sat, leaning back in his chair, a wry smirk on his face. Cell phone in hand—finger poised to dial. Michael remembered the capsule in his back and holstered his gun. He was good to no one dead. The need to find Leo Maddox had just been suddenly and precisely balanced by his need to warn Sabrina that she was no longer safe. Probably never had been.
“Well... that was awkward,” Ben said to no one in particular, careful to keep himself between him and Lark.
Michael ignored him. Focused on what had to be done now. He looked at Shaw. “We need to get stateside—interview the family. There could be things the mother saw that she's not even aware of. We need to question her—the kid's nanny. Whoever had access to him over the past few weeks. There's a good chance Reyes had inside help.”
Shaw seemed to be weighing his words, testing their validity before making up his mind. He shook his head. “You still have business here to attend to. Cordova is scheduled to arrive—”
“We'll leave as soon as it's done.” He was getting himself stateside, one way or another.
Shaw smiled. “Very well, Michael. The family is convalescing at Leon's estate, just outside Helena. I’ll alert him that you and your team will be arriving shortly.”
Team? He didn't have a team. He had Ben. He shook his head. “I don't need Pips—I mean a team, sir. Ben and I work best alone.”
Shaw's smile faded. “Of that I'm certain, but I'm not sending a security detail, Michael. I'm sending Mr. Lark. He's going with you.”
10
Michael crossed the dark lawn with confident, long-legged strides, approaching the guard stationed there as if he belonged. The man, hearing his approach, turned, but didn't raise his gun. Didn't seem worried about him at all. Michael gave him a reassuring smile as he closed the distance and the guard returned it with a look of annoyance.
“Volver a supuesto, idiota,” the man hissed, but he kept coming, closing the distance between them, the smile firmly fixed in place. The man realized Michael was an intruder seconds before he grabbed him, clasping his chin and the back of his head, giving his neck a violent jerk that snapped it in two.
The guard dropped and Michael stepped over him to mount the marble steps that led to the front door. Cordova slept in a third-floor, interior suite. No windows. No outside access. Getting to him would've been nearly impossible without the samples he'd collected from his daughter. Armed with Pia's prints, his knife, and a few dozen rounds of ammo, the task was almost mundane.
He approached the screen and scanner fixed to the wall and leaned forward. The retina and fingerprint scan had to be done simultaneously or it would trigger a silent alarm that would send every available guard his way. Timing was everything.
He aimed his eye over the scanner just as he began to roll his index finger across the screen. The gloves he wore were outfitted with neoprene tips embedded with Pia's prints and the contact in his eye was coded with her retinal signature. The door lock released.
Piece of cake.
He stepped into the dark foyer and his earpiece crackled. “You've got one coming toward you—ten yards and closing,” Ben said. Hijacking Cordova's security feed had taken him less time that it'd taken Michael to kill the guard. From where he was, not only did Ben have eyes on almost every square inch of Cordova's estate, he was also able to manipulate the feed. Anyone else monitoring the surveillance footage would see nothing out of the ordinary. The kid certainly gave Lark a run for his money for Geek Squad status.
There were two guards per floor. Any who saw him had to be dealt with. He ducked into an alcove under the stairs and drew his knife, waited for the second guard to pass before stepping back into the hall, directly behind him. He held the black ceramic blade tight against his forearm while he slipped the other around the guard's neck and across his chest. Michael shoved the guard's shoulder into the wall, pinning his arm at his side while he lifted the other away from his body, driving the blade several times between his ribs, a vicious tattoo into his heart and lungs. He was dead before he even knew he was in trouble. Michael dragged him into the vestibule, out of sight, before dropping him on the floor.
“Where's the other first-floor guard?” he said quietly, wiping his knife off on the dead guy's shirt.
“Stationed at the back of the house. He shouldn't be an issue,” Ben said.
“The second floor?” He tucked his knife away, within easy reach. Ben still hadn't answered him. “Kid?”
“They just followed Pia Cordova into a second-floor bathroom.”
Shit. What the hell was she doing here? “Can you see them?”
“No, the bathroom is blind but I'm pretty sure they weren't heading in there to hold her purse while she pees.” He paused. “If she sees you, you're gonna have to kill her. This is supposed to be a clean sweep. No witnesses.”
Michael ignored him. He'd been assigned to kill Cordova and to tell the truth, didn't feel bad about doing it. The man sold kids for Christ’s sake—but killing his daughter was not on the books. Not unless absolutely necessary. Michael lifted a silencer-equipped 9mm from his leg holster.
“You've got a clear shot to the top,” Ben said. “Wait... Cordova's on the move. He’s heading toward you.”
Good. He could get this over with and get out without having to deal with Pia. Michael stepped into the hall and took the stairs two at a time, rounding the second-floor landing. He mounted the third flight and was five steps from the top when Cordova appeared at the head of the stairs, his wide girth swaddled in a silk robe, a cut crystal tumbler in his hand.
His muddy brown eyes widened in shock even as his mouth yanked open to sound the alarm. Michael leveled the 9mm at Cordova's face and pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession—ssk, ssk—drilling twin holes in the man's forehead and dropped the gun before he could make a sound. The glass slipped out of Cordova’s hand as he fell back and bounced down the stairs to smash on the tile below. The sound echoed through the silent house.
“Shit. You’ve got incoming.”
A split-second decision had him flying down the stairs the way he'd come. He holstered his gun and reached for his knife as he took t
he stairs downward. He could hear the third-floor guards running in the direction of their fallen boss, shouting frantically. One of them would try radioing for help. He didn't have much time before they realized their frequency was jammed and came after him.
He could hear the remaining first-floor guard pound his way toward him. Michael stopped on the staircase, waited for his head to pop up over the shared railing between the two sets of stairs. Seconds later, head and shoulders appeared. Michael gripped the railing and swung toward the guard, driving forward with the blade of his knife. The guard was ready, turning swiftly and taking aim. He got a shot off that slammed into the wall, bare inches from Michael's head. The roar of it echoed in his ear, heat seared the side of his face. He sliced the blade across the guard's throat, severing his jugular in one clean sweep. The guy tumbled backward down the stairs, and Michael vaulted the banister, landing in the first-floor stairwell in a crouch.
“Move your ass,” Ben barked into his ear.
Adrenaline dumped into his system. He pulled a SIG P238 from the small of his back. The door directly across from him swung open and a pair of guards tumbled out, shirtless, yanking up their pants as they did. Using the darkened stairway as cover, Michael fired. The first guard took three bullets center mass. Blood bloomed across his chest while the other guard took aim. Wild shots drilled into the wall and floor, but one of them found its mark, mushrooming against his Kevlar-covered chest. The impact knocked him off his feet and he tumbled down the stairs, landing on top of the guard he’d just bled out.
He flipped over, covered the staircase despite the fact that he felt like he’d just been hit in the mid-section by a semi. The second guard appeared at the top of the stairs. Michael pulled the trigger again and again, hitting the man in the neck and face. He fell, revealing a half-naked Pia cowering behind him.
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2 Page 4
