Counter Strike

by Beth Rhodes

  “What do you mean?” Did he need something? Shit.

  “I just mean…you’ve been unhappy.”

  “I have not.” Was he unhappy? He wanted to marry her, but that hardly meant he was unhappy. He loved his work. “I’m not unhappy, Missy.”

  “Fine. Maybe unhappy is the wrong word.” She blew out a breath. “Forget I said anything.”

  He wouldn’t, though. “Look, take it easy over there. No more red flag rescues, okay? I’ll be home in a few days, and we can talk about how unhappy I am…or how you can make me happy.”

  “Haha,” she said, deadpan and the silence of her eyes rolling. “Love you, Jamie.”

  “Right back at’cha, babe.” He touched the screen, ending the call.

  The rest of the team had found a spot in the truck, so he jumped up and took the last seat at the back.

  Countdown to home, starting now.

  ***

  Carlos Martinez loved to boast, both over his art collection and his kills.

  Antonio Fuentes stood in the shadows of the main foyer, waiting. He’d failed again. And now another family would be subject to pain and loss.

  The monster responsible for another death stood still as a statue in front of the Bellamy painting.

  Its size was only one of the reasons the piece of art stood out amidst the man’s extensive collection in the front hall. Some called it sensuous, each curve of the land woven against the canvas. Where river met mountain and mountain turned to plains, each detail brought the eastern coast of Mexico to life. Birthed, another art connoisseur had whispered, when he’d been allowed within these walls.

  It was true, though. If Antonio stood back and let his vision blur, a woman’s body was revealed on the canvas. A self-portrait some claimed.

  But they hadn’t known Carmen Bellamy Fuentes. Hell, he hadn’t known her either. A sister-in-law, married to his brother—Diego Fuentes, the better man.

  Together, those two had set the world on fire…

  She would have taken the art world by storm and put their little town on the map…with her love of color and texture. She’d refused to use anything that wasn’t made in Mexico. He’d watched her crush roots and berries to get the colors she sought.

  And his brother. Besotted fool…he hadn’t survived her death. Not really. If it hadn’t been for their child, Diego would have gladly died as well.

  But Diego hadn’t anticipated Martinez’s obsession with his wife.

  Martinez stepped closer to the painting and touched the corner. He’d loved Carmen.

  Carmen had loved Diego.

  Now they were both dead.

  Antonio would do anything to stop the killing. He’d gotten good at anticipating Martinez’s next move. Today had been the first execution since Easter when one of the shipments had been lost off the coast. Mistakes weren’t allowed. Period.

  Martinez sighed as if shaking off the melancholy.

  Antonio held his breath and slowed the movement of his thoughts.

  Martinez came out of his fugue-like state and looked around. He couldn’t see Antonio, didn’t know he was there. Antonio counted down the seconds until Martinez finally moved away from the painting and headed up the marble staircase to his bedroom suite on the second floor.

  No need to rush. Once Martinez went up for the night, he didn’t return. Antonio was as familiar with the man’s routine as he was of his own. When the footsteps echoing down the upstairs hall faded to nothing, Antonio stepped out of the shadows, moved to the front door, and turned to the large canvas.

  He tilted his head as so many others did, and let his eyes go out of focus. She was definitely there—shoulder to waist, over hips to slim ankles…resting in the deep greens and muted shadows of the hills. Embarrassment hit him in the solar plexus. He cleared his throat, set his wide-brimmed hat back on his head, and turned out the door.

  After taking the small path around the house, Antonio slipped out through the back gate. He didn’t need light to guide his way. He’d crossed these paths many times in the last ten years, going from Martinez’s compound to his mother’s home outside the city.

  She was so old now. He was surprised she hadn’t died yet. Her will to live, even after losing so much…it came from somewhere else, somewhere unknown. She claimed God.

  Antonio didn’t believe anymore, not like his mother did. What kind of God allowed the best, most beautiful, to die?

  With a quick glance behind him, he approached the small car sitting under the streetlight in the alley. His reflection in the window mocked him. Güero. Paleface.

  Scarred by the same fire that had left his brother and niece dead.

  He gripped the handle, scowling back at himself.

  He’d wanted revenge—for his family. He wasn’t stupid enough to call it justice, though it would be justice as well. He’d found his strength in manipulating and controlling Martinez, rather than fighting against him. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.

  He’d become the man’s accomplice in many ways.

  Pulling the small keychain from his pocket, he slipped it into the keyhole just as the door across the alley slammed open. Two men were tossed out of the gentlemen’s club. On the seedy side, it was the perfect hiding place. Maybe Antonio didn’t approve of the nature of the business, but he was friends with the owner, who often waived the cover charge for him when he needed to get away from the compound.

  He nodded to the bouncer once then drove silently into the city streets until they became country dirt roads. Just under an hour he was headed down the familiar hill onto his mother’s property. Shutting down his car plunged him into the deep darkness this country offered. Even the glow of the lamp in the window of his mother’s kitchen didn’t quite dispel the darkness.

  As he stepped out of the car, the porch light blinked on and the door opened.

  He took the step up to her and kissed her cheek. “Hello, Mama.”

  She set his nerves on edge, but that was usual. It was like she could see through him, knew every bad thing he’d done, how the anger and drive for revenge grew inside him every day. Even now, she narrowed her eyes at him.

  “What brings you to my house?” she asked, suspicion in her voice.

  “I wanted to check in on you,” he answered. “It’s been a few weeks.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Don’t be that way.”

  She shrugged. “You have chosen your path. I don’t have to like it.”

  “Do you need anything, Mama?”

  She led him through the cramped living room into the kitchen. “I need you to leave Martinez and come home, for good.”

  “I can’t do that now, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”

  “I can get you out of here,” she said, jabbing the air with her finger.

  Antonio rolled his eyes.

  She stood about four foot ten and weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds, soaking wet. Her fighting spirit did not translate to the physical world. Her promises to help him amused more than irritated.

  He opened the ice box and took out a beer. “Who would be dead this month if not for me? Ricardo, from the processing plant. Paulo, from shipping. Our very own Elena, from down the road, who cleans for Martinez.”

  Her eyes widened. “What did that girl do this time?”

  “She went to the rebellion meeting last week. Guess who showed up? One of Martinez’s thugs. That’s who. As it was, she got away with a stern talking to…and a broken wrist.” Antonio ran a hand through his hair. “She was lucky. And you know it. She is too close.”

  His mom’s shoulders drooped, and he hated to dampen her spirit. But, like hell, if he could leave now. “I’m careful, Mama. I do this for our family. For my dead brother and niece.”

  She hesitated, not quite looking him in the eye, and nodded. “I wish it could be different.”

  “Someday it will be. I promise. Things will be better.” He knew of smaller groups who worked, like he did, t
o end the cartel’s grip on their country. He had to believe.

  Otherwise, he worked for nothing.

  Chapter Five

  “Hey, how you feeling?” Jamie asked Marie and Tancredo from the hallway, staying a safe distance from any germs.

  Tan didn’t move on his cot, but Marie waved from her spot, sitting on the floor next to him with her back against the wall. “I think we’re going to survive. Tan is coming around, just needs some rest.”

  But her eyes were brightly glazed and her cheeks red.

  “There’s food. Doc brought out a feast. Whenever you’re up to it, you should eat.”

  “Yes, Dad,” Tan spoke as he rolled over. He rubbed a hand over his face and sat up

  The tight feeling in Jamie’s chest loosened at the signs of recovery. “Okay. Good.” He turned to go, caught a glimpse of one of the younger boys from Doc’s clinic, poking his head around the corner at the end of the hallway. “By the way, watch out for the little monsters,” he said, louder than he needed to.

  Marie tilted her head in question, a curious light in her eyes.

  “We’re not monsters!”

  “Kids I mean,” Jamie answered, grinning at the sound of footsteps behind him. He stopped the monster from entering the room by swinging him up into his arms. “They’re everywhere.”

  Marie laughed as she lay back down.

  Jamie held the kid upside down by the knees and carried the wiggly, giggling boy back to the main room. With three different wings, the clinic boarded orphans and nuns in one wing and the doctor and exam rooms in another.

  But the main room just inside the front door was a gathering space—kitchen, dining room, living room. All the comforts of home, including an air hockey table in the corner, an overstuffed couch, and a big neon sign on the back wall, advertising Michelob.

  Craig and Luke were at the air hockey table. Kids surrounded them, hollering encouragement. Letting his own bundle down to join the melee, Jamie caught Craig’s eye.

  Luke’s disc made a goal, and Craig grinned and threw his hands up in surrender. He slowly made his way over to Jamie. “How’s it going, Sarge?”

  “Just want to be done here and go home, actually.”

  Craig studied him, tilted his head. “That’s not like you, though. What’s up?”

  Jamie had a reputation for being cool under pressure, the older guy with years of experience under his belt.

  “Talk.” Craig said.

  “I don’t know,” Jamie answered with a shrug and waved Craig toward the front door.

  “We need your head in the game over here, not stuck at home with Missy.”

  He didn’t the fuck need Craig to tell him where his head should be. “I think I can handle a medical supply drop in Bogotá.”

  “Prove it.”

  Jamie scowled. “Fuck that.”

  Craig laughed and then took a deep breath of the night air. “So hot.”

  Jamie was glad Craig had made the trip. He was reliable and levelheaded. It had been a while since they’d spent any down time together. Jamie’s location in Belize created distance from his teammates, and he wasn’t much of a talky kind of guy anyway. But being part of the team meant being able to recognize strengths and weaknesses, and not just in the field.

  “I want her to marry me,” he admitted.

  “Congratulations,” Craig said with a grin.

  “She doesn’t say yes. Ever.”

  “Ouch.” Craig studied him. “So, you’ve asked more than once.” It wasn’t a question.

  Jamie huffed a laugh. “Always bad timing.”

  Craig had grown up before their eyes. No longer the newbie. No longer the young man with a crush on the boss’ daughter—thank God. Navigating that must have been tricky for the rookie.

  “Is there good timing?”

  “Shit, man. No.” He shrugged. “It’s more than that, though.”

  Craig leaned against the front porch and lifted his chin as he took a deep breath. “Well, I know a little something about timing.”

  “Yeah.” The stars above them twinkled against the dark canvas of the sky. Same big sky. “You would,” he finally answered. “I thought you gave that up.”

  “Hard not to move on when the one you want just enrolled in her freshman year of college. I could handle her being Hawk’s daughter. I think. But this life, it’s hard on everyone.”

  The way he said it gave Jamie pause. “That’s why you’ve taken every assignment you can in the last two years. When was the last time you were in Raleigh for more than a week or two?”

  Craig didn’t answer the question. Maybe it wasn’t necessary. They all did what had to be done to survive. “I’m going to head in, get to bed. Early flight in the morning.”

  The wind picked up, but even the breeze was hot at this time of year. The lights hanging under the eaves turned on as the sun dipped below the horizon. “I’ll be in in a few,” Jamie said.

  The door slammed shut behind Craig, leaving Jamie alone.

  He picked up his phone and texted Missy one last time before bed.

  Hey babe.

  Hey you.

  She sent a smiley face.

  He held his thumb over the call icon for a fraction of a second before touching the screen. There was a chair next to the door, an old wooden thing, and he sat in it and leaned back.

  She answered right away. “Miss me already?”

  He didn’t normally call her on assignment, and now he’d called her twice. “Maybe. Probably.” Honesty, the best policy.

  “I love you.”

  “Good.”

  “Now, go to bed, so tomorrow will come more quickly, and you can come home to me.”

  “Right—” The gate at the back of the clinic banged against its frame. Wind buffeted against the metal roofing and banged against the tinder frame to his right. The deep rumble of an engine broke through the noise of the wind.

  “What?” Missy said, forcing him back to the call.

  But the deep throttled motor had him dropping the chair to all fours, standing up, and opening the front door to the clinic.

  “Hold on,” he said, even though he wasn’t really talking to her. He just needed silence. The gate at the back of the clinic banged again. The wind? He nudged the door open with his toe and scanned the room for his teammate. “Craig,” he said, “check the courtyard, would you?”

  Craig took off down the west wing to the back of the clinic, where the cargo trucks were both parked.

  Jamie lifted the phone to his ear. “I gotta go, babe. I’ll call you back.” He dropped the phone to the table. “Luke, let’s get everyone together and pull out our bags.” They always travelled ready to defend themselves, even on a charitable run to Colombia. Jamie picked up his own gun, checked for ammo, and rested it at his side.

  “Give Marie and Tan an update. Let them know we’re checking on things, but to be ready for anything.”

  Luke gave him a look.

  “What?” Jamie said, shortly.

  “Nothing, sir. I’m on it,” Luke said. “It’s probably nothing.”

  The sound of wood splitting and glass breaking came from down the hallway, followed by a single gunshot. Nope. Not nothing.

  Jamie grabbed his 9mm and ran but stopped short when Craig flew through the doorway, back into the main room, and landed with a thud at his feet.

  Jamie knelt and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  The familiar cold press of a gun barrel touched the back of his head. Shit. Silence filled the room. Cold sweat dripped down his neck, and he slowly lifted his hands.

  Jamie’s gaze locked in on Craig’s.

  “Easy does it there, Cowboy.” The German accent had Jamie’s brow lifting. Craig gave a shrug. “We aren’t afraid to shoot—obviously.”

  Craig had worked his way to sitting. Blood seeped through his shirt and down his arm. A shoulder wound. A pang of remembrance shot through Jamie’s own shoulder, and he grimaced.

  The German sh
oved Jamie forward toward the rest of the group. Two more scrappy-looking men came through the door from the back with Luke and Tancredo in tow.

  But no Marie.

  Shit.

  ***

  “…we’re not afraid to shoot—obviously.”

  Something had stopped her from disconnecting—intuition? Missy forced herself to hang up. Her hands shook as she swiped through to Hawk’s phone number. Her stomach hurt.

  Hawk didn’t answer.

  She called again.

  Still no answer.

  Her brain short-circuited, a complete blank. Who should she call?

  Malcolm.

  She swiped again through to the D section and then touched Malcolm Daniels’ number.

  “Hello, Missy.” Malcolm’s deep voice came on the line, and she sobbed in relief.

  “They’ve been taken. I was talking to Jamie, and there was a noise, like a crashing sound. He told me to hold on. And then he was gone—for a long time. And there was yelling and kids screaming—”

  “Whoa, slow down.”

  “There was a gunshot. Ay, Dios mio, what if they are all dead?” Her brain began running worst-case scenarios. The air around her seemed to disappear. “Oh, no.”

  “Marguerite! Breathe.”

  At her name, she focused on Malcolm’s voice.

  “Who’s dead? Are you bleeding? Is anyone with you?”

  “No.” Her throat closed. “Jamie. I was talking to Jamie.” Her throat tightened again, and she had to force the words. “They are under attack.”

  “Hold on, okay? Let me call Hawk. Do not hang up.”

  “He’s not answering,” she said, her voice becoming shrill. She blew out a breath. She couldn’t come off like a crazy person. Remain calm, like Jamie.

  Malcolm didn’t respond this time, and she had to wait. She was always waiting, it seemed. The quiet of her room closed in on her, and she got up, slipped into a pair of shorts, and walked to the kitchen.

  Standing there, staring, she had an awful thought. What if Jamie never returned?

  Hadn’t that been part of the deal all along, though? Every time he left.

  “Don’t be a ninny,” she whispered as she flipped the light switch. The overhead light burned into her eyes, making her blink. She crossed the old linoleum and opened the fridge. She kept the phone to her ear.