“Very well. But I’ll only call for the funds once I see for myself that Yancy and Jennifer are okay. Are they here?” She watched his response very closely.
He shrugged, pulled out his cell phone, and made a call. He said something hesitant and indistinguishable, but it sounded like Russian. Emm and Curt exchanged a look.
So it was true. He was working with Chechen gangsters.
Cervantes listened. He scowled at the response, gave one harsh command, and hung up abruptly. He stood, stretching, and bit off an order to his lieutenant. The gun lowered.
“They’ll be brought to you shortly,” the lieutenant said in English, and Emm realized he’d understood every word she and Curt had exchanged. “While we wait, Señor Cervantes would invite you to dine with him.” He listened to Cervantes’s genial description of the menu and smiled at Emm. “Argentinean beef. Rare.”
A delaying tactic? Emm wasn’t sure she could eat a bite, but she only nodded graciously, aware she had to be true to the role she’d created. “You’re having Yancy and Jennifer brought here?”
Cervantes nodded, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. She looked outside. The moon was rising. She’d forgotten her watch and had no idea of the time. Except that it was late.
And getting later . . . fast.
Where was Ross?
Outside on the hillside, Mexican Marines, heavily weaponized in body armor and guns, snaked up the slope until they could peek above it. Further down, the US agents remained crouched and waiting for their okay to advance.
Chad held a lethal tactical shotgun, the barrel too short to be legal for anyone other than law enforcement, and packed a machine pistol on one shoulder, his pistol on his hip. Ross held his issue weapon at the ready, with his custom .45 loaded and waiting in his holster.
The Mexican Marine captain leading the squadron of elite special forces lifted his fist and began counting, his fingers rising in a countdown. One, two, three . . . he was reaching for four when car lights split the ess curve.
They all had to go flat as a Lincoln rounded the last dogleg. Ross and Chad crawled up the slope, careful to keep their heads as low as possible. The car drew to a stop in front of the compound, blocking the entrance. A veiled woman wearing spike heels, dressed like a hooker, got out to meet the angry guard who exited to berate her for blocking the driveway. She sashayed to meet him, her hips swinging, not intimidated when he poked her in the stomach with a machine gun. She said something to him they couldn’t hear, dropping the veil. More guards poured out as every exterior floodlight snapped on.
The marines and Texans all cursed and ducked down at the same time. They waited a moment, but the loud, excited exchange indicated the guards were too involved, and probably blinded by the lights, to see them. They peeked over the slope again. The woman advanced into the light, saying something, and offered a small and shiny object that looked short but sharp, from her pocket as they frisked her. The oldest guard used his radio and got an immediate response. They grabbed her arm to force her inside the gate.
She stumbled, and Ross caught her profile illuminated in the bright lights. “Holy shit, it’s Yancy Russell,” he hissed to Chad. Chad passed the word to their colleagues and the marines. A brief conference ensued on whether to delay the raid or not. They all looked down the slope at the general, who had maps and radios spread on the hood of the armored truck, which they’d parked beneath a huge tree. Abby stood next to him, speaking into a phone, and Ross realized she was trying to get drone assistance for the infrared imaging. They hadn’t been able to get close enough to the structure to use the equipment they’d brought, so if they invaded now they’d be going in blind. Because she was a consultant, they hadn’t allowed her near the tactical side of the operation, but they wanted her there for data collection at the end.
But the general and his men were growing impatient. . . .
As they debated, Ross caught something shiny that looked black in the lights as Yancy was yanked inside. It was coming from her wrist, dribbling behind her in thick dollops on the pavement. “Shit, she’s bleeding,” he whispered to Chad. “She has hemophilia. Emm will be frantic.” He gave his friend a pleading look. “We have to go. Now, before they have time to get organized. The minute Emm sees her bleeding, all hell will break loose. Looks like Jennifer isn’t with her.”
Nodding his agreement, Chad went down to talk to the general. The ensuing seconds were the longest of Ross’s life; he tensed to top the slope by himself if need be but restrained himself, waiting for the general’s answer. Acting on his own would only get both him and Emm killed . . . maybe Chad and Yancy, too.
Besides, he’d resigned as task force chief. This wasn’t his call.
CHAPTER 15
Inside the study, Emm watched as all hell seemed to break loose. A crackle came from the radio. Something about “mujer Yanqui.” And then, blessedly, Emm heard Yancy’s name. With a cry, she leaped to her feet.
Cervantes bit out an order and one of the guards yanked her back down, pressing her in the side with his machine gun. She subsided but had to bite her lip until it bled to contain herself. However, the study door was still ajar, and she could see the large foyer when the door was thrown open.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Curt reach for his pocket. The guards were all focused on the door, so she was the only one who saw him press a button on his cell phone. Their eyes locked briefly.
She didn’t need to see any more to know he was messaging someone. His gaze flickered back to watch the drama in the foyer, but not fast enough, and she knew him well enough to read his eyes. As usual, he was playing both ends against the middle. He’d played along only until he could set his own agenda in motion. What that was she had no idea, because none of these men seemed to recognize him. Had he used an assumed name?
Feeling sick to her stomach, with the gun still poking her, Emm could only watch and wait, every instinct in her body screaming at her to run to Yancy’s aid.
Guards poured in first; then the oldest guard, obviously the shift leader outside, dragged a tall woman in black inside the door, slamming it shut. She flipped her long, dirty, tangled blonde hair over her shoulder and turned to face Cervantes.
“Yancy,” Emm screamed.
Yancy turned toward the sound of her voice, so she wasn’t ready for the fist that slammed into her cheek. She went sprawling.
Cervantes shook his sore hand and bit off a curse at the woman at his feet, kicking her for good measure. Yancy sat up, spitting a retort Emm couldn’t catch, but it was obviously virulent. She rose to her knees, reaching for the pistol in the belt of the guard nearest her, but he dodged away, kicking at her hand. Yancy cried out, cradling it, and they all saw the dripping blood.
Even the gun poking her wasn’t enough to stop Emm then. She shoved the guard away, leaped to her feet, and ran toward the door.
As the guard lifted his weapon to fire at her back, the lights in the entire building went out. At the same time they all heard a small explosion coming from the basement area. For a split second, total stupefied silence reigned as the room was pitched into darkness.
There was a macabre flash, and everyone dodged away from the brilliant, disorienting light. As the emergency generators kicked on, shattering glass, splintering wood, and small explosions seemed to rock the entire huge house from every direction.
Then the guards were shooting at doors and windows. Half-blinded from what she realized must be flash-bang grenades, Emm groped into the hallway far enough to put her arms around Yancy, and hold her tight as she pulled her sister flat against the cold floor. Yancy began sobbing, but only Emm knew it because pandemonium ruled as the gunfire intensified.
Armed and armored soldiers seemed to pour inside from every opening. Arturo’s huge army suddenly seemed very small. Guards began falling. Emm lifted her head; even over the cacophony she heard a familiar voice.
“Emm!” It was Ross. He held a handgun at the ready and shot a drug dealer in the arm
who was aiming at the two women. The drug dealer’s machine gun dropped to the marble floor as his elbow splintered through his forearm, blood spurting. He fell, screaming.
Emm barely noticed. She smiled brilliantly in Ross’s direction, still blinking, trying to focus. “I knew you’d come,” she said simply, still sheltering Yancy under one arm. But she’d raised herself high enough that she was in the line of fire. A bullet flew past her, singeing her scalp and leaving a terrible pain in her head and a viscious ringing in her ears. She shook her head, trying to clear them.
Ross crouched and fought his way toward her, stepping over several fallen men, two guards and one marine, returning fire from several angles as he came.
The next thing Emm knew, she was being jerked from the floor, providing a human shield for Arturo Cervantes as he backed her up the stairs, a .357 pistol pointed upward at her side at a lethal angle that led straight to her heart. She tried to fight, but the pistol prodded harder, and her head felt like it was going to come off her shoulders, so she went limp and let herself be pulled. Blood oozed from the graze, trickling down the side of her head and face.
Ross froze. Chad Foster came in behind him so fast he bumped into him. Ross was so tense he barely moved at the impact, but he had enough presence of mind to press Chad’s raised shotgun toward the floor.
The gunfire was sputtering off as more armed marines rounded up the guards. Several had locked themselves in the study and shot through the door at their enemies, but the outcome was inevitable.
To everyone but Arturo Cervantes. He had Emm almost to the landing now.
Ross’s gaze flickered to the side toward the DEA lead agent, who was crouched behind the curve of the stairway, aiming carefully at Cervantes’s head.
But Cervantes had survived in a brutal world so long partly because of his tactical ability. He pulled Emm flat over him on the upper landing, obviously expecting an assault from his blind spot. The shots went well above his head, pocking the plaster walls. And then, with his brutal peasant’s strength, Cervantes half-crawled, half-slithered, pulling Emm’s light weight with him until he could stand, around the shield of the walled corridor.
Half the force stormed up the stairs after him, Ross in the lead. As Ross rounded the corner, Cervantes landed a lucky shot as he slammed his bedroom door. Ross took the slug in his helmet. They heard a hydraulic humming and what sounded like a very sturdy bolt shooting home.
Ross dropped to one knee as stars swam and his ears rang. For a moment, he swayed, about to pass out; then a familiar hand clutched his shoulder. Chad stooped to check on him, testing the dent in the helmet and drawing a deep breath of relief when his finger couldn’t go all the way through.
“Give it a minute,” he said loudly into Ross’s ear. “Thank God it was only a .357.”
A minute? Emm doesn’t have a minute, Ross wanted to say, still struggling to stay conscious.
The next few minutes would have to be explained to him later.
As the marine captain, Rosemary, and the head of the DEA reached the bedroom door, Rosemary shot several times at the latch, and both men kicked the door, but they winced and backed away, nursing sore toes. The marine captain compressed all his considerable weight in one huge assault on the door, but it didn’t budge a millimeter. He rubbed his shoulder.
The DEA chief bent to check out the lock and shook his head grimly. “It’s reinforced steel. It must have dropped from the ceiling. We’ll need a torch.”
Rosemary said, “Surely he’s trapped . . . Who has a floor plan?”
The captain, who obviously spoke some English, pulled a paper blowup from a zippered pouch. They all huddled over it.
Ross’s ears were still ringing, but his gaze had cleared enough that he saw one of the FBI agents run up from the foyer. He said something to Chad that Ross couldn’t hear. Chad ran back down the stairs.
Ross hauled himself to his feet, holding on to the wall, willing the deafness and nausea to recede. He painfully moved forward to appraise the door, realizing what was wrong with one glance. He said sharply, though he barely heard his own words, “We need to regroup and send someone to man every upper-floor window and possible egress!”
The marine captain was already on his radio.
Taking a deep breath, Ross was girding himself for what looked like a hostage scenario with Emm as the hostage, when he realized Chad was assessing something downstairs. Ross slowly walked back to the landing, still unsteady, and saw Chad kneeling next to a stretcher. Even from here, that long blonde hair was a ghastly contrast to the blood still dripping onto the expensive marble. He saw Chad leaning over Yancy, listening, as the medic set up a small portable drip into Yancy’s wounded wrist.
He made it down the stairs, though he was still dizzy and almost lost his footing twice. He had to hold on to the banister. Slowly, the nausea was subsiding, but it was a good thing he hadn’t eaten in over twelve hours. He made it to Yancy’s side and knelt next to her, seeing that she was clutching Chad’s arm with her bloodied hand. He moved closer, trying to hear, too, and caught, “Escape . . . hatch. Bathtub, master . . . bedroom.”
Chad leaped to his feet, obviously intending to run upstairs to warn the others, but Yancy tugged at his pants leg. He knelt down to her again.
She was struggling for words because the medic had put her on painkillers and a fluid drip to help with blood loss. The man looked away when Ross tried to meet his eyes. Ross had seen that look from medical personnel before—they had to get her to a hospital, quick. He knew enough about hemophilia to realize the medic wouldn’t have anything to help in his field kit, and that if she’d been bleeding for a day or two, she needed a shot and probably a liquid drip of the latest hemophilia med or it might be too late to stop the bleeding at all.
Chad knelt down next to her again. Ross leaned in.
“Outside . . . big oak tree. Tunnel leads there. Stop him.” Her voice broke, and tears seeped into her dirty blonde hair. “He killed my . . . daughter.” And then she couldn’t talk anymore as the drugs took her.
Big oak tree? Holy crap, that was where Abby and the general were waiting.
Ross teetered where he stood, torn between storming outside and staying upstairs to see if they could somehow break in. But he suspected Cervantes would bolt like the rat he was, and he was taking Emm with him. He and Chad exchanged a look. Chad ran for the door, reaching for his radio, but it was missing from his belt. He cursed, taking the exterior steps in three strides. Ross followed. They both skirted the long road, aiming straight for the steep hillside. They looked around for backup as they ran, but the few of their men outside were guarding doors and windows as instructed, and gunfire still peppered occasionally from all quarters.
They were on their own.
Emm’s headache had died down a little, leaving room for fear to take its place. But she knew better than to show it. Every time she stumbled or faltered, Cervantes pushed her between the shoulder blades with the pistol. They were in a dimly lit cavity Emm figured led outside somewhere because the curving stairs seemed to plunge forever into darkness. Lights lined the walls, but they weren’t bright enough to illuminate much more than the steps, so she had no idea where they were going.
She knew Ross was frantically looking for her, and she was still worried about Yancy. At the moment, however, survival was her only priority. To keep her sanity, she concentrated on one step at a time. She placed each foot carefully, holding on to the thin metal railing as she went.
Following closely behind her, the gun still pressed into her ribs, Cervantes growled into his radio. Static, and then Russian voices answered.
Emm couldn’t understand a thing, but she knew if he succeeded in using her as a shield and got away, she was dead. Her headache was clearing. The blood had stopped, though she felt stiffness on one side of her face and head.
As she walked—slowly, as it still hurt—she knew, Ross or no Ross, she had to make a move before she let Cervantes take her. It was obvious
what he did with kidnapped American women.
Outside, Ross ran, his steps firmer as he went. He also checked his clip. Three shots left. He switched it with his full one, saying a prayer for Emm as he ran. He’d heard sirens earlier and saw several emergency vehicles blocking the gate. As he swerved past them, he was relieved to see Yancy’s stretcher being loaded into one of them. Good. She’d be at the hospital before they’d finished mopping up.
The hillside was littered with scrub and rocks that pricked them even through the armor, but he and Chad still went prone, poking their heads up while they assessed the scene below. They both bit off a curse at what they saw. “Goddammit, why didn’t I prepare for this contingency?” Chad groaned.
Below, the general and Abby were being prodded at gunpoint toward a Jeep that had obviously come cross-country in the dark. Three men held machine guns on them, two of them in wrinkled but expensive suits that shone with silk fibers even in the bright moonlight. The third one was a younger Latino who resembled Cervantes.
“That’s Tomás Cervantes. We were so damn busy rounding up the father, we forgot about the son,” Ross bit off quietly.
Abby and the general were both bound with zip ties, their wrists in front. By the looks of him, the general had been roughed up. His holster was empty. Abby’s shirt was missing a couple of buttons at the top and her hair was a bit mussed, but other than that, she looked as calm and rational as usual.
When Tomás surveyed the hillside, his head turning in their direction, they both ducked back down. Chad tried his cell phone several times, then cursed and powered it off again. “No one’s live again yet—they’re still fighting. If we do this, it’s just the two of us.”
Ross nodded grimly. “I can’t ask you to go in without backup, but I have no choice. She’s my woman, Chad.”
Chad grinned, his teeth white against the black powder and grime on his angular features. “I’m just happy to hear those words from you. ’Bout damn time. Besides, one Ranger, one riot, right? We can handle some drug-dealer scum between the two of us.” Chad peeked back over the slope, watching Abby. She was saying something they couldn’t hear, very calmly, to Tomás, her Spanish apparently fluent. He lifted the butt of his machine gun as if to clout her, but when she steadily met his eyes, he dropped the gun and used his voice instead.
Sinclair Justice Page 24
