“Once Lockhart is confirmed dead you’ll get your money, Raoul, but I want proof. Not hearsay. And if you kill whoever took her I’ll double the reward.”
Raoul’s tone turned sly. “They won’t get out of the country. Everyone is looking for them now.”
So the Colombian had orchestrated some sort of plan. Hopefully it was more effective than his last one.
“Thank you, my friend. This won’t affect the shipments?”
Raoul’s tone grew menacing. “The shipments go on as planned. No delay.”
“Good.”
They said goodbye and he dialed another number.
“I need to see you in my office.” He could no longer afford to trust the Colombians to get the job done.
A few minutes later there was a knock on his door and a woman entered. Attractive, mid-thirties, blonde. Tracey Williams, Head of Security. Tracey Williams wasn’t her real name.
“We have a problem,” he said before she mistook this summons for pleasure rather than urgent business. “The Colombians screwed up. They say they can fix the problem, but I’d like you to go down there and check it out for me.”
Her red painted lips parted in surprise. “She got away?”
“She had help.”
Her brows rose.
“I need you to give it your immediate attention,” he said when she still didn’t move.
Her expression tightened, but she nodded. “I’ll be on the next flight out.”
Some of the tension eased from his chest. Unlike the Colombians she’d never let him down.
Chapter Four
IT HAD BEEN a long time since Killion had flown anything and flying a stolen plane below radar at night over the jungle had been a hell of a refresher course. He was exhausted, running on adrenaline fumes and pure nerve, but finally, after many hours, they’d reached their destination—another unmarked airfield on the outskirts of Cartagena on the northern Caribbean coast of Colombia. The plane rumbled along the landing strip, making him glad to be back on solid ground even if the situation was a little shaky. It was still dark as he headed to the farther-most corner of the small airfield where a tall man leaned nonchalantly against the wooden hull of the hangar. Killion slowed his speed and taxied inside before stopping the plane and turning off the engine. He glanced over his shoulder into the cargo space. Lockhart had slept most of the journey. Either that or she was dead. He was almost too tired to care.
The door opened and a man he hadn’t seen in two years grinned up at him. The former British SAS soldier took in everything with a quick glance. “You’ve looked worse, but I doubt she has.” He gave Killion a wink and climbed inside the aircraft, putting his fingers to Audrey’s throat.
Logan Masters and a few of his Brit pals had set up shop in South America a couple of years ago. Their company, “Penny Fan,” sounded like a Chinese piano protégé, but was actually named after the infamous Welsh Mountain that formed part of the SAS’s Selection process. They consulted on security issues for corporate businesses: hostage negotiations, kidnap and ransom, threat reduction of a permanent nature. Killion knew they did other things, secret things, operations that couldn’t be tied to their government. Like most operators in the clandestine service, Killion believed in the three wise monkeys approach to doing business with allies—see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
“Is she still alive?” He found himself holding his breath, hoping she’d survived his clumsy rescue.
“Pulse is thready and rapid.” Masters quickly checked her wound and still, the woman didn’t wake up. “Looks red and inflamed. She needs IV fluids and antibiotics.” He speared Killion with a look. “Assuming you don’t want to take her to hospital?”
“No hospital. I’ve got to get her out of Colombia without anyone knowing she’s alive.”
“Destination?”
“Good question.” He laughed. “I’m working on it.”
Masters climbed out of the aircraft and pulled out his cell, pressing a button before putting it back in his pocket.
Killion tossed his SIG in his duffel and climbed out of the machine, feet hitting the ground with a thud. They shook hands. Then Killion stretched out his arms and back until his vertebrae cracked and the tightness in his muscles eased. He needed food, water, and sleep, but first he needed to take care of his captive.
The word was an ugly one. It reminded him of some of the other things that had been done in the name of God and Country.
“I’m not going to get a call from someone wanting to hire me to help find her, am I?” Masters asked carefully.
“Only if you’ve started working for Raoul Gómez.”
The Brit’s eyes hardened. “That asshole? Did you hear he’s started wearing bulletproof pajamas to bed? I keep hoping for an invitation to test how well they protect against a double-tap to the head.” His teeth gleamed in a predatory smile.
Killion knew exactly what Masters would do if he got close to the cartel leader; it wouldn’t be pretty, but it would be fast and it would be terminal. It was the main reason he’d chosen to come to these guys instead of using his other contacts. The cartel leader had killed two SAS men more than a decade ago. The Regiment knew how to hold a grudge and would never sell them out to the guy. That old saying about revenge being a dish best served cold?—He was looking at a world-class practitioner of that particular adage.
“‘That asshole’ isn’t very happy with my passenger. And it’s possible I accidentally borrowed his plane without asking permission when I rescued her. It might have a tracker on it,” he warned.
“The hangar is cloaked from any unauthorized electronic signals.” The Brit’s brows pulled together as he eyed the small aircraft. “I can make the Cessna disappear—on paper anyway.” He grinned. “It might come in handy at some point in the future. You have alternate transportation arranged?”
Killion shook his head. “I have people working on it. My escape plan involved getting the woman out of his territory. It was a spur of the moment intervention.”
“You’re not using Company resources this trip?”
“This one’s below radar.” He’d contacted Frazer from the plane, but the guy was on medical leave. The FBI agent was pissed he wasn’t available to help, but he’d arranged for a former CIA operative and cyber-security specialist, Alex Parker, to work with him on this. Parker was good—but even better news was the fact Jed Brennan was back at Quantico, riding a desk, and running the FBI’s BAU-4 until Frazer returned to work. Killion trusted Brennan, and his buddy was working on finding him and Audrey a safe house. Hopefully one that didn’t involve a remote cabin in the Northwoods of Wisconsin with Brennan’s conspiracy-nut father watching his back. If it did, Killion was liable to get a bullet in his skull because the old man didn’t trust anyone, but Brennan’s father certainly didn’t trust the CIA, and in particular didn’t trust him.
Ideally, they’d find something on a beach somewhere. Killion preferred hot to cold. Sun to snow. Brunettes to redheads…
“Noah’s on the way with our ride. I’m assuming you can cope with a little British hospitality for a few hours?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Gómez wouldn’t risk the wrath of the CIA just to get his plane back.” Masters’ eyes sparkled with curiosity. “What’s the story with the woman?”
“Gómez doesn’t know the CIA has the woman. He doesn’t know the CIA is involved at all and I want it to stay that way. The asshole sent Hector Sanchez after her. Hector came off worse during the encounter. I happened to be in the area at the time and got her out.”
The Brit’s eyes widened with grudging respect. “Company business?”
“She has information I need.” Killion hedged.
Masters held up his hands. He knew all about the three wise monkeys. And all about Killion’s primary skill set.
The noise of a car engine had Killion turning toward the door of the hangar. A black SUV pulled up inside and a dark-haired man jumped out and wa
lked over, sporting a cocky grin.
Noah Zacharias—another so-called former SAS trooper—held out his hand. “Good to see you, mate.”
Noah and Logan were part of a cadre of soldiers Killion had been lucky enough to save after a logistical fuck up had almost cost the elite warriors their lives. It wasn’t every day he got to do the right thing. Now he was cashing in his chips.
“Noah,” Killion acknowledged with a smile. “Still writing cheesy love songs for the ladies?”
Noah snorted. “Only when I’m not kicking some crazy American’s ass. You still causing trouble?” It was a rhetorical question. Noah’s eyes flickered over Killion’s shoulder to the aircraft. “Don’t bother to answer that. Looks like your lady friend just woke up.”
* * *
AUDREY STARED OUT of the open doorway to find three men staring at her with expressions that ranged from concern to speculation to curiosity. Details from the night before were fuzzy. Her skin felt sizzling hot. Mouth scorched. She had no idea where she was, or even what day it was. It looked dark outside. Nighttime. Between blood loss and lack of her reading glasses her vision was blurry. She was inside the small aircraft the tourist had stolen earlier. She staggered to the open doorway and sat on the edge as white-hot agony ripped through her side.
“How’re you feeling?” asked the tourist.
“Like death, only in excruciating pain.” She panted as she shifted her left leg. She’d never experienced anything like this before. Had Rebecca suffered this much after being shot, or was that even worse? Audrey didn’t want to think about her friend. Even after five years it still hurt and right now she had to get through her own trauma. “I need to get to the American embassy. I don’t have a passport and I need to tell the police what happened at the research station.”
The men’s expressions were masked now. Closed down. She swallowed nervously, realizing that although these men didn’t radiate an obvious threat, they weren’t necessarily her friends. Fortunately, they’d shown her nothing but kindness.
“Where am I?”
“Still in Colombia,” said her hero whose name she still didn’t know.
“Can you get me to the embassy?” All she wanted was to go home, but she didn’t know if the airlines would allow her to fly with no passport and a stab wound.
Her rescuer nodded. Thank goodness.
Her head started to pound. As if reading her mind her rescuer held a bottle of water to her lips. She tipped her head back and felt moisture flood her tongue. The water had a bit of a tang but she put that down to the warm plastic bottle. When she was finished she wiped a drop from the side of her mouth. She wasn’t sure how much blood she’d lost, but enough to leave her with zero energy.
“Who are you guys?” Her hands started to shake from fatigue. No one answered. “How did you know I was in danger yesterday?” She assumed it was yesterday that she’d killed a man. The realization she’d taken someone’s life made her feel awful. Then she pushed the guilt aside. The fact a man had died was terrible, but it had been his own fault. He’d attacked her. It was only by a twist of fate she’d survived to regret any of it.
She tried to stand, but pain streaked white-hot through her body. The skin around her wound felt both fragile and blisteringly hot. The man who’d saved her moved quickly to help, sliding his hands under her back and knees and lifting her against him. She barely had the strength to thank him.
Even her untrained eye could spot the military bearing of the other two men, but the tourist possessed a different aura. She frowned. Not military. Not a rule follower—if torching the rental car and stealing the plane were anything to go by. He was quick, sharp, confident. Was he a criminal? Her head fell against his chest. Even if he was an axe murderer, right now, she didn’t have the strength to do anything except take comfort in the care he offered. His warm scent enveloped her. His heartbeat drummed against her cheek. She snuggled deeper.
He slid into the back of an SUV, holding her tight. Probably not an axe murderer. One of the men got into the driver’s seat and they pulled quickly away. The second man stayed behind. There was nothing she could do right now except recover and regain her strength. She slipped in and out of consciousness. The idea of a dreamless sleep was so tempting; she welcomed it, even wrapped in a stranger’s arms.
* * *
NOAH SKIRTED THE city itself and drove out into the country. Founded by the Spanish in the Sixteenth Century, the port city of Cartagena was a tourist Mecca in South America, with the fortress of Saint Domingo being its most impressive landmark. They skipped the sightseeing tour. The Brit seemed to sense his exhaustion and didn’t bother making idle chitchat. Maybe he realized most of what Killion had to say was best spoken out of earshot of petite brunettes, even those who were seemingly unconscious.
Killion welcomed the darkness that pressed around him like an old friend. Daylight revealed too much—exposing all the cracks and flaws of his profession, making it hard to deny the cruel reality of what he did. Rendition tore families apart. Even when the detainee was a radicalized terrorist intent on harming others, the families were often clueless as to their relative’s actions. In the age of the Internet the problem was no longer confined to those who attended mosques run by extremist clerics. Nowadays potential recruits could be groomed and manipulated online, thousands of miles away from the Middle East and a designated war zone. Funds could be transferred anonymously at an event using Q-squares, making it impossible to track. Kick-start campaigns and pop-up charities in the wake of natural disasters meant illegally funneling money was now easier than ever.
The key had to be controlling the World Wide Web, but governments were reluctant to do that. Nations had to balance personal freedom with the needs of national security, and none of them were particularly good at it.
Audrey snuggled against him like a warm puppy but he couldn’t afford to fall for the act of innocence. Truth was if he hadn’t seen Hector Sanchez’s body with his own eyes he probably wouldn’t have believed she was the assassin, and he was probably the most jaded and cynical intelligence officer working for the Agency. Her hand gripped his shirt reflexively. He pressed his lips to her forehead, not to kiss her but to assess her temperature. She was hot, and not just in a good way.
She had a fever and the wound was infected.
Damn.
Maybe he should have taken her to the hospital and called in the political attack-dogs to kick up enough fuss to whisk her back to the States where he could question her in a federal facility. But it was just as possible the powers-that-be would deny all knowledge and hang them both out to dry.
It was easier to simply disappear.
Killion regularly went dark during missions. This was nothing unusual. The clandestine service did not want officers who needed their hands held. But if McLean had started asking questions he was probably needed for an assignment, and that meant American lives were in danger. However, for this particular mission he’d been sworn to secrecy by the President of the United States himself and, while there was nothing on paper from POTUS, it was hard to renege on that sort of promise and maintain your reputation, not to mention your federal job.
Usually Lincoln Frazer dealt with the political bullshit and Killion dealt with information retrieval. They trusted each other to cover each other’s backs. But Frazer was out of the picture for now and, even if he wasn’t, his network wasn’t as global as Killion needed it to be. If the local cops caught him or Audrey here in Colombia, it would be game over for getting the information he sought. Game over for Audrey, too.
Which is why he’d come to Masters and Zacharias for help. Few people knew his connection to the Brits. Those who did were either Agency, or part of the same brotherhood he’d embedded with back in Afghanistan. He trusted them. More surprisingly, they trusted him.
Noah drove for another fifteen minutes before turning into a large estate on the outskirts of Cartagena complete with a crumbling mansion and twelve-foot high stone walls. Heavy wroug
ht-iron gates closed solidly behind them. Motion sensor controlled floodlights lit up the grounds as they approached.
He eyed the entrance and exit points and knew the Brits would have additional security in place. “Nice digs.”
Noah grinned in the rearview. “Beats that shit-hole we were in in Helmand. We actually have electricity, running water, and comms here.”
“No local warlord trying to mortar your ass?”
“Ah, those were the days.” Noah smiled reminiscently. “They prefer semiautomatics around here.”
“Nothing says class like an assault rifle,” Killion agreed.
They pulled under a carport next to the house. It was covered in enough vines to obscure them from aerial view. The bright yellow of the mansion shone like Inca gold in the security lights.
Noah checked his phone and got out of the vehicle, grabbing his friend’s duffel as Killion slid out with his arms full of soft warm woman. He followed Noah to a side-door and they walked through a stone-flagged utility space and into a brightly lit kitchen with oak cabinets and marble countertops.
Killion followed Noah farther down another corridor. They stopped in front of a plain white door.
“Guest bedroom.” Noah opened the door. Inside was a twin bed made up with clean white sheets, a chair, a small bathroom off to one side. No windows. Camera over the door, facing the bed.
Killion raised his brows in question.
“It’s usually reserved for unwelcome visitors, but it’s the closest place we have to the kitchen and we need to keep an eye on your friend here until the fever clears. Plus, if we have to leave the house for any reason, we know she’ll be safe.” And contained. Killion nodded. It was about time he started treating Audrey like his prisoner and not his girlfriend.
Noah checked a drawer and came up with an over-sized white T-shirt. “Strip her and get her cleaned up. Wound is infected. I’ll get the stuff for an IV and stitches.”
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