Never Surrender (Task Force Eagle)

by Susan Vaughan

  “You okay?” Jordan crawled and rolled closer, his face contorted with the effort.

  Her joy at seeing Jordan alive battled with her distress at their predicament.

  Someone, probably Wes Vinson, the crooked bum, had hit her over the head as she opened the safe. She was so intent on the combination she missed hearing him enter the office. Her last-second flinch at his movement spared her a concussion. Instead of her skull, his knockout blow had connected mostly with her neck.

  “I’ve been better,” she said. “How did you get here?”

  With a grimace, Jordan pushed back to prop himself against the wall. His lip was cut, and he looked as gray as the cement, but in better shape than Finny. Grease and blood stained his hooded sweatshirt and jeans. His boots were scraped and scarred. His legs weren’t hobbled like hers, but moving around made his pain worse. What had they done to him?

  “I’m sorry you got caught up in this, Jules. Last thing I expected. I guess it means you know about Sudsy and the drug hauls.”

  She started to nod, but swirling pain changed her mind. “I also know about Vinson and the Mexicans. Now tell me how they captured you.”

  “I got a note from Finny that I should leave the boat in Portsmouth. They’d be waiting for me in Portland. It was a fake. They grabbed me on the dock. We’re in a boat shed at Vinson’s marina.”

  She lay still and closed her eyes. “Drugs. Dammit, Jordan. How did it happen? Why?”

  He shook his head, his grimy blond hair hanging in wormy strands around his dirt-smeared face. “I needed the work, so I wouldn’t have to keep sponging off you. It seemed like a straight gig at first. But then things got dicey and I couldn’t quit.”

  He related a tale of deliveries to markets, restaurants, and back alleys, of his gradual tumbling to the real nature of the deliveries. When he tried to quit, Sudsy Pettit threatened him. Finally he got up the nerve to tell the man to shove it.

  He happened on a meeting at the diner beside Vinson’s—Sudsy, Wes Vinson, and a Mexican who might have been Carlos Olívas. “They saw me, Jules. I had to run. That’s when I phoned you.”

  “Not because you had any evidence against them, just because you saw them together.” Was that all he had on them?

  “That Mexican guy chased me. I yelled to him that I had a cell-phone picture of the three of them together. Said I’d give it to the cops. He slowed down at that. Enough for me to get away in the crowd on Commercial Street.”

  A snapshot. For that they’d searched his apartment and hers.

  “You always were fast on your feet.” With bittersweet warmth, she recalled the times he used to race with her when he was in high school.

  “Runs in the family.”

  When she frowned at their banter, a vise tightened at the base of her skull. “Unless we get out of this, we may never run again. We have to do something.”

  “Shh, he’s coming.” Face pinched with pain and fear, he turned toward the steel door.

  A key clanked on a padlock, and then the door swung open.

  Dapper in his crisp jeans and topsiders, Vinson entered. A small silver pistol rode at his belt. “Awake, are we?”

  “No thanks to you.” She made an attempt at a snarl, but her pain-contorted expression probably looked more like a cramp.

  “Too bad you got so nosy, Juliana. We could have had a good time together.”

  “Don’t give me that,” she spat. “You hired me, hit on me to find out about Jordan.”

  He knelt to check her wrists. “I should’ve known better.”

  The thought of them together repelled her to the point of nausea. She wanted to spit in his face, but that would that get her zip. Rather than attack him from her vulnerable position, she had to try to reach him. “Why, Wes? Did you get hooked yourself? You can get help.”

  “Me? Drugs?” He sneered at the idea. “I’m not dumb.” He stared almost wistfully out the door toward the bay. “The short answer is money.”

  Inspiration struck with one of the drumbeats pounding inside her head. “Let us go before you get in deeper. I e-mailed the DEA office about what I found in the safe.”

  With an ugly laugh, he sat on his heels. “Nice try, but you’d barely opened the door when I found you.”

  She schooled her voice. “You have it backwards. I was putting things back, ready to close the safe. The cops and the DEA should be here any minute.” As long as he didn’t quiz her about the safe contents, it was a good bluff.

  Doubt creased his freckled forehead. He still looked boyishly handsome.

  He checked Jordan’s wrists, then stood and leered down at her. “Bitch. They won’t find anything. Most of all they won’t find you. Or your stupid brother. The Mexicans will help me load you on board my yacht, and then the three of us will take a little cruise.”

  Satisfied their bonds were tight, he left them to stew about their fate.

  *****

  As soon as Rick saw Juliana’s car at Debby’s Diner, he knew she’d been caught. Vinson’s SUV sat in the marina parking lot beside the familiar type of nondescript rental car favored by Olívas. Claws raked his gut, and he spat out a string of Spanish and English curses. He signaled the other flak-vested and raid-jacketed teams.

  They fanned out around the Vinson buildings so none of the suspects could escape. A Coast Guard boat waited in the harbor.

  Donovan and Wescott went with Rick. The SIG held in a two-handed grip, he ran to the office entrance. No sign of anyone. The offices remained dark and quiet.

  Thumps resounded from the long metal boat building to their left. He gestured at the other two to follow him. Low and quiet, they edged along the building to its open bay door.

  Donovan stayed with him, behind a pile of rope. Wescott ducked around a forklift. When ready, he waved to Rick.

  Before Rick could move, a man walked from the structure’s open bay. Almost as tall as he, but heavier and darker. Rick knew the son of a bitch’s face as well as his own—El Águila’s number one henchman, Carlos Olívas.

  *****

  Juliana forced down panic at Vinson’s insinuation of a cruise. From which she and Jordan would not return.

  They had no time to waste. They had to get free. “What did they tie us with?”

  “Sisal rope here, but Vinson used duct tape on you.”

  She blinked at the silvery band around her ankles. Turning her head gingerly, she gauged whether she could reach her backpack. Beside it sat the roll of tape.

  Lying back, she nearly giggled. “He used the duct tape from my own bag.”

  “Yup. You still carry everything in the world?”

  “You’re thinking what I’m thinking, Jordan? If I can manage to root around in that bag, we might get out of here yet. Then you can turn that picture over to the cops, the DEA, and whatever other authorities are in on this.”

  “Um, there is no picture. I said that to save my neck.”

  Figured. She fought back the urge to warn him about his penchant for acting on impulse. If they managed to live, just maybe he’d remember that little lesson.

  At the first attempt at scooting, pain ripped through her neck and head, and nausea crept up her throat. Black spots swam again, and she forced herself not to hyperventilate.

  Dammit, she wouldn’t let the bastards win. She could do this.

  Inch by agonizing inch, she slid over to her pack. Vinson had left it open. No catch to deal with. She plunged her hands through the contents—day planner, brush, wallet, calculator, ibuprofen, lipsticks—multi-blade knife.

  Clutching the knife, she struggled to sit. At first the room swam before her eyes. Come on, come on. Slowly she forced away the queasiness and focused on what she had to do.

  “Hurry, Jules. I don’t know how long they’ll leave us here.” His strained voice sounded so young.

  She plucked open the special serrated blade. It slipped, but she caught it, slicing the tip of her left index finger. She clamped her lips against the sting. She scraped the
blade at the tape’s edge. “Jordan, talk to me. Tell me about the Sea Worthy. Tell me how you and Finny switched places.”

  The process was slow. Her fingers and wrists cramped, but she kept going in rhythm with her brother’s narrative and the throbbing in her head.

  “They needed someone on the Sea Worthy. Finny wanted to go ice fishing at his uncle’s camp at Moosehead Lake. The captain and crew didn’t know either one of us.”

  Twice more she cut herself. Blood trickled, warm and slick over the tape and her fingers. Her hands were slippery with sweat and blood, and the handle kept oozing from her grip. She gritted her teeth and sawed. “And you needed a place to hide.”

  “I was safe enough aboard. I like being at sea. But how did you find out about the drugs, Jules?”

  Pausing to catch her breath, she closed her eyes in pain. “I’ve been trying to find you ever since you called. Both the Mexicans and the DEA involved me whether I liked it or not.”

  “The drug gang? Why the hell did they bother you?”

  “Use your brain, little brother. Even you should be able to add this one up.” She hated the bitterness in her voice, but energy was flagging, and her head contained the devil’s steel band live in concert.

  Dawning comprehension raised his sandy brows. “Oh. To get to me. To get the picture.” He slumped lower against the wall.

  “No harm done to me, at least up to now.” She’d tell him about Finny later. “I have myself to blame for this particular sorry state of affairs. I was snooping where I shouldn’t have been. At least we’re together.” She struggled again with the tiny knife.

  No harm done, except to my heart. Not El Águila’s men, but Ricardo Cruz had provided the highest drama of her whole life. He didn’t want her any more. He didn’t trust her. If she lived through this, life without him would be as dark and empty as a black hole.

  To distract from the wounds inside her she sawed harder at the gooey tape.

  “I don’t get why they bugged you. You didn’t know where I was.” His voice sounded petulant, typical of his self-absorption, his callow perception.

  “Jeez, they didn’t believe that. The DEA had to protect me for weeks. And what did you plan to do once the boat returned? Didn’t you know they’d be waiting for you?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a sheepish shrug. “I didn’t think about it. Figured I’d be safe aboard. No one knew me as anything but Finny. Dammit, why did he tell them where I was?”

  That stopped her. “They put him in the hospital. He’s lucky to be alive.”

  With a groan, he sank lower on the dirty floor. “I really screwed up this time.”

  She didn’t deny it or try to comfort him. The knife severed the last strings of tape. She peeled it away from her wrists and eased her arms stiffly forward to massage her hands and arms. Then she freed her ankles, an easier and less bloody task. She shivered at the cold and damp seeping into her bones. Her headache was slowly ebbing. Enough that she could stand, though her knees had post-marathon wobble.

  Jordan slumped while she struggled with his bonds. The coarse rope took longer than the tape, but eventually she freed him.

  “We have to figure out how to get out of this shed or warehouse or whatever it is.” She hooked an arm under his shoulder. “Let me help you stand. You have to get off that cement.”

  Jordan didn’t budge, made no effort to rise. “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  “They broke my leg. When they kidnapped me in Portsmouth, the fuckers didn’t have anything to tie me up with, so they slammed the damn van door on me. I can’t walk. I can’t even stand.”

  Chapter 15

  “Hands in the air, Olívas.” Rick aimed the SIG. “Don’t move.”

  “You got nothing on me, Cruz,” the Mexican said in Spanish. But he obeyed, fists clenched, body tensed.

  “Speak English, you bastard. We got more than you think.” Rick didn’t see a weapon, but hesitated to move forward and frisk the guy. Who else was in that metal building? “Now walk toward me—slowly.”

  El Águila’s man walked closer, but kept shifting his glance toward the boat building’s open door. When he came within a few feet, he dove headfirst at Rick’s midsection.

  Rick sidestepped, then aimed a kick. His foot grazed the man’s temple.

  Olívas grabbed for the gun. Rick hung on and tripped him. The two men fell to the asphalt in a welter of tangled limbs. A small automatic fell from the smuggler’s waistband and clanked on the pavement. Rick kicked it away.

  Olívas landed a few good blows to Rick’s belly and one to his jaw, but Rick held onto his weapon. His middle-aged opponent was strong and tough. A dirty fighter and desperate, but untrained.

  Fury fueled Rick’s strength, fury at all this gang had done to his brother, to Juliana’s brother, to countless others. He delivered a solid chop to the other man’s throat, and he collapsed like a tent.

  “Well done, Cruz.” Donovan’s voice came from above him. He handed Rick a pair of zip-tie handcuffs.

  “What took you so long? I could have used some fucking help.” He pushed the coughing Olívas over onto his face and fastened the plastic bands around his wrists. Then he stripped his captive of an ankle sheath knife.

  “We thought you needed to throw a few punches at someone.” The cowboy shot a pointed glance toward his left. “Besides, we were a little busy ourselves.”

  Two more Hispanic men lay prone like their boss.

  “Where’d you find them?”

  “In the big building there.” Wescott nodded toward its entrance. “Wait until you see what else is inside. Looks like we were right about the source of the heroin problem in Maine. Long wooden boxes that probably held some of the stolen M-16s and XM-8s.” A beaming smile spread across his countenance as if he’d won the lottery.

  “Carlos, you’ve been a busy boy.” Rick yanked his captive to his feet. “Seems we have plenty on you after all.”

  “You got no fuckin’ case.” The man sneered. “If you foun’ drugs, they belon’ to this Vinson, not me. My lawyer will free me before you can do paperwork.”

  Rick smiled. “You’re caught with the goods this time. I wouldn’t count on your esteemed líder on this one. After this, you may prefer prison to what he arranges for you.”

  “Rick,” Wescott said, “no sign of Juliana. Or Vinson.”

  “El Águila want me dead? I don’ believe you.” Dread and doubt lurked in the depths of the man’s dark eyes, marking him a decade older than middle age.

  “No skin off my nose. Besides, rumor has it El Águila has gone into hiding, with the Federales in pursuit.” Rick curled his fist in the slimeball’s shirt and tugged, hoping he trapped chest hairs. “Now tell me where the woman is, or we’ll stop playing nice.”

  All pretense of bravado gone, Olívas whined, “I don’ know. Vinson said he’d take care of her and her brother. Somethin’ about a one-way boat trip.”

  *****

  Juliana helped Jordan slide closer to the door. Hefting her backpack, she wished she had her binoculars. Oh God, the bag had to be heavy enough to do its job.

  A moment later, a clunk of the padlock announced their captor’s return.

  Jordan angled his arms behind him as if still bound.

  Pulse roaring in her ears like storm surf, Juliana waited behind the door.

  The door swung inward, and Vinson stalked in, his gun in one hand. In his other he carried an open gasoline can. “No time for a cruise,” he announced with a grimace that transformed his features from benign to sinister. “This’ll look like some snoops got caught in their own fire.”

  Juliana stepped around the door’s edge. With all her might, she swung the backpack at Vinson’s belly.

  Jordan grabbed the man’s ankles and yanked.

  Wes Vinson executed a perfect banana-peel flip. With a whale spout of exhalation, he landed on his back. The pistol blasted a deafening shot into the metal roof.

  Gasoline s
plashed from the dropped can in a small fountain and spread across the floor.

  The pungent odor stung Juliana’s nostrils and snapped her from the shock of what had just happened. She righted the can, then plucked the pistol from her victim’s hand.

  Shaking like a flag in a March wind, she held it in two hands as she’d seen Rick do.

  “Jules, he’s out cold.” Jordan peered at Vinson, lying on his back. “He must have cracked his skull on the cement.”

  “Serves him right for beaning me, but I’m not taking the gun off him yet. We have to get out of here and call for help. Drag yourself away from this gasoline.”

  She waited while he edged past the other man’s still form. Dragging his injured leg, her brother crawled out the door. Sweat beaded his forehead. In spite of his adolescent mistakes, his bravery made tears well in her eyes.

  Damn you, Vinson, damn you to hell. How did she ever think of him as pleasant and charming? Lying there, he looked harmless, but he’d been about to kill them both. To burn them alive. Hot tears stung and nausea burned. She slumped, lowering the gun.

  Vinson surged up. “Bitch!” He plowed a fist into her shoulder. “You won’t stop me.”

  Pain detonated through her arm. She folded to the gasoline-soaked floor. The gun skittered away with a metallic shriek.

  “Juliana!” Jordan yelled, but his voice came from far, far away, as if through padded walls.

  Her brain did a slow, sickening spiral. The black spots returned, buzzing in her head and before her eyes.

  *****

  “A shot.” Rick spun toward the report. Juliana. If Vinson hurt her, he’d— “Where did it come from?”

  “Over there.” Wescott started running. “Behind the offices.”

  Rick issued terse orders into his radio as he sprinted in that direction.

  A dozen DEA agents and cops converged on the metal shed behind the Vinson office building. At the tableau ahead, Rick froze, gun cocked. He held up a hand to halt the others.