No One Heard Her Scream no-1

by Jordan Dane

  With Brogan's snide comment, the other man grimaced and shrugged. "Come on, Matt. We don't have time for this. You know the old man ain't gonna wait for us. We gotta go."

  Brogan clenched his teeth and shot a nasty glare at his man. "Ellis is right. Rude and an asshole, but he's got a point. We got a ride to catch. Believe me, I wish we had more time."

  Brogan sneered and raised his gun. Diego tensed his body. No time left. He stepped in front of Danielle and gripped the knife, ready to move when . . .

  "FREEZE! Lower your weapons."

  Rebecca stood at the top of the ramp, gun in hand, locked and loaded with a double-fisted grip. And she had never looked more beautiful!

  Brogan refused to budge and never lost sight of his target. He held his ground. His gun aimed at Diego, center mass. "I ain't movin', lady. Looks like we got a Mexican standoff here. But since I'm such a softhearted guy, I'm gonna give you a choice. Cavanaugh wants the Mex dead, so I got my orders. But as far as your sister goes, I'm leavin' that up to you. What's it gonna be?" He chuckled, his focus on Diego. "I kill the Mex, and we part company. Your sister goes home with you. You play this any other way, and your precious sister is the first to go." To his man, he ordered, "You hear that, Ellis? The Mex can't protect the girl from both of us. She's your new target."

  His man shifted his aim to Danielle. Things had gone from bad to worse. Becca hesitated, her eyes on Diego. He stood with such confidence, arms crossed and defiant. And Danielle sat rigid against the wall, strangely quiet and cowering in Diego's shadow. Becca gritted her teeth. No way Brogan would get his way.

  But when she looked back at Diego, he returned her stare and shrugged. "Sounds like a deal you shouldn't refuse, Rebecca."

  It all happened so fast, Becca didn't see it coming. Diego flung an arm. Something left his hand. A loud heavy thump! Brogan was still smiling when the blade hit. He cried out and sputtered, staggering back with a knife jutting from his chest, to the hilt. He gaped down at it in disbelief like he'd sprung a new appendage.

  Danielle cried out, the pitiable sound of her muffled scream gripped Becca, wrenching her gut with fear for her sister. Shocked by what happened, the other man gaped at Brogan and hesitated long enough for her to react.

  "Gun down . . . Now! Or you're dead," she cried out.

  The man named Ellis didn't lower his gun. She knew the twitchy aggressive look. He wouldn't be arrested. The bastard was only waiting for his chance. Becca rushed down the ramp to throw Ellis off and take him out of the equation. But Brogan reeled, still on his feet. A macabre and bloodied puppet.

  Becca kept her options open. She stood within a yard of Ellis, his back to her. The man watched her from the corner of his eye, waiting for her to make a mistake. She gripped her weapon, her palms slick with sweat. Her eyes shifted to watch Brogan and Diego. But Ellis turned his head, a subtle flinch to keep her honest. She countered as he did, a deadly game of chicken.

  Why hadn't Diego moved?

  In reflex, Brogan stumbled forward and raised his arm, ready to fire. A look of shock forged on his face. Diego had a slim chance. He might have rushed him, gotten to the bastard before he fired his gun. But he chose to cover Dani—defenseless—shielding her sister with his body.

  Oh my God! Becca's heart pounded, and her chest heaved. Damn it! Diego was going to die. Brogan aimed his gun just as Ellis dropped his shoulder to turn. Becca had no choice. She had to move. She yanked Ellis by the collar and jerked him back, keeping the man off-balance and in front of her. Using his body as a shield, she pointed her gun at Brogan.

  It's going down. Move . . . MOVE! Brogan caught the sudden movement and turned his weapon on Becca. He fired. A deafening sound. Again and again. Ellis bucked in her hand as the bullets hit his chest. His convulsing body had become a liability, too heavy to hold up. She shoved him aside and took aim. Becca looked down Brogan's gun barrel, with him in her sights.

  Take the shot! Take it!

  Draper's com unit crackled to life. "Sir, we're investigating a report of gunfire. On a lower level. No telling how many rounds fired."

  He recognized the voice of his HRT leader Martinez, and asked, "Could it be our guys?"

  "We're still verifying our head count, sir. But I sent a team to check out the disturbance."

  "Anyone see Diego Galvan or Detective Rebecca Montgomery?" Draper asked.

  "Nothing so far, sir. But we're still accounting for the dead. Will keep you posted. Out."

  Dead? The word gripped him, hard. And he thought he didn't do guilt.

  Draper caught the eye of Lieutenant Santiago, standing a few yards away. The man heard the last report and looked worried. And he had to admit, his stomach had been knotted from the beginning. He had taken liberties with the lives of two people still unaccounted for, and he knew it. And Draper had coerced Joe Rivera to gain an inside informer, but he'd gotten much more in Diego Galvan. He couldn't have expected any better from an agent. If anything happened to him, it would hurt like he had lost one of his own.

  "Damn it." He torqued his jaw and peered through the mass of bodies going in and out of the scene. Each face got a second look. But so far, nothing.

  The operation shed its harried pace and settled into wrap-up mode with plenty for him to oversee. Spiraling lights, from emergency vehicles and police squad cars, streamed across the night sky and robbed the heavens of its stars. Urgent voices of medical crews and law enforcement personnel muted into background chatter in his mind. Yet when he needed to respond to his com unit, he picked up on every word. Filtered hearing from controlled chaos, he liked to call it.

  And of course, an operation this size attracted the media, another reason for superior hearing filtration. He managed to rope off the news crews a couple of blocks away. Their camera lights might attract the wrong attention if one of the gunmen escaped. Keeping them at a distance had its benefits for now. When he was ready, there would be a press conference. Now, he had other priorities.

  Up until a few minutes ago, he believed the underground facility had been secured. The wounded and dead were being carted out, and EMT units worked on the injured. The new gunfire added complications, but nothing his men couldn't handle. Thus far, all of the casualties had been Cavanaugh's men. His team had sustained injuries, but nothing life-threatening.

  Best of all, every one of the abducted girls had been rescued . . . and then some. A greater head count than he had expected. The girls had been malnourished, dehydrated, and in need of medical attention. But overall, the operation had been a success.

  When Draper saw the hostages brought out one by one, he fought a gnarl in his throat the size of Rhode Island. Cavanaugh had been kidnapping young kids from Mexico and bringing them into the United States. He probably promised them work or simply took them like he had before, knowing the missing girls' parents would have no recourse across international borders.

  Nineteen girls in all, ranging in ages from ten to twenty-two.

  As a father, it gripped him in the worst way, hitting too close to home. No parent should have to endure such a nightmare. Daughters were precious gifts. He had been blessed with four. When he was a young father, he had yearned for a son to pass on his name, his futile and self-indulgent attempt at immortality. Time and experience changed his view.

  For him, a bond between father and child transcended gender, in theory. But the connection between a father and daughter had its own unique miracles. Seeing love reflected in his daughters' eyes, and knowing it was meant for only him, had fulfilled him in ways he hadn't expected.

  But with this tragedy, Draper imagined the horrifying ruin of these young lives. Gazing into the eyes of a broken child—your broken child—would have torn him in two. And bastards like Cavanaugh deserved hell on earth and beyond for their sins.

  "Hey, Mike. You're gonna want to see this." Lieutenant Santiago punched him in the arm and pointed. Two patrol cars pulled up with lights flashing in silent mode. Draper walked with him to the vehicles and looked in t
he backseats. Each squad car held a single man.

  "Well, I'll be damned. Who the hell is that guy?" Draper didn't recognize the muscle man in the second car. "And how did we score the top dog? I thought he might have slipped through our net or not been here at all."

  Draper bent down and glared at the man he'd been pursuing. Hunter Cavanaugh had never looked so good, handcuffed and riding in the back of a squad car. And the man sitting in the other vehicle looked scared enough to be a talker.

  "The other guy's name is Stan McPhee. He's got a list of priors that should have him willing to talk. We thought it would be a good idea to keep them separated. I smell plea bargain for testimony," Santiago replied. "But under the heading of living right, you're not going to believe the stroke of luck we got with Cavanaugh."

  "Oh this I've got to hear. I could use some good news."

  "Seems one of our tactical teams secured a staging area in a condemned textile factory behind our target building. It gave us a good view of the back side of the facility." Santiago grinned.

  And he talked loud enough for Cavanaugh to hear from inside the squad car. The old man rolled his eyes and slunk down into the seat, his jaw clenched as the lieutenant continued.

  "One of our guys found an abandoned vehicle inside ... a rather pricey Lexus. Only it's clean as a whistle and not lookin' so abandoned. In the course of carrying out their duties, the team staked out the car and waited. What started out as a fishing expedition landed us a whopper. The son of a bitch walked right into us. Didn't even put up much of a fight."

  "How did he get over there?" Draper asked.

  "Turns out these old buildings had tunnels under 'em. Most had been walled in as the owners took over the property. But there's evidence of new work done to install a coded hatchway at the facility where we nabbed Cavanaugh and McPhee. I bet we'll be able to trace who did the work and get them talking." Before Draper had to ask, the lieutenant added, "We sent a team to investigate the one Cavanaugh came waltzing out of. Murphy will report when he has something."

  Draper shifted his gaze to Cavanaugh, staring through the side window. He opened the back door to the squad car and leaned in to get a better look at the man.

  "Here's something I bet you'll agree with. You've had better days, right?" Draper glared, not expecting an answer. "What happened to Detective Rebecca Montgomery?"

  Cavanaugh shifted in his seat and turned away. Draper thought the man would hang tough with the silent treatment, but the bastard wanted to twist the knife.

  "Tragic really. I saw her gunned down by one of your own men. When you find her body, an autopsy will prove my point."

  Draper took a deep breath and tried one more time. "Where's Diego Galvan?"

  "The last time I saw him, he was breathing. Although you notice I used past tense. You see, I believe Diego suffered from an allergic reaction. A case of severe lead poisoning . . . with extreme prejudice. Don't bet on him walking out of there alive. You'd lose."

  Something snapped inside him. Draper had no intention of being the object of Cavanaugh's amusement.

  "Go ahead and have your fun, you cocky son of a bitch!" He leaned into the squad car, and whispered, "If Galvan is dead, so are you. And I don't have to pull the trigger. His father will get to your ass even if I can't touch you. I'll personally deliver my version of the case details to Rivera."

  The smugness left Cavanaugh's face as fear slithered under the surface of his cool veneer. And Draper was only getting started.

  "But there's one thing I can control. The system will be taking care of your room and board for a long time, but I'm personally goin' to see to your accommodations. Some lifer named Bruno will be saliva-tin' over your lily-white ass. Whoever said size didn't matter never met Bruno." Draper leaned closer, venom in his voice. "Every time he bends you over, think of me. 'Cause I'll be the one sticking it to you. In this lifetime, it's only a fraction of what you owe those girls."

  To the cop behind the wheel, he said, "Get him out of my sight." Draper slammed the door on Cava-naugh, his heart hammering and stoked by red-hot anger as the patrol cars drove away.

  He pictured Diego dead, and Draper's gut snarled. He couldn't catch his breath, his frustration and anxiety mounting. When he turned around, Santiago opened his mouth to say something, but Draper didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to be consoled. And he sure as hell didn't want to be reminded of his decision to delay the rescue mission.

  He walked back toward the old building . . . and waited. With a renewed fixation, Mike Draper searched the faces of everyone coming and going out of the warehouse.

  But a man with a familiar gait caught his eye. He carried a teenage girl in his arms. And a woman walked alongside him. Draper couldn't confirm their identities for sure—something blurred his eyes—but he knew enough to call Santiago over.

  "Hey, Arturo. Now I've got something you ought to see."

  The lieutenant rushed over, his eyes following where Draper pointed. The man squinted into the distance until he recognized his detective, Rebecca Montgomery. Then his face lit up like a friggin' Christmas tree.

  When he looked back at Draper, the lieutenant did a double take and nudged him with a shoulder. "Allergies. My eyes water this time of year, too. Mainly when I go all gooey inside like a marshmal-low. And with my skin color ... I look like damned S'mores."

  Draper rolled his eyes and wiped a hand over his face, glaring at the man. "You say anything about this, and I swear . . ."

  "Noooo. These lips are sealed." With a raised eyebrow, Santiago added, "Who would believe me anyway?"

  "Damned straight."

  Becca squinted into the floodlights, holding up a hand to shield her eyes. With cops and med techs rushing everywhere, she zeroed in on the ambulance units and headed for them.

  When she stepped out of the darkness and into the light, reality hit hard. She was a changed woman. Nothing would be the same again. And even though her body was racked with pain, her heart soared as she walked beside Diego, who held Danielle in his arms. Second chances had that kind of effect on a woman. She drew in a deep breath, remembering how she had felt hours before—convinced none of them would make it out alive. She'd also learned a thing or two about hope.

  Becca followed Diego to an ambulance. He carried her sister as if she were made of glass. And he kept whispering reassurances in Dani's ear. Becca only caught a few. His Hispanic accent sounded like a lovely melody that lingered in your heart long after it stopped playing.

  "It's over. And you're safe, honey. Such a brave girl," he murmured. "Rebecca never gave up on you, Danielle. She never lost hope of finding you."

  "Momma?" she whimpered, a tiny voice meant only for him. Dani clung to his neck, burrowing into his chest to hide her face from all the noise and commotion. He lowered his head to hers and held her close.

  "Momma will see you at the hospital," he promised. "Your sister and I will pick her up on our way over, sweet girl."

  When they got to the ambulance, Diego lowered Danielle onto a gurney and covered her with warm blankets head to toe. EMTs wanted to step in right away, but he waved them off to give Becca a moment with her sister.

  Diego managed a smile when he looked over his shoulder at her, his face battered and bruised under the lights. Becca mouthed the words, 'Thank you', knowing it would never be enough. She cradled Dani's face in her hands and kissed her forehead, drinking in the feel and smell of her skin.

  "I'm gonna take care of you for a while, little sister. For as long as you let me," she whispered. Danielle nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek as she clutched her hand.

  Becca turned to the lieutenant, squeezing his arm in gratitude. And as tears filled her eyes, she held her chin high and looked at Mike Draper.

  "Mr. Draper? I'd like you to meet a survivor. Danielle Montgomery. My sister."

  CHAPTER19

  Santa Rosa Hospital

  The Next Morning, 6:30 a.m.

  Becca jolted awake—her heart pumping adre
naline through her system—the crudest of wake-up calls. Danielle's hospital room came into focus, along with the cramped chair she had fallen asleep in, but little else. Caught in the twilight between dreams and rational thought, her brain replayed what happened, when she had killed for the first time. She shut her eyes tight and steadied her breathing, but the hospital room faded from her senses. And Becca couldn't stop her mind from summoning the dark account of last night.

  Drifting through murky shadows, she was alone again in the dark. Only the steady thud of her heart kept her company. Her memory of the stale oppressive air in the garage overpowered the medicinal hospital odor, merging time and place as if she were back there . . . facing Brogan.

  It had all happened so fast at the time. But now, it replayed over and over in gut-wrenching slow motion. Every detail etched into her brain and branded her memory with crippling permanence. Becca saw his face again. She even smelled him.

  The nine-millimeter Glock kicked in her hands, twice. Two rounds, center mass. Even now, she felt it. Her fingers tingled, and numbness radiated through her arms. Shots rang out, and the eerie echo punished her eardrums with a nasty piercing ring.

  After the bullets hit his chest, Brogan staggered back and dropped to his knees, his chin sagging to his chest. In a last-ditch effort, he raised his head and glared at her, the old fire of contempt still burning in his eyes. She held her breath, waiting for him to take his last gasp. Fear gripped her heart like an icy fist, as if he'd get up one more time and finish the job he had started.

  But eventually, his face went slack, and the flicker of life died in his eyes. And so had Matt Brogan. He slumped to the floor, his skull cracking on the cement with a sickening thud. For a long time, she couldn't move, couldn't speak. Her eyes burned. She couldn't close them. Rooted in place, Becca watched the blood spread across his chest and seep onto the cement in a dark thick pool. Diego rushed to her side, and she had been vaguely aware of his arms around her, but she couldn't take her eyes off . . . him.