Fast Justice

by Kaylea Cross

  “Do you know what my men did to Anya yesterday?” he asked silkily.

  God, yes. She couldn’t control the shudder that ripped through her.

  “Ah, you heard. And who do you think taught them what to do, hmm? How to inflict that kind of damage without killing the victim outright?”

  The monster poised in front of her.

  “You don’t want to find out firsthand what that felt like for her, do you? Such a waste, to have all this pretty white skin sliced up. ” He eased the lethally sharp point of it toward her neck.

  Rowan lurched back in her chair, cowering from that blade, but he merely set its tip to the notch between her collarbones. Her throat moved in a convulsive wave as she swallowed hard, her heart about to explode, the tiny prick of the blade nothing compared to what she feared was coming.

  Then he jerked his wrist, narrowly avoiding her skin as the blade sliced through the fabric of her blouse like a laser through paper, exposing her cleavage to his roving gaze.

  Slowly, so slowly it was agony, he eased the blade away from her skin, toying with it in his fingers as he dragged his gaze from her breasts up to hers once more. “Very nice. Classy, even. I’d prefer not to have to cut you, Miss Stewart,” he continued in that scary as hell tone, “but that will depend on whether or not you tell me what I want to know.” His features tightened. “So start talking.”

  Her heart pounded so hard she felt dizzy. There didn’t seem to be enough air. She was gasping. Tiny, shallow breaths that came too fast. Too fast.

  She couldn’t slow it down. Couldn’t tell him what he wanted, and if she lied he’d just kill her anyway when he found out. The truth was the only thing that might save her.

  Or it might hasten her death when he decided she was no longer of use to him.

  “I don’t know where it is. No one does,” she blurted, “not even the witnesses themselves. They’re blindfolded each time they come and go from the facility. Only the Marshals Service knows the location. That’s why WITSEC is so successful.”

  He stared at her for a long, agonizing moment while she held her breath, waiting. She exhaled in a relieved rush when he lowered the blade, only to cry out when he seized a handful of her hair again and dragged her from the chair. She stumbled after him; it was either that or have a huge chunk of her hair ripped out of her scalp.

  He yelled for someone named Javier. Two steps from the door, he yanked the hood back over her head, plunging her back into darkness.

  The door opened and he rammed a solid palm into the middle of her back, pitching her forward. Without her hands to catch herself, she hit the ground hard.

  A fresh wave of pain shot through her and she tasted blood in her mouth. Dazed, she struggled to lift her head. Could barely stand when someone hauled her upright. The world spun, worsened because she couldn’t see anything.

  Montoya said something else in rapid Spanish, his tone curt, annoyed. Whoever had her flung her up and over his shoulder and began carrying her off.

  Exhausted, trembling all over, Rowan hung there limply in her prison of darkness and clamped her teeth together to keep a helpless sob from escaping.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” someone called out in English, sounding far away.

  Montoya let out a savage curse and Rowan jerked when gunshots sounded a moment later. Someone had seen her! Had Montoya shot him? Please no, whoever it was might be her only chance. If he was unhurt, maybe he was calling for help right now.

  “Undele,” he barked, and the man carrying her broke into a jog.

  She bounced up and down, his shoulder slamming into her tender ribs and stomach with every step. She tensed her muscles to minimize it, but it didn’t do much good.

  Just when the pain got so bad that she had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out, she was dumped onto something softer. A seat of some sort. Then a door slammed and an engine started up and the car sped away, its tires squealing. Not the van. It smelled different. Cleaner.

  This time the drive didn’t take long, only a few minutes. She was thrown once more over that thick shoulder and carried somewhere else. The man was climbing now. Winded. Where were they? Had the man who’d spotted them called for help?

  Montoya’s voice snapped out a command. Metallic doors squealed as they opened and she was dumped inside. Even through her hood the smell hit her. Stale air. Unwashed bodies. Sweat.

  Fear.

  The doors squealed shut and someone ripped the hood off her. She winced against the bright beam of a flashlight aimed into her face. It lowered, and as she blinked her vision began to clear, filling in the details of where she was.

  Her heart lurched when she saw Montoya towering over her…and the frightened faces of the handful of naked young women all cowering against the far end of what appeared to be a shipping container.

  “Meet your new traveling companions,” Montoya said to her, the satisfaction in his voice unmistakable. “You’re going to be part of my next shipment—if I decide to let you live that long.” His boot caught her square in the chest, knocked her backward hard enough that her back slammed into the metal floor. Her skull bounced off it, and a cry escaped her tight throat.

  Montoya planted the sole of his boot against her sternum, pinning her in place as he stared down at her with pitiless black eyes. “Now are you going to give me any worthwhile information that I can actually put to use to find Oceane? Or will I have to use my powers of persuasion after all?”

  Instead of pulling out the switchblade, this time he drew a pistol from the back of his pants and chambered a round, the deadly sound echoing throughout the container.

  ****

  Too much time had passed.

  Mal sat silent at the back of the briefing room, alone, his eyes on the analog clock on the far wall. Too much damn time had passed between when Rowan was taken and now, yet to him it felt like they were still sitting here on their asses while every other law enforcement agency in the city was mobilized, conducting grid searches, roadblocks, monitoring CCTV or satellite footage, red light cameras.

  His commander and teammates were all in the room speaking in hushed murmurs, giving him a wide berth so he could have a little privacy as he struggled to compose himself. He bounced his knee up and down in a rapid rhythm, the movement uncontrollable. While inside, he was slowly coming unglued.

  The cops and the FBI had sightings on the van using various cameras throughout the city, but they didn’t have a current location yet. By now the kidnappers would undoubtedly have ditched the vehicle. And they’d also had more than enough time to do…other things.

  He swallowed past the baseball-sized lump in his throat, dragged a hand over his mouth and chin. The waiting, the inaction, was killing him. It sliced him up inside to think of Rowan frightened and alone, facing those fucking animals and the things they had repeatedly proven they enjoyed doing to female captives.

  Fuck. He lowered his head into his hands, closed his eyes and struggled to clear his mind. In place of all the horrific things he feared Rowan was facing right then, images of them together replaced them. Her smiling up at him. The soft look on her face after he’d made love to her. The trust and hope in her eyes.

  “Hey, man.” A hand landed gently on his shoulder. Mal looked up at Lockhart, who lowered himself into the chair beside him. “You hanging in there?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.” Barely. I don’t know how the fuck to handle this. Exhaustion, sleep-deprivation, hunger and pain, he could handle. But not this. He couldn’t accept that there was nothing he could do to help Rowan. Nothing to study or get ready. Everything was done. All he and the others could do now…was wait.

  Lockhart didn’t say anything else, just leaned his head back against the wall and maintained that solid, silent presence Mal was so used to but hadn’t fully appreciated until that moment. He couldn’t have handled being around the others right now. They all meant well, were all good, solid operators and he liked them all a lot as people.

  But if someone
like Maka or Granger came over and tried to lighten the mood with some lame attempt at humor in an effort to lighten the moment, Mal was afraid he’d punch them out. He was that keyed up. So having Lockhart sit beside him quietly while his mind screamed in the silence was actually a relief of sorts.

  “We should have heard something by now,” he finally said, feeling the need to say something. Someone had to at least know the van’s current location. That would be a start.

  “Taggart’s holding the updates until we get something solid. He and Hamilton are monitoring all the channels.”

  Mal glanced first around the room, then at Lockhart, and realization hit. Taggart and Hamilton were missing. Running interference on the investigation from another room, probably Taggart’s office, hoping to make it easier on him.

  Mal exhaled hard, appreciative of their efforts and annoyed at the same time. “They don’t need to do that.” He was point man and a former SEAL. He didn’t need to be shielded or sheltered from any of this. “But Christ, I want to be out there searching for her, not sitting here doing jack.”

  “We need to be here so we can deploy as soon as we get a solid lead. When that call comes, every minute’s gonna count, so we need to be ready. And we are. Hamilton and Taggart are both on top of it. Let them do their jobs, wait until they have something concrete to give us.”

  He opened his mouth to respond but the briefing room door suddenly burst open and Hamilton came in, Taggart a few paces behind him, speaking on his cell phone. “Okay, boys, listen up,” Hamilton began, his gaze halting on Mal. “We just got confirmation from a witness that someone matching Juan Montoya’s description was seen carrying a female hostage from a warehouse district near the Port of Baltimore. At the time of the sighting, she was very much alive.”

  Mal’s heart leapt, his attention riveted on his team leader. Thank you, God.

  “Montoya shot at the witness, then took off in another vehicle and headed northeast, toward the port itself. Witness got a partial plate. FBI has confirmed the vehicle’s location via CCTV footage. They’re moving in on the port right now, with two of its SWAT teams. HRT is on standby, but because of Montoya, we’ve got precedence.”

  Yes, Jesus, just let them get moving—

  “Helo crew is readying two aircraft for us right now,” Taggart added, lowering his phone. “Let’s get moving. I’ll brief you with any updates on the way.”

  Mal grabbed his gear and ran for the door, desperate to find Rowan in time to free her from Montoya’s clutches and a fate worse than death.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Rowan lay helpless on her back, hands pinned beneath her as she stared up at Montoya, pinned beneath his boot. Deep inside her the cold was beginning to thaw, the terrible, constant fear starting to melt beneath a rising tide of rage.

  This piece of shit currently towering above her was a fucking coward, terrorizing her and all these women, keeping them bound and toying with them before he either killed them or sold them into a life of sexual slavery. All to get rich and make himself feel powerful.

  Fuck. You.

  She didn’t dare say it aloud, because she wasn’t stupid. But she let her eyes tell him exactly what she thought of him.

  “What did Oceane and Anya tell you?” he pressed.

  “About the attack in Mexico.” Her voice was rough, almost strangled.

  His mouth tightened and he pressed down harder with his boot, compressing her ribcage. “About the business.”

  She searched her memory, her brain working slower under the bombardment of fear. “Some offshore bank accounts. Assets.”

  “What else?” His voice was hard, implacable.

  Jesus, she didn’t know. What did he want her to say? “My case is against Ruiz. Not them.”

  “I don’t care about Ruiz,” he snarled. “I care about what Oceane and Anya told you.”

  Rowan shook her head, heart thudding. “I only know what they told me, about the finances and the attack. I’m not privy to whatever else they told the federal agents. I don’t know anything else.” How could she convince him that she was telling the truth?

  He stared down at her for a tense moment, his face eerily blank. Then he removed his foot and lunged over to grab one of the women by the hair.

  The prisoner cried out, her legs flailing as he dragged her along the floor of the container. Rowan cringed and scrambled into a sitting position. Montoya jerked the poor woman to a halt a few feet away from Rowan and wrenched her head back, exposing the line of her throat. Rowan’s stomach contracted, fearing he was about to take out his switchblade and slash her throat.

  “What’s your name,” he demanded of the girl in English, the beam of his flashlight illuminating her young face.

  Frightened brown eyes settled on Rowan, the buried shame in them making her heart twist. “Gabriela,” she whispered, her naked body shaking.

  “And if you could have one wish granted right now, Gabriela, what would it be?”

  She bit her lower lip, her shoulders hunching as tears clogged her voice. “I want to go home to my family.”

  Rowan’s throat tightened to the point of choking her. This girl was barely out of her teens and she’d been ripped away from her home, her family, then abused and terrorized for however long by this bastard and his men. Now he intended to sell her off as a sex slave. God, she wished she had a gun so she could shoot him right in his disgusting face.

  “Tell you what, Gabriela,” Montoya went on in a silky voice, stroking the muzzle of the pistol over her hair. Gabriela shuddered, made a distressed sound. “If Miss Stewart tells me what I need to know, I’ll let you go.”

  Both Gabriela and Rowan jerked their gazes up to him in shock. He was lying. But Gabriela was clearly now clinging to that desperate thread of hope because she turned heart wrenching, hopeful eyes on Rowan. “Please,” she begged. “Please tell him. I want to go home.”

  “Yes, Rowan,” he echoed, the gleam in his eyes making her ache to kill him. “Tell me.”

  Helplessness flooded her. “I don’t know anything else,” she insisted.

  “No?”

  “I already told you everything I know,” she snapped, frantic to think of a way to—

  He put the pistol to Gabriela’s temple and pulled the trigger.

  Rowan jerked back, a scream locked in her throat as the opposite side of the girl’s head exploded into a red mist. The other captives screamed too, started crying.

  With that cold, evil stare drilling into Rowan, Montoya flung Gabriela’s shattered head away from him. Her body toppled over and hit the floor with a sickening thud.

  Rowan stared at the crumpled heap in horror. Christ. Christ, she was going to throw up. She gagged, was shaking so hard her bones hurt.

  “Do I need to do that again to get you to talk?” Montoya asked, his tone almost bored.

  Rowan struggled to find her voice. “I t-told you, I—”

  He turned away, stalked toward the remaining women.

  “No!” Rowan was on her knees now, shoving to her feet even though her legs wobbled. She wouldn’t let him hurt anyone else. She would body slam him, kick and bite. Do whatever she could to stop this.

  The chirp of a radio made everything go still, even Montoya. Facing Rowan, he pulled it from his belt and answered. Whatever the man on the other end said made the women in the back gasp.

  The beam of the flashlight was lowered, but Rowan could still see Montoya’s face. And the rage that contorted it.

  He advanced on her slowly. She lost her bravado for a second, then braced herself and stood her ground. He was going to kill her now. She had to do whatever she could to fight for her life.

  Maybe he saw the determination in her eyes, because he gave her a cold, almost admiring smile. “A bullet is too kind a death for a puta like you,” he sneered.

  He shot out the hand holding the flashlight. Rowan ducked, the blow hitting her on the shoulder rather than the side of the head as he’d intended. But she lost her
balance and fell, landing hard on her hip. By the time she’d scrambled into a sitting position, he was at the far end of the container.

  “Adiós, chicas,” he said, then exited the container and slammed the heavy doors shut with a bang.

  Rowan sat gasping, her heart hammering in her ears. What was happening?

  His muffled voice came from beyond the closed doors, then she thought she heard his footsteps moving away. She swiveled to look at the others. Did any of them speak English? She didn’t know much Spanish, but she knew a few phrases. “¿Qué pasa?” she asked. “What’s happening?”

  “No sé,” one of them answered in a frightened whisper.

  But she got her answer soon enough, when she got up and tried to shove the doors open with her shoulder. She lurched hard to the left, slamming into the side wall when the container suddenly began moving.

  What the hell? They seemed to be going upward.

  And then it hit her.

  A crane. Someone was lifting the container with a crane. Packing them onto the ship with the rest of the cargo.

  ****

  Cradling his rifle in his arms, Mal leaned forward to get a better look through the Blackhawk’s open door as they neared the port. Another Hawk carrying the rest of the team was circling from the other direction, providing recon for the taskforce from the air. FBI and DEA agents were already on the ground, in the process of establishing a perimeter and hunting for Montoya and his crew, along with Rowan.

  CCTV footage had backed up witnesses’ reports of the getaway vehicle there, and someone had seen a bound woman being carried toward one of the ships. Four huge cargo ships were currently berthed in the port. One of the enormous port cranes stationed on shore was hoisting a shipping container high above the second ship’s deck.

  Mal scanned them as they circled overhead. Everything was in flux down there, crewmembers and port workers being evacuated from the area, making it impossible to spot Montoya. But with agents posted at all exits, every person was being checked.

  To Mal’s left, Hamilton waved his arm to get everyone’s attention and spoke into his mic over the team frequency. “Fresh intel just came in. Montoya might have a shipment leaving from port. A human one.”