Proof of Life: Super Agent Series, Book 3

by Misty Evans

  Brigit dragged her eyes away from Michael and faced her sister. They had a long flight ahead of them, which was good. There would be no rushing of fifteen years worth of catching up.

  There’d been no witnesses to the deaths of Donovan and Raphael except him and Tory. Michael had snapped photos of both bodies before sneaking Tory out of the jail.

  Crawling through the traffic and roadblocks had been slow going, especially since Brigit wasn’t in the van with him. The first thing he’d done at the airport was search her out. With the throng of people and the need to get Tory out of the country and back to the States without alerting the Irish government, though, Michael had not had a chance to do anything other than exchange a smile and a couple of words with her.

  The relief at seeing her was mirrored in her own face. She was a trooper, through and through. She’d bear-hugged Tory before quietly turning her over to Julia, who placed her under arrest. Michael could see the determination in her face and body posture it took for her not to jump in and try to defend her sister.

  Once they were on board the plane, Brigit had discussed options with Julia about the charges the FBI would press against Tory. While he would have found her behavior annoying before, now he only smiled to himself, knowing he would have done the same in her position. As soon as he was back home, he had to deal with his own sister.

  Outside the window, night had descended. Most everyone had drawn the shades and was sleeping. The operation, the time change, the adrenaline had drained them all. He was the only one still awake.

  He’d sent the pictures to the FBI and informed them Tory would be delivered to them at Dulles when the plane landed. Dancing around red tape and formal statements had put him to the test. He wasn’t used to committing crimes or ignoring rules, and he’d never been more grateful for his natural charm than during the grueling interrogation he’d received from the authorities waiting for him and the others at the end of this ride. He’d cut some deals that made even Flynn smile.

  Movement inside the cabin caught his attention. Brigit was shaking Del awake and asking him to move. The computer tech rose from his seat, still half asleep, and went to sit by Tory.

  Brigit slid into Del’s place. When she smiled at him, awe and gratitude in her doll eyes, the blood in his veins warmed and pulsed under his skin. Her sweet smell engulfed him and he wanted to touch her. Wanted her under him and on top of him and beside him like she’d been less than twenty-four hours before.

  He settled for touching her cheek. “God, it’s good to see you smile.”

  Her lips parted and the smile widened. “It’s good to see you alive and in one piece.”

  Tory had told her what had gone down with Peter and Moira. Still, knowing her the way he did, Michael suspected she had a million questions and a few comments about the whole thing. For a second, he could see the urge behind her eyes to let them all out. However, the urge passed in a breath and she sighed. “Thank you. For everything.”

  Wrapping her arm around his, she snuggled up to him as much as the seat divider allowed. He shut his eyes and tucked her body against his.

  The future when they got back to the States loomed like the dark outside the plane. While he would gladly testify on Tory’s behalf, there was little he could do to get the charges reduced on her involvement with the kidnapping. And since he no longer had a bargaining chip for William Kent, there was little he could do there either. Brigit had held up her end of the blackmail bargain they had struck before he’d held up his, and now it looked like he would fail.

  The idea that even after all he’d put her through he couldn’t fulfill his promise to her made his stomach churn.

  Laying his cheek over on the top of Brigit’s head, he drew her closer and listened to her sigh with contentment.

  “Will you do what you can for Tory?” she whispered.

  He closed his eyes and told her the truth. “What I can, yes. It won’t be much.”

  She squeezed his arm. “I’ve seen you work miracles. I have faith.”

  He checked his watch. Two and half hours until they landed. He had two and a half hours to pretend he was still the good guy. “Everything will be okay,” he said, not sure if he was trying to convince her or himself.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Two days later

  Republic of Bolivia

  The rugged interior of South America was a stark contrast to the soft green meadows of Ireland. “One minute to insertion,” the pilot of the Pave Hawk helicopter announced in Michael’s in-flight headset.

  His chest tightened. This was it, the moment he would send a group in to back him up. President Jeffries had put his name on the line under duress from Titus Allen to authorize this exchange, but Michael was the one risking the lives of many to save one. Only a handful of people knew about this mission and most of them were on the Pave with him.

  If all went according to his plans, he, Flynn and Brad would take the brunt of any fallout, but there was still the possibility something beyond his control would go wrong. Could he justify this mission when all was said and done?

  The men with him had mad skills, as Del Hoffman referred to their search and rescue, infiltration and exfiltration specialties. Lawson Vaughn’s Team Pegasus could do their job in any kind of weather, any type of terrain, and night conditions, which were preferred over daylight.

  At thirty seconds to insertion, the door gunners opened their cabin windows and assessed treetops and hillsides over the barrels of their 7.62mm miniguns. Thanks to the Pave’s mission system and GPS technology, Team Pegasus could be covertly inserted at the exact spot they wanted in case they needed to take Colonel Cortez-Uno by surprise. They could paradrop, rappel or fastrope from the helicopter.

  Fastroping was dangerous even for those who trained and practiced on a regular basis. No way Michael could join them. Once a Marine, always a Marine, but those days were far behind him. Even though he’d performed plenty of special insertions and extractions during his tour of duty, trying to be a hero on this mission would only endanger the rest of the group.

  Same held true for Flynn. He’d been a SEAL and could probably still do a host of stunts in his sleep, and yet he was also level-headed enough to know where to draw the line with this mission.

  The two of them, plus Brad, would play a different role in this operation. An official, legitimate role.

  In his ear, the pilot said, “Go.”

  Michael nodded at Vaughn. The commander threw a thick rope out the open slider and went out after it. The night was dark so Michael followed his descent, and the men who followed him, with night-vision binoculars.

  The team members were all on the ground in seconds, disappearing into the trees.

  Time to play his next card.

  Washington D.C.

  Michael hadn’t returned one of her phone calls. Not one. He probably hadn’t even listened to her voice mails. As soon as he saw who they were from, he’d probably deleted them. God, she was such a fool.

  The past two days, Brigit had kept herself busy, putting her life back together while she was falling apart inside. She’d rented an efficiency apartment with Julia’s help and done as many normal things as she could.

  Laundry, which she could hand-wash in ten minutes since she barely had any clothes.

  Grocery shopping, which also took no time because her stomach did nothing but churn with indigestion.

  Buying a stack of best sellers to catch up on her reading. The pile sat on her bedside table untouched, because every time she tried to start one, the hero in the story reminded her of Michael in some way.

  She knew she was projecting, but found herself incapable of stopping her own psychosis.

  Picking up her new BlackBerry, she hit the redial button and waited to hear Michael’s voice tell her to leave a message.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “You’re Butch and I’m Sundance, right?” Flynn said over the sound of the Pave’s blades as they followed Brad, slightly hunched,
away from the helicopter.

  Michael viewed the desolate terrain, full of shadows under the waxing moon, and wondered where Vaughn and his men were hidden. The prison at the bottom of the hill showed little activity. The barely there moonlight reflected off a barbed-wire fence, and guards patrolled the perimeter with AK47s.

  The majority of the prison’s population was made up of murderers, drug dealers and rapists. According to the report Michael had read, a cocoa factory existed inside the prison’s walls. Many of the inmates’ families lived with them. For a few pesos, anyone, tourists included, could score a tour.

  Outside the wash of the blades, Flynn straightened and put a pair of mini night-vision binoculars to his eyes. “Jeesh, all of Bolivia can’t look like this.”

  The Pave’s motor cut off, and the squeak and buzz of insects filled the sudden silence. Michael took the NVBs and scanned the area. “If I’m Butch, that’s my line.”

  Flynn chuckled, his laugh tight with nerves. “I didn’t even remember that was a line.”

  From the dusty road behind them, the sound of a truck engine cut through the insect noise. Michael handed the NVBs back to Flynn. “That’s gotta be Cooper.”

  Cooper was a DEA agent working deep in the heart of cocaine country with an American taskforce. Tonight he was working alone, bringing a certain political prisoner the Bolivian government claimed they would trade just about anything, or anyone, to have handed over to them. Manny “el Rey” Sanchez was the Bolivian equivalent to the Godfather. Colonel Cortez-Uno probably wanted el Rey to expand his prison’s coke production facility.

  The game plan was simple. The colonel either traded Brigit’s father even up for el Rey, or the U.S. government would turn el Rey free.

  Of course, if the colonel refused to deal, Michael had no intention of giving the self-named king his freedom, and since the entire mission was going down under the radar, el Rey could conveniently meet with a bullet without causing an international uproar.

  The old army jeep that came to a stop beside the Pave looked like it was straight out of a M*A*S*H episode. The man who extracted himself from behind the wheel was Michael’s size, big and broad, dressed in desert fatigues, black boots and a cowboy hat. Michael wondered what kind of opponent he’d be in the ring.

  “Cooper Harris.” He held out a hand.

  Michael shook first. “Uncle Sam.”

  “No names.” Cooper shook Flynn’s hand next. “Gotcha.”

  Flynn pointed at the bound and gagged prisoner still in the Jeep. A dirty red handkerchief covered his eyes. “This our guy?”

  “The one and only.” Cooper raised his own set of miniature night-vision binoculars and peered through them at the prison. “Cortez isn’t expecting us for another hour. You wanna wait or crash the party early?”

  Taking the only real form of Bolivian government in these parts by surprise could net you a coup or a chunk out of your ass. But keeping Cortez and his buddies off balance was probably a good thing, especially when it came to the element of surprise, and as long as Pegasus was in position, odds were in favor of a coup, no matter when the exchange went down.

  Besides, Michael was anxious to get back to D.C. and a certain dark-haired woman who was all he could think about. Now that Flynn had brought up Butch and Sundance, Michael remembered another line from the movie. Sundance was talking about finding a woman. I'm not picky. As long as she's smart, pretty, and sweet, and gentle, and tender, and refined, and lovely, and carefree…

  He started walking toward the Jeep, images of Brigit assailing him. “We go now.”

  Cooper drove. Michael rode shotgun. Flynn and Brad squeezed el Rey between them.

  The Jeep bounced over the rocky road and Cooper took it slow. Before they were a hundred yards from the compound’s gate, he said in a low voice. “We’re spotted.”

  Adrenaline shot up Michael’s spine. A second later, a spotlight rigged to the single tower in the middle of the camp flooded them with yellow light. Cooper slid a pair of sunglasses on and brought the Jeep to a stop in front of the gate.

  The single guard slouched a bit, looking them over. His khaki-colored shirt was loose and his matching pants hung low on his waist. He wore a black beret over his long, dark hair. A cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth, and his hands on the rifle he carried were short and fat.

  Butch and Sundance meet Che Guevara.

  The Che clone exchanged a few words with Cooper in a mixture of Spanish and some local dialect Michael didn’t recognize. Cooper handed him the official papers signed by both President Jeffries and an official in the upper echelons of the Bolivian government. As the guard ignored the writing, probably because he couldn’t read, Cooper pointed to el Rey in the back. El Rey’s name was clear enough in the conversation. The guard spit out his cigarette and unlocked the gate.

  As the Jeep entered the compound, Michael heard music coming from the prison. The deep bass thumped in a jarring rhythm and every few seconds a crowd of voices rose over the music. Cheers? Jeers? He couldn’t tell.

  Several men, armed and eager to escort them, crowded the Jeep. Flynn took hold of el Rey and pushed him out of the vehicle while Cooper chatted with the men. One of them shuffled away, entered the front of the jailhouse and came back several minutes later with a man dressed in desert BDUs, the official paper now in his hands.

  This man was introduced as Cortez’s lieutenant. Cooper shook hands with him and subsequently introduced Michael and Flynn in English as Smith and Jones.

  The lieutenant gave them a sharp nod and led them into the prison’s front office. They were led from the office through a locked door and down a dimly lit hallway. Another locked door was opened by guards and they entered the common area.

  The music grew louder as they went deeper into the prison. Since families were allowed to interact with their imprisoned relatives, this inner level of the building resembled a refugee camp. Women and children were everywhere. Some of the children slept on cots, some ran up to Michael and the other men with outstretched hands and pleading eyes.

  It was the strangest prison Michael had ever seen. As they grew ever closer to the music, he recognized the song. AC-DC’s “Thunderstruck”.

  One final locked gate and the lieutenant ushered them into a large common room. Cigarette smoke hung in heavy layers over the heads of several dozen men crowded into the room. As the lieutenant gained the attention of the people nearest the door, a slow, steady parting of bodies occurred.

  The lieutenant led the way across the dirt floor and dozens of eyes came to rest on them. In most of the faces, heavy lids rode bloodshot eyes and Michael surmised the majority of the group was either drunk or high. Many of them crossed themselves as the blindfolded and shackled el Rey shuffled past them.

  When the last of the crowd dispersed, the center of the room showed two men in shorts circling each other with fists raised. One had multiple bruises and a laceration above his eye pouring blood. The other had blood running from a broken nose.

  Watching them tangle from the far side of the tent was Alejandro Cortez-Uno, the prison’s warden.

  He sat on a platform raised six inches off the ground. A table next to him held several bottles of amber liquid, a half-full glass and a plastic bowl piled high with cigarette butts. His face showed no surprise at seeing Michael’s entourage, his glassy gaze slipping aloofly over each of them. Even when his lieutenant crossed behind the fighters and spoke into Cortez’s ear, he showed nothing.

  From across the room, he met Michael’s gaze. The two stared at each other for a long moment, then Cortez’s mouth moved and the lieutenant snapped his fingers to a woman next to the sound system. The music stopped.

  Another finger snap and the fighters lowered their fists and stepped to opposite corners of the area as if the lieutenant had rung a bell.

  Cortez took a sip of his drink and spoke, raising his voice to carry across the room, in the mixed dialect. Cooper responded.

  They went back and fort
h several times. At one point, Cortez spoke to his lieutenant and the man disappeared through a side door.

  “He’s bringing Dr. Kent,” Cooper murmured. “For the exchange.”

  Cortez rose, glass of alcohol in hand, and motioned for the five of them to meet him in the middle of the floor. He was short and oozing contempt as he strolled in a counterclockwise position around their group. While his aloof gaze traveled up and down each of them individually, an insistent warning bell rang like a smoke detector’s alarm in Michael’s head. Cortez was sizing them up.

  Cortez was a psychopath.

  Seeming to sense the same thing, Cooper kept talking, switching between English and the Spanish dialect, making jokes and trying to draw Cortez into conversation. The colonel stopped in front of Michael, his gaze now razor sharp and challenging. The alarm in Michael’s head blared.

  The far door opened and the lieutenant returned. Michael hated to break eye contact with Cortez, but his concern for Brigit’s father outweighed a Mexican standoff with the prison warden. An ounce of relief hit him when he saw Dr. Kent moving on his own accord, no shackles or handcuffs. Fatigue and worry shadowed his face and he looked ten pounds thinner than his photo, yet there were no visible bruises or broken bones.

  Michael grabbed el Rey and pushed him forward to stand in front of Colonel Cortez. At the same time, he crooked a finger at Dr. Kent.

  Brigit’s father looked surprised. Then relieved. In the next second, though, as if he remembered where he was, he cut his eyes to the colonel and back to Michael. A warning.

  Cortez lifted two fingers from the glass and waved them back and forth in front of Michael’s face, a smirk on his lips. Before he even spoke, Michael’s gut squeezed.

  “You want Dr. Kent,” Cortez said in a liquor-rough, heavily accented voice. He pointed at one of the bleeding men in the corner. “You fight.”

  Cooper threw up his hands in a no way gesture, switching to English as well. “We’re here for a prisoner exchange, not a fight.”