by Ronie Kendig
She clenched her eyes shut as the memories collided, tumbling over one another. Bruzon. Canyon. “No,” she ground out. The difference had been night and day. One brutal and violating. The other passionate and loving.
“He always liked the tough ones.” Navas’s words skidded into her turmoil, plying new fears from her. That man knew Canyon. It hit her then. He was the contact, the one Canyon met in the bar—Brick?
Which meant it was a setup. But … how? Nobody knew they were in the area except, well, the whole governing body who’d tasked her with proving her own innocence. Yet only General Lambert knew their precise location and the date they’d left. And then she and Canyon had slid off the side of a mountain, been tossed down a river, then crawled back in the jungle. How on earth could anyone ever figure out their location?
Olin wouldn’t betray her. He’d been like an uncle to her, a close friend to her mother. Dani had seen more compassion and concern in his eyes than she ever saw in her own father’s. Not that her dad ever mistreated her. Unless you considered being inattentive and a workaholic mistreatment; in which case, he’d be a model example.
And now? Now she was right back where all this started. The four stained gray walls were a long way from home. She’d vowed to never come back, knowing—knowing—she’d end up in Bruzon’s clutches again. No. What she feared was ending up in his bed again. She’d kill herself before that happened this time.
Then why are you sitting here moping?
A strange noise howled through the prison, drawing her gaze up to where the sound drifted through the tiny vent. What was that? As if she had to ask. It was entirely too familiar. Torture. A shudder rippled through her. What if … what if that was Canyon?
Fresh determination washed through her. She’d get out of the cell, find Canyon—they could sort out what happened at the hotel later—and escape. She’d done it once before. She could—and would—do it again.
Dani glanced around the cell, eyes fastening on the cot. Morons.
Bruzon’s Facility 7 May
Warmth slid across his brow. Over the bridge of his nose, a dark droplet raced into his eye. Canyon blinked, gritting against the pain that radiated through every cell of his body. Arms outstretched and tied down, he clenched his fists. Thigh muscles tightened, he tensed against the fire that shot through his leg.
“How many men on your team?” Navas stood in the corner, arms folded.
Fury that he knew the man torturing him fed his resistance. Calm down. Relax, you’ll last longer. He allowed the tension to defuse. Focused on Roark—no. No, he couldn’t do that. It’d only strain his focus, wondering where she was being held, was she hurt, was she being ferried to Bruzon?
“Midas.” The man moved closer and planted a hand beside Canyon’s head. “Just tell me what I need and you can go.”
Eyes on the blaring light overhead, Canyon refused to be baited or lied to. He knew how this worked.
“With the girl.”
His gaze diverted to his captor.
“That’s what you want, right? To leave with the girl?” Navas nodded. “Thought so.”
Canyon cursed himself for giving away his feelings for Roark, for giving anything to this traitor. “I trained you,” he said through gritted teeth. “We were a team.”
“And now we aren’t.” Navas indicated to someone out of range. “You killed his son. Think he’s just going to let you walk out of here alive?”
A hum filled the air. Movement to the side as Navas stepped back. Electricity spiked through Canyon’s arms. The acrid odor of burning flesh snaked into his nostrils. Canyon jerked his attention away. Locked his jaw as every muscle vibrated from the bolts of electricity. His teeth rattled. He worked to make sure he didn’t bite his tongue off.
Navas’s jaw tightened. “How many men?”
Limp, Canyon shook his head and let himself whimper. Finally, he wet his lips, closed his eyes, and with a grunt he said, “Six.”
Navas stilled, surprise rippling through his dark complexion.
“Oh, wait.” Canyon spit blood from his mouth. “I forgot about Grumpy.” He met the man’s gaze. “Make it seven.”
Navas pushed away and stalked from the room.
“Finish him,” someone said.
A hood whooshed over Canyon’s head. Darkness devoured him. Splashing sounded nearby. Waterboarding!
“You’re a traitor, Juan Navas! May God have mercy on—”
The hood plastered against his face. Oxygen sucked out. Water rushed in. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t get away. The cold deluge continued. Canyon writhed, trying to get away. But couldn’t. It went in through his nose. He turned his head. But there was no getting away. He choked. Gagged—mistake! It let more water in. His lungs were filling.
Can’t breathe …
He regurgitated. The vomit had nowhere to go inside the hood. Drowning—in my own vomit! The smell nauseated him. He retched again. Water still soaked every available space. He choked on that acidic bile and water. Somewhere … from something or someone, a demonic howl seared the air.
No, it wasn’t someone else. It was him—his soul screaming.
Lambert Residence, Maryland 8 May
“My team’s in.”
“Thank you.” Olin replaced the phone on its cradle. Surrounded by mounds of papers, files, and top-secret information, he stared at nothing in particular—unless you counted the past. Would that he could turn back the hands of time, undo mistakes, undo long-cemented fractures in his character. He’d learned from them, but not soon enough to prevent the damage, the carnage eating him like a disease.
Rubbing his knuckles over his lip, he allowed himself to mentally trace the steps the teams should take to extract Nightshade and Danielle. Go into the facility with so much stealth and force, the Venezuelans would never know what hit them or why—at least, not until it was too late. Nightshade would be recovered, and no one would be the wiser about who the men were or why they were there. Danielle would safely return to Virginia, and he’d make sure the pundits couldn’t touch her again.
He leaned forward and withdrew his wallet from his back pocket. Opening it, he ignored the whisper of his conscience that urged him to avoid slipping into the past. All the same, his finger dug into the innermost fold and plucked out a tattered photo. Even twenty-plus years later, those brown eyes glistened at him.
Someone … someone had set up the team. Someone knew where they were going and had people in place to make sure the mission failed. To make sure Danielle didn’t come back. That’s what this was about, wasn’t it? He’d always been able to smell a trap, a job meant to cover someone’s fat behind after they’d stepped in a big pile of—
“You’re up late tonight.” Draped in a silk nightgown, Charlotte oozed gracefulness as she leaned against the doorjamb.
He’d always vowed Grace Kelly had nothing on his wife, but tonight, the concern etching deep lines in her brows smothered him with guilt. In his line of work, she knew better than to ask specifics. But they’d constructed their own codes around the truth to help her know what he was dealing with.
“Yes, forgive me?” Olin tucked the photo beneath a stack of papers and glanced at the clock, his fogged-in brain struggling to comprehend the time. Three? Was it really that late?
“Every time.” Charlotte hesitated near the door, her easy smile turning upside down. “Is everything okay?”
Tonight, it was no use hiding behind codes and half truths. She knew, thanks to the media, what was happening down in Venezuela. “It’s Danielle.”
Stiffening, she drew straight. And the knife in his heart dug a little deeper. “Is … is she okay?” She stepped from the halo of light outside his office and drifted inside, wrapping her arms around her waist. She knew … oh, she knew his failings. All of them.
Olin sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know. She and one of the men got separated from the team. They haven’t located them yet.”
She came to his side and rested her long f
ingers on his shoulders. “God will take care of her, Olin. Leave her in His care.” She pressed her lips to the top of his head. “And those men are the best, you said so.”
He patted her hand, but the comfort that should have come from those words fell short of the mark. Though he wanted to remind his wife that he’d made a promise a decade ago, he couldn’t. It’d only open old wounds … wounds he’d tried desperately to let heal.
Her finger raked his desk, then she sailed out of the room. As she did, he realized she had not merely touched his desk. No, it was more than that. She’d touched something on his desk. A tattered edge. Of the past. Of his guilt.
DAY SEVEN
Secure Facility, Virginia
16:32:08
Sir!” One of the outsiders jogged through the village, trailed by several more and the dark ones. “Sir, we’ve got a problem.”
Bayani turned from the final instructions to Maut and Tem-Tem. “Easy there, Mav. What’s up?”
“There are tanks, Jeeps, and hundreds of warriors and others headed this way.”
I turned to Awa, whose face went as pale as Bayani’s. “What can this mean?”
“Seems the new team has upset someone.” Bayani hefted his big gun. “Let’s—”
“No, sir.” Mav gulped a breath. “We don’t have enough. We go up against them and with those armaments—we’re dead.”
“An air strike.”
Bayani turned to the big Spaniard he had punched and put in his place two weeks ago. “That’s not how we work.” He pointed to his outsiders. “Get our gear piled up and ready.”
“On it,” the man said and took two men with him. “What is an air strike, Bayani?” Awa knew the answer; I could see the fear of it on his face.
“Bombs, from an airplane.” Bayani glowered at the dark one. “And it’s not happening. They’re already too close and if we do this—it could injure this village.”
“If we don’t call in a strike, we won’t be doing any kind of work.” The Spaniard looked around. “And neither will any of these people. What do you say, Bayani? Going to kill your woman?”
Words of war. Taunting. Cruel. Meant to get the thing this man desired. I was not sure if Bayani knew this man’s purpose, or if Bayani felt there were no other options. Regardless, he knew that this strike was not a very good choice.
I knew this big man’s heart. There had been others like him before. Like the warrior who had nearly killed my Chesa. This man wanted that strike.
The old woman shuddered; her breathing came in gulps.
Matt leaned forward to pause the recording. “Are you well, Mrs. Mercado?”
She patted his hand, and a shaky smile trembled beneath wrinkles. “Not for years, Major Rubart.”
“Do you feel up to continuing?” He shifted, agonizing over the idea of her wanting to stop. The doctors feared she would die. Without this testimony … “We can take a break, if you need it.”
“Major,” Carrie Hartwicke whispered. “We can’t afford—”
He snapped up a hand and silenced her as he lifted the older woman’s hand. “We don’t want to rush you. Transporting you took a greater toll than we all expected. But I know you understand how important the information you have is to us.”
Weariness seeped past Corazine’s resolve. She sighed and seemed to drift to sleep.
Matt’s heart chugged. “Mrs. Mercado?”
A withering breath. “No. No, I must continue. For Chesa.” Her smile wavered again. “I wonder, who will I see first—Bayani or Chesa?”
Matt wasn’t sure what to say. The question seemed incongruent with the whole deposition. “Bring her some water.” He watched as the doctor pressed a dampened cloth to the woman’s face. Really, there was nothing to do but keep her alive and comfortable for as long as they could. She would die, the doctor had said, regardless of their efforts.
“No,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “I must finish before I go. See?” She sighed. “I’m a fighter. Awa always say that.”
“Okay.” Matt eased back into his chair at the small table and clicked the small device next to his computer. “We’re ready when you are.” He nodded. “It’s recording.”
CHAPTER 22
Bruzon’s Facility, Venezuela
8 May
Whirring vibrated through the walls … the ceiling … the ground. Max capitalized on the sound and closed his eyes, allowing it to lull him into a light sleep. Yet not sleeping—he focused on the sounds, the patterns happening outside the cell. They should be good for another twenty minutes before another guard came by to check.
Twenty-six hours. They’d been locked up in here for more than a day. His mind drifted to Squirt, imagining what the man must be facing if he hadn’t freed them already.
“Movement.”
At Aladdin’s voice, Max hiked to his feet and positioned himself on the other side of the door. Through the light seeping through the small square window, Aladdin’s face glowed. “Two guards with—” His lips flattened and nostrils flared. “He’s blown.”
Not good.
Creaking and groaning stabbed the air.
“Stand back!” A guard shouted, aiming his weapon at Max.
Back-stepping, Max made his way to the middle of the cell, hands up, noting Aladdin did the same.
Seconds later, two more guards wedged through the door, an unconscious Squirt dragged across the cement between them. With the heavy ammo trained on them, Max didn’t move. But he knew that with his tactics and Aladdin’s, they could take this crew. However, with a man down, they needed to assess the situation. And find a route out of this place.
The door cranked shut.
Max dropped to a knee and placed two fingers along Squirt’s neck as Aladdin traced hands along Squirt’s body checking for injuries. “Alive, pulse thready.”
“No noticeable breaks or swe—” Aladdin leaned over Squirt and tugged the prone body up and to the side. “He bit one.” He turned Squirt onto his back and planted a hand against the gunshot wound in the abdomen. Worried eyes rose to Max. “He won’t last the night.”
“Then we better get out of here before then.” He scowled. “I’m not losing a guy.”
Blackness snapped through the facility.
Max hesitated, glancing up but seeing nothing in the darkened cell.
“Think that’s the rest of the team?”
“Better be.” Things weren’t right. Getting ambushed during insertion—Midas had been right. Then he and the girl took the mudslide out of reach. Then getting captured. Now Squirt. Max was ready to turn the tide in their favor. “I’ve had enough surprises.”
“Well …” Aladdin’s voice sounded strained. And near the door again.
Max tensed. When had Aladdin moved?
“Better get ready. Generator has dull lights. I see nearly a dozen men drifting through the hall. Straight toward us. And they’re armed.”
A dozen? Nightshade didn’t have a dozen even with the girl.
“Get back.” Scooting into the corner and dragging Squirt’s heavy bulk with him made Max feel like a scared rabbit. But the face of his beautiful wife and chubby-cheeked son compelled him to fight. If need be—to the death.
“They banked off.”
Fear whooshed out of him. He set Squirt to the side and slumped against the wall. “That was—”
A scream knifed the air.
Spine stiff, Max slid along the cement wall to the door until his fingers grazed the steel hinges. “What’s happening?”
Tat-tat-tat!
He paused at the rate of fire and pitch. An M4. American? A series of thuds and bangs carried through the prison. Shouts. More gunfire.
“Someone’s unhappy,” Aladdin mumbled.
“We have to get out of here.”
“With the door locked?”
There was that. “Can you flag someone?”
“Too dark.”
Hand fisted, Max rammed it against the door. That’s it! He shifted an
d kicked the door. The jolt thumped through his leg. He did it again. If they made enough noise …
“Wait-wait. Stop. They’re coming.”
Max stilled then returned to the wall, noting everything had once more fallen silent.
This had the smell and feel of a tactical strike. But … who was striking? Not Nightshade. They only had three men left on the outside. Though he couldn’t hear Aladdin move, he saw the flicker of light against the man’s skin for a second.
Boom!
A gust of hot wind. Thud-clank-thud! Air bled light, red and dull, revealing the door lying inside the room near the far wall. Several shapes slid into the room bringing more light.
Max spotted a leg-holstered gun. If he could reach it—
The uniformed man spun toward him.
Fight or die. Fight or die. Max lunged.
A fist plowed into his shoulder.
Max slammed a right hook into the man’s gut.
“Friendly! Friendly!”
Wrestling in the arms of a soldier, Max finally connected the voice—Legend’s. The soldier he’d locked around the waist snarled in his ear, “Step off.”
Hands out, Max pushed back and straightened.
“Triton, he’s ours. It’s good.”
“Legend?”
“Let’s go, Boss. We found Midas; we’ve got him.”
“He was here?”
“Yeah,” Legend said. “Pretty messed up though.”
“I’m fine,” came the familiar growl from between clenched teeth and fat eyes. “We have to find Roark. She’s here.”
“She’s not,” said a smaller—but not by much—version of Legend. Triton, Max guessed.
Hand to his head, Midas looked like he’d collapse if the wall moved. “They brought us here at the same time. I’m not leaving without her.”
“Already been through this.” Triton nodded to one of his men.
