by Julie Leto
When he shouted for his wife, Marisela checked her gun again. When he marched across the room to the door that led to the head, she slipped the barrel through the crack in the door. Before he’d hooked his hand on the door handle, she fired. At close range, the sharp edge of the dart slid effortlessly into the muscle just between his shoulder blade and his neck. Because of his size, she fired a second round. He grunted, reached back in vain, then tumbled to the floor.
“Ochoa’s down,” she reported.
“Proceed to the engine room,” Ian ordered.
“Where’s Frankie?”
Before Ian could reply, Marisela heard the engines of the boat, which had been idling when they boarded, roar to life. The deck rocked beneath her boots and she had to grab a handhold to keep from tumbling backward into the collection of coats and jackets stored in the closet.
She burst out of her hiding place and pressed her finger lightly on her ear. “I didn’t copy.”
“Frank is on his way. Meet him in the engine room.”
Marisela took a quick moment to check Ochoa, whose breathing was steady, if slightly labored. She checked his pulse. Strong. Good. He wouldn’t die tonight.
In one last check, she pushed open an eyelid, but didn’t like what she saw. The pupil was dilated. Same for the other eye. If he was coked out, two shots of the sedative wouldn’t be enough. But the third could kill him.
A noise from behind sent her whirling around, her weapon aimed, adrenaline surging through her blood. The crewman threw up his hands and after a second, Marisela saw the telltale wire dangling behind his ear.
“You Pan?” she asked, eyeing the man up and down. He was no sprite-like boy, that was for sure. He was tall and well muscled, like a bantamweight boxer. Not bulky like a heavyweight, but stacked with enough power to move a mountain. Or more specifically, Ricky Ochoa.
“Guilty as charged. Thanks for not shooting me.”
“My pleasure,” she replied, holstering her gun.
He nodded and rushed to Ochoa’s side. “He’s out cold?” She scowled. “His eyes aren’t right. I think he’s been using.” She tugged the gun out, but Pan stayed her hand.
“I’m taking him out right now,” he said, slipping behind the large man and sliding his hands underneath his beefy shoulders. “You need to hit the engine room, ASAP. I’ve got it from here.”
Marisela hesitated, but deferred to the more experienced agent. Sharp’s Destruction eased out of the marina as Marisela pictured the boat’s schematics in her head and made her way below. She slid down the narrow steps until she was in the bowels of the yacht. Near the stern, she found the black bag, left for her by Pan. Inside were the explosives, ready for her and Frankie to set. Pan and Dionysus, somewhere above decks by now, would maneuver Ochoa and the bodyguard off the yacht while she and Frankie prepared the explosives.
She’d unpacked the C-4 and the detonating mechanism when Frankie finally vaulted down the steps.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said without the least hint of sincere apology.
“What happened?”
“Brief delay. The bodyguard wasn’t as stupid as I’d hoped he’d be.”
“With criminals, you can never count on stupid,” she said.
He only grunted and retrieved the detonator, which he keyed with the codes that would allow them to activate the bomb from a safe distance.
They worked in silence. Marisela placed four nodules of C-4, then ran the wires toward the signal receiver, which latched to the base of the fuel tank. Before she connected the last wire, Frankie executed a quick test of the remote ignition device. After a thumbs-up, she finished the job, repacked the bag, and headed for the stairs.
Marisela climbed first. She cleared the doorway and turned to check on Frankie when the boat lurched. They were heading out to sea and had picked up speed. She nearly lost her footing, but grabbed a rail and pulled herself out of the passageway—just in time for a big beefy hand to smash her across the face.
Thirteen
COLORS FLASHED AS pain exploded across Marisela’s face, blinding her in a sickening swirl of reds, oranges, and blacks. Her eyes rattled in their sockets and she blinked desperately, trying to clear her sight. She finally regained her vision in time to deflect a second blow, then roll out of the way.
The assailant was huge. Even without the ability to focus on his face, she knew who he was.
Ochoa.
She grabbed her gun and aimed, but Frankie’s shout of warning made her hold her fire. He rushed up the narrow stairs into the ruckus, gun drawn, threw the bag that had contained the explosives to Marisela, who barely grabbed a corner, then aimed his gun at the attacker and fired.
Marisela winced as the weapon discharged. Once. Twice. The sound was soft and whooshing. She scrambled out of the way and said a silent prayer of thanks. Frankie had pulled the dart gun instead of the 9 mm. He’d thought more clearly than she had.
Ochoa wavered, but didn’t go down. He tore the darts from his shoulder and chest, then howled and charged Frankie again.
“You won’t take my boat! ¡Piratas!¡Ladrones!¡Es mi yate!”
Marisela traded her 9 mm for her dart gun and shot off two more rounds into his shoulder blades. Just as before, he couldn’t reach them, though he grabbed wildly, screaming in guttural grunts about his goddamn yacht. He was now pumped with nearly six darts of sedative. How could two not have knocked him out for the count?
Frankie rammed his head into Ochoa’s gut and used his entire weight to propel the huge man toward the opposite wall. Ochoa wailed when his back slammed against the wall, driving the darts deeper into his fatty flesh.
Frankie jumped back. “Move!” he shouted to Marisela, gesturing wildly for her to scramble to the next room.
Ochoa dropped to his knees. His eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed to the floor like an iron barbell.
“We can’t leave him here,” Marisela shouted. She and Frankie were both strong, but hauling Ochoa up narrow stairways to the top deck would be near to impossible. Not with him completely unconscious. If he’d stayed on the main deck, Pan would only have had to drag him a few feet to the exit point.
“If he got down here, he must have taken out Pan somewhere along the way. Find him,”
The static in Marisela’s ear nearly drove her insane. At first, she heard nothing but feedback, and then she could hardly differentiate between noise and voices until Ian demanded radio silence. His agents immediately complied. Dion verified, at Blake’s orders, that he and the bodyguard had already disembarked onto their escape boat when Ochoa woke up and overpowered Pan. His report to warn Frankie and Marisela must have been blocked by a signal too weak to reach their position in the innards of the boat. Now, they had one big dude to transport off the yacht and possibly, an agent down.
“Frank, report.”
Marisela listened while she darted to the top deck and spotted Pan splayed and motionless on the ground, a deep gash across his forehead, blood pooling red on the polished deck. She gasped, then moved to him, grabbed his fabric hat and pressed it against the wound.
Frankie’s voice crackled in her ear. “Ochoa’s out for good this time. He must have been loaded. Heroin. Cocaine. No telling. The first few darts must not have knocked him out for more than a few minutes.”
Marisela’s stomach dropped. Pan had been hurt because she hadn’t shot the bastard with enough sedative. She’d trusted his judgment. She should have had more faith in her own.
“Marisela, report.”
She swallowed the thick lump of regret lodged in her throat. “Pan’s unconscious. It’s a head wound.” She glanced up at the railing. Not only was the wood and brass covered in blood, there was a visible crack. “It’s bad. Looks like Ochoa banged him hard against the railing to knock him out.”
“What’s his blood pressure?” Blake asked.
“I’m not a doctor!”
“Feel for his pulse.”
Ian’s voice didn’t so much as ra
ise or inflect, injecting Marisela with a sense of calm she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel again once this mess was over with.
She complied, remembering that Max had given her a basic first aid course just a few days ago in case she or Frankie were hurt during the mission. Her hand slipped against the blood, so she had to feel around, closing her eyes and concentrating on finding the right spot on his neck. The sickening sweet scent seeping from his wound nearly made her gag.
The pulse was so faint, she missed it the first time. “Not good,” she reported. “I can barely feel anything.”
“Can you lift him?”
Marisela’s heart slammed against her chest. Her instincts screamed not to move the injured agent, but she knew they had no choice. If she demanded that Blake send in a second team to execute a rescue and abort this mission, Javier Perez would know he’d been set up. The rescue of Jessica Perez would fail before the mission truly began.
She moved Pan’s body, arranging him for maximum leverage. Still, while she could lift him halfway to her shoulder, she’d never get him off the boat without dropping him into the water, where he’d surely sink before she could pull him out.
“Negative. Not alone. I need Frankie.”
“Frank?”
“Ochoa smashed the remote device when he came at me and Marisela,” Frankie informed them. “We’ll have to go with the timer.”
A crackle and pop broke into the communication stream, followed by Max’s voice, so cool, a chill chased up Marisela’s spine.
“Perez’s men just drove onto the overlook. They’re expecting an explosion soon. If they don’t see one, the whole mission is a bust.”
Silence ensued and Marisela’s cars ached with the lack of information. Blake had a decision to make. With the clock ticking, they only had time to save one man.
“Frank, set the charge. Give yourself five minutes. Leave Ochoa. He sealed his own fate. Help Marisela get Pan off the yacht. We’ll rendezvous at the prearranged point. Two cars, Max, see to it. Marisela, you return to the hotel for contact with Perez and Frank, you stay with Pan. Good luck.”
Marisela shook her head, banishing all her regrets, all her fears, and concentrated on completing the mission and getting Pan to safety while Frankie set the explosive charge with a timer. She tossed the bag into the skiff tied below, then hoisted Pan halfway over the railing, keeping pressure on his wound and reassuring the unconscious man that he would survive. Despite his dead weight, she touched her hand to her chest and said a quick prayer. Against her better judgment, she’d worn the locket Elise had given her. Manipulative or not, the charm reminded her that she had a child to rescue.
Frankie burst out of the doorway. “Four minutes and counting.”
Marisela transferred Pan’s weight to Frankie, then vaulted over the side. The inflatable, tinted dark so that no light would reflect as they escaped into the night, rocked under her weight. She found her balance quickly, then motioned for Frankie to lower the injured man to her.
The operation wasn’t pretty, but it was fast and with Pan unconscious, he wouldn’t feel the pain of being dropped into the tender with only Marisela to cushion his fall. She shoved his body into the bubbled side, then covered him with a tarp, not only to fight off his shock, but to hide him in case Perez’s men were watching their escape.
Frankie fired the engine to life while Marisela released the line that secured the dinghy to the yacht.
“Time?” she asked.
Frankie and Ian answered in unison. “One minute, eighteen seconds.
“Get down,” Frankie ordered before he pushed the engine to the limit.
They roared over the waves, the choppy Intercoastal water bouncing them like children inside an inflatable bounce house. Marisela dove flat against the bottom and rolled next to Pan to protect his body against the coming explosion. “Sixty seconds,” Blake said calmly.
Marisela raised her head. The yacht grew smaller as they moved away, but her heartbeat accelerated with every inch of distance between them and the bomb. She closed her eyes tight and said a prayer of eternal rest for Ricky Ochoa.
Damned fool. Loved his boat more than his own goddamned life.
When Ian counted down to three seconds, then two, then one, Frankie leaned low into the boat. The blast roared before the water heaved, but the heat of the fire reached out like the devil’s fingers, scorching the back of their necks. Debris splashed around them and Frankie maneuvered their boat in a sharp angle toward shore.
The sickening sound of the sizzle would haunt her forever, she knew. A man had died because she’d screwed up. Not enough darts the first time. Not enough.
The chatter in her ears brought her to the present as Ian directed Frankie to the rendezvous point. Two agents waited on the shore, one of them Max. They splashed out to the boat and between Max and Frankie, unloaded Pan with maximum care and speed, the rescue hidden by sea oats and banyan trees. The third man, who identified himself as Romulus, spirited Marisela off to a dark sedan, giving her no time to speak to Frankie.
The minute the car sped out of the dense foliage, Marisela spun in the seat and watched the other car, an SUV, disappear in the opposite direction.
“Frankie, what is Pan’s condition?” she shouted.
No response.
“Ian, what is Pan’s condition?”
The silence deafened. She scooted to the front seat and slapped Romulus on the shoulder. “Why is there no radio contact?”
Romulus touched his earpiece. “The mission is complete. Communications are suspended.”
“What about Pan?”
“He’ll be all right.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Blake makes agent safety a priority. He’ll get the best medical care.”
She slammed back into the seat, unwilling to share with this stranger that Pan wouldn’t have needed medical care if she’d pumped Ochoa with more darts than she had. Per her training, two should have been more than enough, but Max had warned that someone on drugs, particularly heroin or cocaine, might need a higher dosage. When she’d shot Ochoa the last time after the attack, she’d turned him into a lump of lard too heavy for rescue.
She’d sentenced him to death.
She glanced out the window. They were on a bridge, but the reflection of the sliver of moon on the water revealed nothing of what had just happened less than ten minutes ago not a half a mile away. No wisp of smoke. No spark of fire. Nothing.
As if it had never happened. Only it had, and Marisela would never forget.
* * *
She should have known. Slamming the door behind her, Marisela marched two steps into the hotel room and stopped, her emotions a jumble of indignation and self-recrimination. And damn it, the last person she wanted to confront right now had propped himself into the chair beside the window, his face half-cast in shadow, with only his tight, square chin visible in the slats of light filtering through the blinds.
His fingers, steepled on the table, moved first. His hands slipped into the darkness, then reemerged with a small, black electronic device she recognized as GPS—synchronized to her tracking device, more than likely. In an anger she couldn’t explain, she tore off her watch and tossed it on the bed.
She clenched her fists until her fingers ached, willing the shaking to stop long enough for her to talk to her boss without sounding like a, well, like a girl. A frightened girl. A regretful girl. A girl whose incompetence had just led to a man’s violent death.
“How’s Pan?” she finally managed.
Blake leaned forward so that a slash of neon from the sign outside ignited his aquamarine eyes. “Concussion, but so far, the swelling on his brain is under control.” He toyed with the tracking device, tapping the pads of his fingers on the case. “He has the best care.”
She stepped further into the room, certain he could see the way her muscles quivered uncontrollably, as they had from the minute she’d slid into the car with Romulus.
“You’re s
o sure he’ll recover?” she challenged.
Ian stood, grabbed her watch from the bed and examined the timepiece with a cursory glance. “He’s a strong man with an equally strong will to live. All of my agents fit that description.”
Marisela tossed her bag onto the bed, followed by her dart gun, which seemed to thud onto the mattress with more weight than it warranted. She twisted to remove her holster, but her shoulders balked with a numbing ache. Her cheek throbbed. She suddenly felt as if she had the weight of two men around her—and in a way, she figured she did.
But she’d be damned if she’d show that to Blake.
She propelled herself into the bathroom, doused a washcloth with cold water no wipe some of the salt spray and smoky grime from her face, hands, and neck. She’d had no idea the fire would trail so far, though a shift in wind had helped the blaze along. The putrid smell of burning fuel and congealing blood remained fused in her nostrils, in her mouth, and plastered to her skin. She turned on the water in the shower to the hottest setting, then ripped off her jacket and flung it on the bed.
“I’m taking a shower before Perez calls,” she announced, hoping with uncharacteristic optimism that the information would compel Blake to leave. She haphazardly grabbed clothes from her suitcase, not entirely surprised when Ian strolled into the bathroom and turned off the scalding stream of water.
What did shock her was the way he came up behind her and slid his hands onto her shoulders.
“Pan’s injury isn’t your fault.”
She wanted to shake him off. Every nerve ending from her neck to her forearms screamed for her to throw an elbow or a backfist so that he wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t attempt to soothe her with that honeyed, cultured voice.
But she didn’t move. Instead, she allowed his fingers to spear into the aching tendons in her neck and shoulders, massaging away the tension in slow, practiced strokes.
“I should have hit him with more juice from the start,” she said, reciting the mantra her conscience had been chanting for the past half hour. “He shouldn’t have had the strength to Attack Pan. He shouldn’t have gone below decks where we couldn’t get him out.”
