“Liar.”
Amelia’s head snapped to the side when Jody’s hand connected with her cheek and she tasted blood. She heard Wyatt growl and prayed he didn’t do something stupid to get himself killed.
She faced Jody. “I have no reason to lie,” she lied.
“She won’t talk, so kill the two men,” Donald ordered with a dramatic upward flail of his arm.
The men with the guns just stood there, making no move to do his bidding.
He swiveled around, eyeing the troops. Then he threw up his hands. “What are you waiting for? Shoot them!”
“We don’t take orders from you, amigo,” one of them informed him.
Donald’s jaw clenched. “Gustavo,” he growled.
Gustavo rolled his eyes. “Do as he says,” he ordered his men. They lifted their weapons and pointed them at Wyatt and Ryan.
Amelia’s eyes widened in horror. “Stop! I’ll tell you where it is.”
“Too late.”
Before she could reveal the hiding place, a cacophony of shots rang out. A sob tore from her throat. Wyatt didn’t stand a chance at point blank range.
A head exploded into a fine red mist and she cried out to see Wyatt covered in blood. Her brain couldn’t process that it was Gustavo who was already dead before he hit the ground. Every one of his armed men met the same fate, including the two snipers on the roof, who rolled off and landed with dual thuds. The gunfire lasted less than five seconds. Wyatt and Ryan were alive, albeit covered in blood, but the entire group of kidnappers were dead.
When the shooting started, Donald Bainbridge hit the ground and curled into a ball with his hands covering his head, sobbing like a baby. Jody plastered her back against the hospital with her hands in the air.
Ryan glanced around in wonder. “What the hell just happened?”
Shapes materialized from the forest dressed in tactical gear holding high-tech weapons. “Maggie,” she cried, recognizing her friend instantly despite her head and face being camouflaged. Beside her was her husband Carter. Coming from a different part of the forest were Grant Colton and Sawyer Oldham, and from another Noah and Ethan Addison. They looked like a bad ass squadron of superheroes.
She’d never been so happy to see them in her life.
Suddenly an arm wrapped around her neck and she was jerked off her feet. The grip against her windpipe was the only thing keeping her upright. Then she felt the sharp poke of a gun against her spine.
“Stay back,” Jody ordered when Wyatt lunged for her. “I won’t hesitate to kill her.”
With her hands bound behind her, she couldn’t pry at the forearm pressing against her trachea. Jody was squeezing the life out of her. Spots danced before her eyes and blackness edged her vision.
“Put down your weapons, all of you. That’s good. Now kick them away. Amelia and I are going to leave now and if any of you try to stop us, I will shoot her.”
Jody dragged Amelia with her as she moved away from the building towards the clearing.
Donald jumped to his feet. “Good job, sweetheart.” He brushed dirt off his jacket. “I was just about to save us, but you beat me to it.”
Jody aimed the gun at Donald and fired.
Donald’s eyes widened in shock and betrayal before his knees gave out and he crashed to the ground.
“I won’t go to prison for him,” she muttered. Then she swung the gun to Wyatt. “You look like you’ll be trouble so bye, bye.”
A shot rang out. Jody’s hold around Amelia’s neck loosened and she fell forward, twisting so she landed on a shoulder since she couldn’t brace her fall. Even as she struggled to breathe, she scrabbled around to see Jody face-planted into the ground with her arms wrenched behind her back, courtesy of Kayla Hepburn, who must’ve stayed hidden in the woods when the others emerged.
She frantically searched for Wyatt, who was running her way. Relief had her losing the breath she’d worked so hard to replenish. A quick glance told her that Ryan, Maggie, Carter, Grant, Sawyer, and the Addison brothers were all unharmed as well.
“The shot…” she croaked.
“Into the ground,” Kayla answered from her perch atop Jody’s back. She, too, was dressed in khaki colored tactical gear, a cap covering her light brown hair. She finished securing Jody’s arms before shoving off her to stand. She whipped out a knife and severed the tie around Amelia’s wrists.
“Thank you.”
Then she was tugged up and into a muscular pair of arms. Wyatt leaned back and framed her face with his hands.
“Are you okay, babe?”
Since breath was still scarce, she nodded.
Wyatt pulled her against him again. “I was so damn terrified.”
She was, too. She’d have nightmares of guns being pointed at Wyatt’s head to go along with ones of being trapped with giant anacondas in a dark cave. She stayed against his solid chest until her breath returned, but tortured screams had her tugging against his hold. “I need to check on Donald.”
“Let him suffer,” Wyatt growled, tightening his arms.
“You know I can’t.” Wyatt reluctantly released her, and she dropped down beside Noah and Ethan, who were administering first aid.
“I’ve been shot! I’m dying! You have to help me!”
“You’re not dying, asshat,” Ethan sighed. “Drama queen much?”
“My arm is on fire! I think it’s severed!”
“It’s barely a scratch,” Noah groused. “You have the right to remain silent. For the love of all things holy, use it.”
Amelia nudged Ethan aside, expecting to see a gaping hole where the bullet had blown through his arm. Instead it was as Ethan described: barely a scratch. His jacket was torn and bloody, but he’d live to see the inside of a federal prison. “You’re lucky Jody has horrible aim,” she told Donald.
His eyes rolled back. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Noah and Ethan exchanged their own eye rolls as they lifted him up to remove his jacket and shirt. He whined and moaned the entire time. She’d have injected him with a sedative just to shut him up, but she took perverse satisfaction in his pain and anguish. The drugs he peddled killed people. Kids. He deserved to suffer.
Wyatt placed the backpack of supplies beside her. She thanked him and dug inside for butterfly bandages. She only had a couple left, but that would be enough. Donald screamed like she’d lit him on fire when she patted an antiseptic wipe over the wound.
“What the hell are you doing to my grandson?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Amelia smoothed the bandage in place and then stood to face the founder of Doctors International. In his prime, Luther Bainbridge would’ve been a formidable man. His once lanky physique was now stooped with age and what had been a thick mane of sable hair was thinning and white. His eyes were still a piercing green, made even larger by the black rimmed glasses that framed them. He wore a white oxford shirt beneath a dark blue suit jacket and his signature polka-dot bow tie.
Tugging off the latex glove she’d slid on to work on Donald, she held out a hand. “Dr. Bainbridge, I’m Dr. Amelia Howell.”
He smiled kindly and returned her handshake. “Yes, Dr. Howell, I remember you. You were at the training session last week.”
“Grandpa help me! I’m dying! I’ve been shot!”
Luther’s eyes widened to saucers. “My God, Donald was shot? Where? Does he need a lifeline helicopter?”
She almost snorted. “It’s a graze. The bullet nicked his arm, but he’ll be fine.” In prison, probably for the rest of his miserable drug-dealing life, but fine.
Luther’s eyes roamed the area, narrowing on each of the bodies littering the ground until they were mere slits. His mouth pinched at the litany of curse words Jody spouted as she rolled around on the ground, struggling against her bonds. “What the hell is going on here? It looks like a massacre.”
“Dr. Bainbridge, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your grandson has been using your charitable organi
zation as a front for running drugs. He’s both a buyer and a seller, distributing the products throughout the United States.” She indicated the bodies. “These men not only provided the drugs, but they were kidnappers and killers.”
“What? You can’t be serious,” Luther scoffed. He waved a hand at his whimpering grandson. “Look at him. Donald is too simple to orchestrate something to that extent. How do you know this?”
“Our bags were switched on the flight here. I didn’t notice until I arrived at the hospital. I hurried back to the airport to catch him before he left but he was in the middle of a transaction with that man.” She indicated Gustavo’s faceless corpse. “Donald handed him a briefcase of cash and the man provided him with drugs that were loaded on the plane.”
“How do you know they were illegal drugs? Maybe they were supplies. Donald takes care of ordering materials and stocking the hospitals.”
“I saw him test the product. It was white powder in baggies that he ingested through his nose.”
Luther’s face had paled, and he rubbed at his chest. Amelia hoped she wasn’t sending him into cardiac arrest. She had more to heap on him.
Suddenly his gaze sharpened. “Who are these commandos walking around looking like special ops mercenaries?”
“Friends of mine.”
Luther shook his head in disbelief. “There has to be a mistake. A misunderstanding. Despite his sometimes reckless ways, Donald’s a good boy. He’s immature, sure, but he knows right from wrong. I’m having a hard time believing the story you’re telling me, and with the man you say is the supplier dead, it’s your word against Donald’s.”
“I videotaped the transaction on my phone.”
Luther’s mouth gaped. “You have solid proof?”
“I do.”
He made a motion with his hand that she interpreted to mean, “give it to me.” His words, though hoarse, confirmed it. “I want to see your phone.”
“I don’t have it. The kidnappers confiscated it and I don’t know what happened to it.”
Luther blew a breath out his nose. “I’m not accusing you of lying, Dr. Howell, but again, it’s your word against my grandson without proof of your accusations and I’ve known him his entire life. He wouldn’t do this.”
“I have additional evidence.”
Now Luther’s skin had turned white as a sheet. “I better sit down.”
Wyatt appeared at his side. His hair was wet, and he’d washed off Gustavo’s blood and brain matter. “Sir, why don’t you follow me inside out of the sun.”
Luther nodded and leaned on his cane as he made his way to the building. Amelia grabbed Wyatt’s arm. “What about the bodies?”
“Gone,” he confirmed.
“Someone cleared the hospital. Who?”
“I’m guessing it was Gustavo and his clan when they arrived since they were lying in wait inside.”
“But the smell of decomp?”
“They must’ve buried them in shallow graves.”
Wyatt jogged to catch up with Dr. Bainbridge. He held the door for him and then opened a folding chair and placed it against a wall. Luther hobbled to it and thanked him before collapsing into it looking shellshocked. Wyatt placed one for Amelia across from him. She thanked him before taking a seat. Someone called Wyatt’s name and he excused himself. She faced Luther. He looked resigned and every one of his eighty-five or so years.
“I’m really sorry about this, Dr. Bainbridge. I wish I didn’t have to deliver the news.”
He nodded. “Let me have it. Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
“As I said, Donald and my bags got mixed up. When I realized the one in my possession wasn’t mine, I looked inside for a name, thinking that person probably had mine. In searching for a contact, I came across a notebook. It contained names, countries, the amount of product and payment details.” She fudged a bit in saying she found the notebook looking for the owner of the bag. In reality, she’d gone looking for evidence once she realized Donald was a wretched, low-life, degenerate drug dealer.
“Do you have this notebook?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Luther’s bushy white brows narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t have a physical copy.”
Now he looked agitated. “You talk in circles, Dr. Howell. Who has it?”
“I don’t know. Jody, the woman who was bound outside, told Donald that I witnessed the exchange. He had me kidnapped and tossed into a cell. The rest of the hospital staff was murdered.”
He looked aghast. “What? I was told that there was a critical situation at Manos Curativas. That’s why I’m here now. But no one said anything about murder or kidnapping or drugs.”
“It’s all true.”
With a shaky hand, Luther reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a handkerchief embroidered with his initials. He dabbed at his forehead. “If you were abducted, how did you get out?”
“With the help of two brave men, I was able to escape.” That was condensing several excruciating days of epic fear, gut-wrenching sadness remembering Father Juan, and supreme struggles into a mere twelve words.
“I’m still confused. If you don’t have the notebook and you don’t have your phone, this is all conjecture. A waste of time. As I said before, Donald’s no saint, but without proof, it’s hard to believe he’s done the things you’ve described.”
“I downloaded copies of everything on a thumb drive. I was on my way to retrieve it when you arrived.”
He didn’t disguise his exasperation. “Why didn’t you lead with that information? I’d like to see the proof.”
“Of course. I’ll go get it and be right back.”
With the help of his cane, Luther stood. “I’ll come with you.” He stopped and glanced around at the activity in the hospital. People were coming and going, men and women in military uniforms. Someone must’ve called in the Santigo Armed Forces. “This will be a public relations nightmare,” he moaned. “I’ve devoted my life to running this charity, building it from the ground up. We’re active in sixty-five countries now. Did you know that?”
She did. She’d read the information on the plane trip to Santigo. He’d built an impressive empire.
“We’re one of the largest organizations providing medical assistance to the poor and underprivileged across the globe.” He sighed heavily. “I’m not as involved as I used to be. My other grandson, Warren Junior, handles most of the day to day operations. I should call him before he hears about this from someone else.” Luther hacked out a mirthless chuckle. “Him I could see orchestrating something like this. But Donald?” He shook his head. “I need to keep the news from getting out as long as possible. We’ve a very good rapport with Santigo and all South American countries. I want to be on top of it and release a statement before the press gets wind of Donald’s deeds and everything that transpired at Manos Curativas.”
It would be a PR nightmare when the grandson of the founder was using his globally admired company to run drugs and commit murder. A thought struck and she paused. Maybe Luther was right and Donald didn’t do it. Could Warren Junior be responsible? His grandfather admitted he possessed the necessary skills to command such an enterprise. Maybe he was the brains of the operation, coercing his younger brother to do the dirty work. She flashed back to the argument in the hallway outside her hotel room. She might have this all wrong. Donald might’ve balked when Warren told him to pick up the drugs and that’s why they were fighting. Come to think of it, it was virtually impossible to believe imbecilic Donald could concoct a scheme of this scale.
She’d wait until she showed Luther the footage before she mentioned her thoughts about Warren Junior possibly being in charge. She’d already accused one grandson. No sense in denting her credibility by fingering the other one, too.
She spotted the laptop she’d used to transfer the files on a counter and grabbed it. As if drawn by a magnetic pull, her gaze found Wyatt. He was speaking with
a man in a military uniform. She recognized Santigo’s flag on his arm. He was deep in discussion and she didn’t want to bother him, so she led Luther to the sleeping quarters, studiously avoiding the patch of dried blood where Marin lost her life. While Luther took a seat on the bed, she knelt down and felt along the bottom of the wardrobe until she encountered the surgical tape. With a fingernail, she peeled a corner and the thumb drive dropped to the ground. After scooping it up, she rose and opened the lid of the laptop, placing it on the mattress between them. Once it booted, she inserted the drive and navigated to the video first. She tightened the shot and then hit play. Though there was no sound, it was obvious what was transpiring. It was exactly as she told him: Donald opened a briefcase stuffed with cash, Gustavo slit the lid on a box and handed him a small packet which he inhaled and then nodded. Then Gustavo’s men loaded several boxes into the belly of the plane. She ended the video and opened the file with the photos of Donald’s notebook pages. Names, dates, cities, amounts, it was all there in Donald’s handwriting. This was the proof Luther needed to believe her story. Now to broach the subject of Warren Junior…
“You stupid, stupid bitch.”
Amelia jerked her gaze to Luther. He no longer looked like a sweet, endearing, elderly grandfather. He looked like a stone-cold killer. The gun in his hand added to the danger.
“You ruined everything,” he hissed.
“Dr. Bainbridge—”
“Do not make another sound or I’ll shoot anyone who comes running.” He held out a hand. “Give me that thumb drive. I’m going to destroy it and there will be no way to prove any of this outrageous story, especially after I discredit you to the world. I’ll have your medical license revoked with one phone call.”
Realization dawned as Amelia tugged the flash drive from the computer and clutched it in her hand. She’d gotten this wrong on all levels. “Donald wasn’t the one who orchestrated this, was he? He was just the middleman. It’s your drug ring.”
“My idiot grandson could never engineer an operation of this magnitude. Losing the notebook proved it. I’ll take care of him…after I deal with you. Give me the flash drive.”
Without a Trace (COBRA Securities Book 18) Page 22
