After they’d been in flight close to four hours, Dallas suspected both tactics were in play. But he was tired of playing, weary of waiting for Jones to fill them in.
Not that the flight hadn’t been interesting. At this altitude, north central Argentina, from the flat planes of the Pampas, to cool grazing grounds peppered with enormous flocks of sheep and fruit and vegetable farms, to the arid desert south of the Rio Colorado, had rolled by below them like a National Geographic pictorial.
During the past hour, the planes and desert areas had slowly given way to a rolling plateau of lush green. The northern and western most edge of the Patagonia, he suspected, as a network of lakes and rivers unfolded ahead of them and eventually led to a ridge of rugged mountains in the not so far distance. Chile, he realized. They were almost to the western border of Chile. Through the pitted windshield, he could see what could only be the Andes grow closer and loom larger with each nautical mile they traveled.
He glanced at the fuel gauge. Jones had switched to the second tank close to two hours ago. The needle flickered dangerously close to the empty mark.
Dallas figured they had to be running on fumes by now. He was about to hit up the stoically silent Jones for info when he banked the Piper sharp to the left and cut speed and altitude.
Dallas glanced out the window. A small, narrow valley was carved out between the low-altitude foothills on the left and the snow-covered mountains on the right. With the ease of a pilot well experienced in flying bush country and improvised landing strips, Jones set the Piper down on a grassy stretch of ground.
“Welcome to the Patagonia,” Jones said, and taxied off the landing strip toward a copse of trees where he carefully parked the plane then cut the engines.
In the rear seat, Amy worked at the buckle on her seat belt. “So where’s the welcome committee?”
Dallas had to grin. She’d been scared shitless when she’d climbed on board, but she was back in control now.
That’s my girl. Unsinkable.
He had no ownership over the feeling of pride swelling in his chest, but it was there anyway and he didn’t have it in him to fight it. They’d have enough to fight before this was all over.
“If I did everything right,” Jones said, unbuckling, “there won’t be one.”
Jones shoved open the door and stepped out onto the wing. “Grab your gear. We’ve still got a ways to go.”
“Which is where?” Dallas asked, figuring Jones had kept them in the dark long enough.
“Soon,” he said cryptically. “You’ll know soon enough.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gabe gave them credit. They kept their mouths shut and they moved when he said move. He figured it had to be a stretch for Garrett. He was clearly a man used to being in control. Relinquishing it couldn’t be easy. Gabe respected him for that. And was counting on Garrett to be the tactical operator and experienced fighter he’d pegged him for.
The woman, hell, she’d been a surprise too. White-knuckled most of the flight, but she’d toughed it out. No bitching. No moaning. She was here on a mission, intended to complete it, and was tough enough and smart enough to accept that Gabe was the only game in town who could bring in a win for the home team.
He ducked back into the Piper, retreived his go bag and a camoflague net.
When he jumped down and started unfolding it, Garrett pitched in and together, they covered the Piper, disguising it from any low-flying aircraft that might be on the lookout for them or the plane.
He was certain Garrett had questions—starting with what the hell good the Piper was going to be to them now with two empty fuel tanks. Again, he kept them to himself and waited.
Gabe tugged a map out of his go bag and spread it out on the ground. Garrett and the woman squatted down on either side of him.
“We’re here.” Gabe pointed to an area far off any major roads and approximately seventy miles due east of El Bolson.
“El Bolson.” Garrett squinted, thoughtful. “Why does that ring bells?”
“ODESSA,” Amy supplied. “It was one of the stops on Evita Peron’s rat line. A Nazi stronghold.”
“For over sixty years,” Gabe said. “It’s also MC6’s base of operations in Argentina.”
“And Jenna—you believe that’s where they’re holding her? In El Bolson?”
Gabe shook his head, pointed to a dot on the map. “Close, but my men on the groud place her here. Leleque. It’s a hole-in-the-wall hamlet—maybe two hundred population total if you count the dogs and chickens. It’s close enough to the MC6 base that she’s within reach, but remote enough that they can keep her under wraps should someone get suspicious of an American woman in the vicinity. A loud-mouth American to boot,” he added with a grunt of disgust. “You sure you want to spring her?”
His suggestion earned him a glare from Amy. Gabe caught Garrett’s grin.
Ah, so that’s the way it is. Garrett’s got a thing for her. Gabe had suspected as much last night. Was certain of it now. Fine. Whatever. As long as it didn’t interfere with their op.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
“Barring a cake with a file in it, I guess we’ll just have to bust her out.”
“Wait, wait.” Concern darkened her eyes. “That’s our only option? She could get caught in the cross fire. Can’t someone be bought? Like the local law?”
“MC6 is the local law. It’s very hush-hush, but they own everything and everyone around here—and monetary payoffs seldom come into play. You cross them, you disappear. Or your daughter disappears. Or your son. No one ever sees them again.”
He looked at her hard. “So the answer is no. No one can be bought. Whittles the options down to slim and one. We storm the castle.”
He gave her credit. She got it. Nodded. “Then let’s go do this.”
Gabe stood, folded the map and shouldered his bag. Garrett gave him a hard look.
Nothing happens to her, it said. Loud. Clear. Absolute.
Gabe nodded. Nothing would happen to her.
Like nothing was supposed to have happened to Angelique.
He swallowed back the icy stab of pain her memory brought. He didn’t think of her these days. Wouldn’t let himself. He’d buried her memory along with her bullet-riddled body in a solitary grave one year ago. It was the best he could do for her then. At the time, he’d been half dead himself. Now, only his heart was dead. And only his quest for revenge kept the rest of him alive.
He notched his chin toward the road ahead. “Our ground transpo should be around the bend.”
“How does he arrange these things?” Gabe heard Amy ask Garrett as they hiked along behind him.
“I’m thinking friends in low places,” Garrett said.
Ain’t that the truth, Gabe thought.
Amy sat in the backseat of a seen-better-days Suburban, unenthusiastically munching on a sandwich made of baked ham and cheese—a milanesa Jones had called it.
His “friends in low places” had evidently thought of everything. They’d found the older model Suburban in a small, ramshackle building about a half mile from where they’d left the plane. In addition to the milanesas, a cooler in the back of the Suburban was well stocked with cheese, oranges, and avocados and the ever-popular Cerveza. The beer was cold and bitter but served its purpose. Even though it had been hours since the sweet roll and coffee this morning, Amy ate only because she knew she needed to refuel, not because she felt hunger.
She was too keyed up to register any physical needs. Too anxious about finding Jenna. About the confrontation to come. About the man behind the wheel. She still didn’t know what to think of him.
Jones drove like he lived. Emotionless and with deadly intent. She supposed she should be grateful for his single-minded focus. Yet there were so many things about him that gave her pause.
She thought back to the night in the alley—was it just last night—and shivered, despite the heat. Jones had killed Alejandro without the blink of an eye—without
an iota of remorse. Is that what happened? she wondered. After so many kills—and she suspected Jones had had many—did the act of taking a life become so rote, so mechanical, that guilt or repentance no longer factored in?
And what of Dallas? He was a warrior, too. She had no doubt he’d killed and killed often. In the name of good versus evil. In the name of freedom and protecting a way of life. He’d killed for her. In the jungle on Jolo, he’d taken more than one life to save her and Darcy. Were those kills the source of his nightmares—like the damage done to her and to her mother was the source of hers?
Someday, would she too, dream of the man she had killed? Would she agonize over taking a life? Of the life she intended to take?
Or would she become like Jones, stagnant of emotions or remorse or even grief?
She breathed deep, watched out the window as the terrain flew by. Grasses, dandelions and daisies tangled together on the long valley floor on either side of the dirt road. Orange-and-white butterflies and ping-pong-ball–sized bees flitted in the sun. Pink cone-shaped flowers topped long green stems and waved in the wind near a river bank that ran parallel to the road. Beyond, snowy mountains and dark bosque hills lorded over the valley while small birds flitted from tree to tree.
According to the map, the river flowed into a large lake, where glaciers glittered in the mountains above. This part of Argentina reminded her very much Montana. Beautiful. Peaceful. Serene. She’d spent a week hiking in Glacier Park—six, maybe seven years ago? Today it seemed like a lifetime ago.
Soon they would raid a village jail. With guns drawn. Someone could die. She could kill again.
If not tonight, then when she found him. She intended to make him pay. Her grandfather would pay with his life for what he had done to her mother and to her.
Braced by that goal to sustain her, Amy turned to the task at hand…and away from that long-ago life, understanding that circumstances other than distance had transported her as far away from home as she’d ever been.
Near dusk, same day, Leleque, in the Argentinean Patagonia
“Why, thank you,” Jenna murmured with no attempt to hide her sarcasm when the guard slid her “dinner” tray under the cell door. “This gruel looks absolutely divine—although I could have sworn I ordered the low-carb entree.”
He grunted, not amused, then shuffled off without a word.
“Back atcha,” she grumbled, then thought better of her surly routine and tried another tack. Scorn hadn’t worked so far, maybe it was time to give sweetness and light a try. “Hey. Wait a minute.”
He stopped. Turned with a dark scowl.
She flashed her wanna be my bestest friend smile. “What’s your name?”
Another grunt.
Screw it. So much for charming him.
“Fine. Let’s just call you Fido.”
Her jailer had a flat face, dark pocked skin, rounded shoulders and the intelligence of a centipede.
And she was dependent on him for her existence.
Somehow that was even scarier than the unknowns.
Nothing, however, was as frightening as when the door crashed open half an hour later.
Three men with dark complexions and monster rifles stood before her cell door.
She did her damnedest not to cower, but clearly, it wasn’t Avon calling.
The tall one had a jagged scar that ran from his jaw to the corner of his eye. He motioned with the business end of a gun that looked like every rifle every terrorist in every war-torn corner of the globe so cottoned to. “Up.”
“Um, actually,” she looked up at Scarface through wide eyes and tried to steady the kettledrum beat of her heart. “I’m fine. Really. I think I’ll just sit this one out. Unless, of course, you’re from the U.S. Embassy?”
Her little joke was met with stone silence.
“No. I didn’t think so.”
Gunman number two was built short and lean, like a hungry boxer. He yelled something toward the other room. Fido eventually appeared, rattling a set of keys and suddenly the filthy cell felt like home sweet home.
The cell door swung open. The end of Scarface’s rifle swung toward her. And the look on his face said he wasn’t going to take any lip or lagging on her part.
Jenna stood. “I can get money,” she said, dropping any pretense of bravado. She was in seriously deep weeds here. And because of her habit—stupid habit—of infrequent check-ins with her editor, no one back in the States would have a moment of concern if a week or so went by and she didn’t contact them.
Amy was the only one who would miss her. And Amy, she suspected, had her own problems. Jenna had had a lot of time to think about Amy while waiting in this cell. Had she made it to Buenos Aries? Was she, at this moment, searching for her? Or had Amy been snatched off the streets too, stuffed in the back of a van and thrown in a jail similar to this one?
What in the hell had they gotten themselves into? Jenna had gone looking for a story about a war criminal. And it seemed she’d landed in the middle of a cloak-and-dagger movie that would give The Bourne Identity a run for its money.
She couldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t think about Amy. She had to figure out a way to get herself out of this fix. And she had to do it now.
“I have connections,” she informed Scarface, who seemed to be the leader of this little pack of miscreants. “I have big connections in the States. Whatever you want, I can get it.”
Clearly, they could give a rip.
The third man joined her in the cell. He had a Rambo thing going on. He was short and heavily built; bare biceps bulged like softballs beneath the ripped armholes of a mud-brown t-shirt; the thighs beneath worn cargo pants were as thick as tree trunks. He’d caught his black hair at the nape letting the rest trail like a rope halfway down his back.
Scarface, Boxer, and Rambo. She couldn’t have gotten Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod? she wondered with a desperate kind of hysteria. Moe, Larry, and Curly? The Three Amigos?
Rambo tugged a length of rope out of his hip pocket, handed his rifle to Boxer and grabbed her wrist.
Instinct had her jerking away. She stumbled, would have fallen if she hadn’t run into the wall. Rambo was on her like a cobra after a mongoose. He backhanded her hard across her face. Her head snapped sideways. Pain, sharp, stinging, bell ringing, exploded in her head and she went down on all fours.
She lifted a hand to protect herself only to have him grab it, loop the rope around her wrist and jerk her to her knees.
She’d like to think it was clear thinking that kept her from fighting him. There were three of them plus the guard. Her chances of getting away were roughly the same as peace breaking out in the Middle East. But the truth was, she was so shocked—by the violence, by the pain, by the taste of her own blood—that she couldn’t react with anything but submission.
She didn’t fight him when Rambo caught her other arm and tied her wrists together in front of her. Didn’t resist when he grabbed her by her hair and jerked her to her feet.
Swallowing back a cry of pain, she recited every prayer she knew, then made up some she didn’t when she saw the flash of a blade, then felt the sharp prick of its tip bite into her neck, just below her ear.
The moon had just slid above the taller peaks of the distant Andes when Jones pulled off the narrow road and tucked the Suburban behind a rock outcropping.
Dallas watched Amy as they all geared up, a sense of urgency cocooning them all in grim silence. Damn, she was something as she strapped a black nylon belt and holster with her loaded Glock around her waist. She double-checked her extra magazines, tucked them into her front pocket then strapped the KA-BAR onto her ankle like she could do it in her sleep. He wondered how many times she’d done just that in the past six months.
Someone had trained her well. Still, he had a hard time envisioning her using either weapon. A hard time seeing her pump lead into another human body—bad guy or not.
And yet he knew that she had.
She�
�d killed the MC6 assassin. And other than that one subdued admission, she hadn’t said another word about it. He understood.
He wondered if the reality had even set in for her yet. If she’d blocked it. Or if she’d been second-guessing herself, replaying the scene in her mind, questioning if there had been another way.
Yeah. He’d played all those head games. Over and over again. And it always came down to one thing: life or death. And life won out every time.
Still, taking a life—even in self-defense—took its toll. Living with the aftermath was never easy. And living with the knowledge that he’d led good men to their death…
And there it was again. A vivid, violent flashback to the mountainside in Afghanistan. The blood. The pain of snow and frozen ice on his face, the hole in his gut. The terrorized cries of his men.
He shook his head. Fought to stow it away. Ignored the pounding of his heart, the sweat trickling down his back.
This was no time. This was no place to wander back into that abyss.
Amy. Depended. On. Him.
Aware of her quiet, methodical actions beside him, Dallas settled himself, then dry fired an M-4 Jones had dug out of the back of the Suburban to get a feel for the trigger action. The automatic rifle felt comfortable in his hands. Had always been a good fit for him. Grim faced, he loaded a thirty-round magazine with 5.56 × 45 mm cartridges, all the while wishing there was someway to keep Amy out of the mix on this one.
Fifteen minutes and a quarter of a mile later, the best he’d been able to accomplish was to make certain Jones delegated the driving duties to her. Her orders were to stay with the Suburban. Wait for them to contact her.
When Dallas and Jones set out on foot, Amy had been sitting behind the wheel, a headset plugged into a no-frills two-way radio tuned to channel five. The plan was for her to play Bonnie to his Clyde and wait in the dark for Dallas’ cue to pick them up.
Jones led the way through the dark back streets—obviously in his element. He pointed to a dingy gray cinder block building dead ahead. Their target. It sat amid weeds and dust with little else for landscaping, one block off the main street, which consisted of several cantinas, a gas station and a small provisions store. Jones had filled Dallas in as they’d geared up.
Cindy Gerard - [Bodyguards 06] Page 14
