Cindy Gerard - [Bodyguards 06]

by Into the Dark

  “Doubles as the city hall and the local jail. The kind of jail where the usual suspects are declared guilty without trial. Where the cell doors are locked and the keys are lost. Innocent until proven guilty is as foreign a concept down here as minimum wage.”

  The building dimensions were as unimpressive as the landscaping and paint job. Twenty by twenty, square. One story. Metal bars on all windows.

  “Typically there’s one night jailer, armed but old and slow,” Jones told Dallas as they neared the target. “Three cells, northwest corner. Interior walls also cement block.

  “How do you see this coming down?” Jones asked quietly, surprising Dallas as they plastered themselves against the night shadows of the wall of an adjacent building.

  “Straight up snatch and grab,” Dallas said without hesitation. “Crash in, guns drawn, catch him off guard, grab her and dash. No need to stay and play.”

  “Works for me.” Jones peeled away from the building. “Provided there aren’t other players on the court.”

  Dallas reconned the street as they crept along close to exterior walls still holding heat from the summer sun. It was dead quiet. Not even a stray dog wandered the narrow streets. One battered, older model brown sedan sat at the corner of the block. Empty.

  Tire treads in the powdery dirt road suggested the car hadn’t been parked there all that long.

  Could be the jailor’s ride. Could be “visitors.” Which meant they could be walking into a nest of vermin. It was a chance they had to take. Jones knew it as well as Dallas.

  With Jones on point and Dallas guarding his flank, Dallas spoke softly into his head mike. “We’re about to go in.” He’d previously radioed Amy directions to the jail. “Come in quiet and be ready to punch it.”

  “Be careful.” Amy’s voice was steady but concerned.

  “Same goes,” he said, and ended the transmission.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They reached the front door of the jail. Jones stacked up on the left, Dallas on the right. At Jones’ signal, Dallas burst in the door, dropped to one knee, the butt of the M-4 pressed against his shoulder, his cheek against the stock, the jailer dead center in his sights.

  Jones moved in behind him, his M-14 also in firing position and kicked the door shut.

  “¿Estàs solo?” Are you alone? Jones demanded, pressing the business end of his rifle in the jailer’s ear.

  “S…Sí,” he stammered, stunned and obviously scared shitless. “Solo.” Alone.

  “La mujer americana. ¿Dónde està?” The American woman. Where is she?

  The stricken jailor sat behind a banged-up metal desk, his hands raised on either side of his head. “No sé de lo que vos hablàs.” I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Jones cut him a hard look then walked past the desk and through a door that Dallas assumed led to the cells.

  He came back less than fifteen seconds later.

  “She’s not here.”

  “Shit. We’ve got the wrong place?”

  “Right place. Wrong time. They’ve moved her.”

  With the M-14 suspended by a shoulder strap and riding his back, Jones grabbed the jailer’s shirt front and hiked him out of his chair. “Dígame. ¿A dónde la llevaron?” Tell me. Where did they take her?

  The jailor’s eyes were wild with terror. “No sé No sé nada.” I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

  He was lying. Dallas was certain of it. Evidently, so was Jones.

  “Look, Paco.” Jones shoved the man back down in the creaking chair, loomed over him. “I’m only going to ask you one more time.”

  “¡No hablo inglés!” I don’t speak English!

  “That a fact?” Jones picked up a dog-eared Louis L’Amour paperback that lay open, facedown on the desk. An English version. He fired it at the man’s chest.

  Then he got right in the guy’s face. “Let’s try this again, okay? You want to live to finish the book? Tell me where she is.”

  For added incentive, he slipped the Butterfly out of its sheath, flipped the blade open and held it to the man’s throat. “This is the part where you get to tell me something I want to hear.”

  “The mountains,” he croaked, his eyes as big as dinner plates at the prospect of possibly getting his throat slit.

  Jones jerked him to his feet again and walked him over to a wall where a map of the area was tacked on a bulletin board. “Show me.”

  “Here.” The jailor pointed with a trembling finger. “Maybe here,” he added indicating a spot a few miles away.

  “How many men?”

  “Tres…th…three,” he stammered. “Only three.”

  “And how many more when we find them?”

  He shook his head. “This I do not know.”

  “How long has it been since they took her?” Dallas asked, hearing the low rumble of a vehicle pull up out front.

  With the M-4 still trained on the jailer, he walked backward toward a low window, peeked outside. The Suburban rolled into view, stopped in front of the jail.

  “Una hora. One hour,” the terrified man said. “Maybe less.”

  Jones walked the jailor back to the desk. Shoved him down into the chair. “You know what they will do to you if they find out you ratted on them, yes?”

  The jailer gave a tight, nervous nod, knowing he was as good as dead if he confessed to his “compadres” that he’d given up their location.

  Jones pressed the Butterfly into the loose skin under the man’s soft jaw until he drew blood. “Triple it if I ever find out you told them we were here. ¿Entiende?”

  “Sí. Yes! Yes! I understand. You were never here.”

  Jones backed away, closed and sheathed the Butterfly.

  “The banditos, they’re hung in the end,” he said, notching his chin toward the book that had landed on the floor by the desk. “Opps. Sorry. Guess I spoiled that ending.”

  And then he walked out the door. Dallas covered him, then followed him outside and jumped into the Suburban.

  “Punch it, Martha,” Jones said slumping down in the backseat.

  Amy punched it.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jones had her cut the headlights. Five minutes after that, they parked and headed for the hills on foot, packing an arsenal of ordinance and tech toys that would have made a recon team jump for joy.

  Erich picked up his phone on the second ring. Dispensed with formalities. He was expecting to hear from only one person this time of night. “It’s done?”

  “Sí. La mujer—”

  “How many times,” Erich cut the man off crossly, “have I told you? English. Speak English.”

  A surly silence followed before Perez got control of himself. “Apologies—sir. The woman, she has been moved.”

  “Base Two?”

  “Yes. As you requested.”

  “Eyes open, Manuel. Keep your eyes open. Do not get caught with your pants down. I’ll be in touch with further instructions.”

  Erich disconnected. Sat back in his desk chair. And resisted the urge to throw something.

  Alejandro was dead. He’d received this news only two hours ago.

  “Dead? When? How?” he’d asked when Ramone’ had called on the secure line from Buenos Aires.

  He’d been knifed in the same alley where Alejandro was to have intercepted the Walker woman last night and eliminate her and the problem she created.

  “And the woman?”

  The terror in Ramone’s voice had been palpable when he’d confessed that one of his men on the ground had found her then lost her early this morning.

  Yes. She was proving to be very resourceful, Erich thought, and withdrew one of his special blends of Cuban cigars from a tightly sealed box. Maybe too resourceful for a woman and a man in a strange country. Too resourceful, perhaps, for them to be managing to evade his men on their own?

  More even than the fact that Walker and Garrett had managed to escape Alejandro’s special brand of elimination, it was the method that had been
used to kill him that disturbed him.

  Knifed.

  For many men in this part of the world, the knife was the instrument of choice. Alejandro was one of those men. He was also one of the best with a blade. Erich highly doubted that the American, Garrett—and surely not the woman—would be any match against him. In fact, Erich knew of only one man who could beat Alejandro at his own game.

  He stood, walked to the liquor cabinet. Poured a civilized finger of brandy. Took his time lighting the Cuban. Indulging in both, he returned to his desk. Sat. Contemplated. Checked the time. Almost midnight.

  He picked up the phone.

  “Find out who’s helping them,” he said without preamble. “Start with the Archangel.”

  “Jones? But all of our reports say he died in Columbia.”

  Erich had always made it a point to keep apprised of Gabriel Jones’ whereabouts and activities. He made it a point to keep apprised of all of his enemies. And while he’d applauded the reports of Jones’ death, he’d never fully believed them. Jones was like a ghost. He could materialize out of thin air at will. And Erich’s trust in his “intelligence” network was always in question.

  “Look for Jones,” he repeated and hung up.

  Jenna huddled into herself, shivering on the dew damp grass, and pretended to be unconsciousness. It wasn’t too much of a stretch. Her head pounded. Her mind was tripping on terror overload. It was tempting as hell to just let the darkness take her. Again.

  But she fought it. Fought the memory of Scarface, Boxer and Rambo dragging her out of the jail by her hair and dumping her into the bed of a pickup truck.

  She’d had to scramble to keep up with them, bite back a cry when she bumped her hip, hard, on the doorframe as they led her outside.

  She’d always thought she was one tough cookie. Thought she could hold her own in the worst situation. Thought that she had been in the worst situation when she’d been stuck in that stinking jail cell.

  Only the worst situation scenario of worst situation scenarios had gotten even worse.

  It had taken everything in her not to cry out in sheer terror when Boxer had come toward her with a hood.

  In the end, she’d pleaded, shaking her head as a hot trail of tears leaked down her cheeks. “Please…don’t.”

  “Silencio.” He’d growled. Then just for kicks, he’d hit her again.

  Her ears were still ringing when he jerked the hood down over her head then dumped her into the back of a rusted-out pickup. Through her pain and fear, she’d recognized the sound of a tailgate slamming shut.

  Felt the give and sway of the truck bounce, heard one door slam shut then the other and the engine grumble to a start. Whoever was driving had shifted into gear and shot out onto the road so fast, the forward motion had sent her rolling backwards.

  The last thing she remembered was a sharp, booming pain as her head hit hard against the tailgate. Then there was nothing but darkness.

  And now there was nothing but here.

  Wherever here was.

  Ignoring the pain in her head, the swelling inside her mouth, she opened her eyes a slit. Gave them time to focus and adjust to a darkness cut only by a quarter moon hanging high overhead and a low flickering flame of a fire.

  A campfire, she realized at the same time she realized there were several men either sitting or lounging around the fire, passing around a bottle.

  Rambo was grumbling. Her Spanish wasn’t the best, but she picked up a few things. Like the fact that he was pissed. Something about the damn German. Thought he was so superior. Tried to tell him how to do his job. And for the money he paid, he should be happy he even showed up when he called.

  Then she heard the word woman. And the talk turned really ugly then.

  Oh, God. She shrank tighter into herself as she listened to the things they wanted to do to her. Despite the German’s orders to keep their hands off of her.

  Low, mean laughter punctuated a lewd gesture and the bottle made another round.

  Fido suddenly seemed like a prince among men, the filthy jail like the Ritz.

  And the life she’d known became infinitely sweeter.

  She wouldn’t make it easy for them. She decided that right then. She knew she didn’t stand a chance, but she’d fight them with everything in her.

  She’d fight them, and somehow, she would survive.

  The friendly speculation turned predatory as a growling discussion of who was going to have the first go at her broke out.

  That’s right, you bastards. Get greedy about it. Knock each other around. Hell, yeah. Whip out those knives. Use them on each other and leave me the hell alone.

  But the most the bickering was going to give her was a reprieve. Jenna knew that. Just like she knew that if she survived what was surely going to be the longest night of her life, she would not be the same woman who had come to Argentina in search of a story.

  “Paid thugs.”

  Amy heard Jones talk in a low, quiet voice beside her as they lay on their bellies, twenty yards away from a campfire surrounded by a dozen men, swilling from a bottle and arguing over the spoils of war.

  Amy could see Jenna through the night-vision goggles Jones had passed to her. Jenna was huddled into herself, lying on the ground a few yards away from the men who were drinking around a campfire.

  Fear for Jenna outdistanced the relief at finding her alive. Amy’s heart broke for her. She felt Jenna’s terror in every pore of her body. Experienced her revulsion with every heartbeat. And against all efforts not to, she relived those first few times on Jolo. The beatings. The rapes. The degradation of being reduced to something less than human.

  Dallas’ hand on her arm was meant to steady her. It startled her instead. She flinched involuntarily, scrabbled to the side only to bump run into the bulk of Jones’ big body where he flanked her on the other side.

  “Easy.” Dallas’ eyes were pinched with concern as he watched her.

  “Sorry. I’m okay,” she whispered. Collected herself. Nodded. “I’m okay.”

  She eased away from Jones, aware of his gaze on her—curious, thoughtful, before it shifted to Dallas. Beside her, Dallas nodded, reassuring Jones that all was well.

  “What the hell are they doing out here?” Dallas asked picking up the thread of the conversation. “Looks like a permanent camp.”

  Amy lifted the NVGs again, realized he was right. A large canvas tarp had been fashioned into a roof for a lean-to, bolstered by a rock wall to the back and supported by wooden posts in the front. Looked like everything from ammo to food to communications equipment, bedrolls and dry firewood were stored there.

  The fire pit, five or six feet in diameter, had been built of rocks. Layers of ashes drifted around its base, the sign of many fires. A separate pit, several yards away, was equally well used and equipped with cast-iron cooking pots. Amy could even smell the remains of what was most likely the evening meal. Lines had been strung between conifer trees. Clothing, blankets, even boots hung from the rope, the weight bowing the line almost to the ground.

  “Just another band of local banditos,” Jones said dryly. “Petty thieves, drug runner types. Scum like Alejandro, bought for little more than the price of the bottle they’re passing around.”

  “Paid for by MC6?” Amy asked, handing the NVGs back to Dallas.

  Jones slanted her a look. “Give the lady a Kewpie doll. They’re pretty much the only game in town.”

  “Why’d they move her from the jail? I don’t get it.”

  “They must have found Alejandro’s body,” Dallas speculated aloud.

  “That’s the way I figure it,” Jones said. “And now they’re doubly pissed. First you kill their programmed assassin, then you take out their go-to gun in Buenos Aires—at least, they’re figuring it was you.”

  “My bet,” Dallas speculated aloud, “is they aren’t only pissed, their starting to sweat a little about now. Have to figure we’ll show up here sooner or later. Moving Jenna deeper into their t
erritory moves us deeper into their kill zone.”

  Jones grunted his agreement. “Where they have to figure sheer numbers are going to play in their favor.”

  “Can’t fault that logic,” Amy said fatalistically, and took one last look at the twelve men who were growing increasingly vocal and restless by the fire.

  They all looked rough and lean. Hungry lean, mean lean. AKs lay by their sides; some wore vests, their pockets bulging with grenades. Many wore ankle sheaths.

  “What we can fault is their stupidity.” Jones started belly crawling backwards down the slope and away from the campsite. “We’ve got surprise on our side.”

  Amy followed Jones with Dallas protecting their flank. They regrouped in a hollow carved out by a cliff face.

  “They have no way of knowing that you’re aware of the location of the MC6 compound.” Jones fished in his pocket for a piece of paper.

  “Pardon me for pointing out the obvious,” Dallas said, “but you haven’t pinpointed that little piece of information for us yet.”

  Jones’ teeth gleamed white in the moonlight. “All in due time. The point is, they might figure you’re coming…but we’re ahead of the curve. They have no clue that you’re already here.”

  “And I’m betting they’re still thinking it’s just the two of us,” Dallas said.

  “They’ll connect the dots eventually, but you’re right. Two Americanos in uncharted territory wouldn’t appear to stand much of a chance against the nice gentlemen with the big guns.

  “Got your flashlight?” Jones asked abruptly.

  Amy dug it out of her pocket, shined it on the paper Jones spread out on the ground.

  He quickly drew a map of the site, marked the location of the twelve men around the fire and Jenna’s location to the back and left. “We’ll hit them from the knoll, here.”

  He Xed the spot where they’d just done their recon.

  “Figure we can take half of them out before the others even know they’ve got company. From the outside in, these are my targets,” Jones said, slicing an X over the three marks representing the men on the right. “Garrett, you take the three on the left.”