by Dee Davis
“That was really something,” he said, his face red with excitement. “Really something.”
She smiled and searched for something meaningful to say, but was saved from the exercise by the ring of her cell. Reaching into the Suburban, she grabbed the phone and flipped it open.
“Waters.”
“Hey, Sam.” Raymond Seaver’s voice held a hint of laughter and rebuke. “I thought you were on your way back to Atlanta.”
“Sort of got sidetracked.” She frowned into the phone.
“So I hear.”
News traveled fast, but there was no way Seaver had called just to talk about her latest escapade. Her boss was too focused for that. “What’s up?”
“Got a call from a guy named Cullen Pulaski.” There was a pause as Seaver waited for the information to sink in.
“The industrialist?” Sam shivered in anticipation. Something big was coming down.
“Yeah. There’s been a bombing in San Antonio. Senator Ruckland and two of his colleagues were killed.” Again he paused for impact.
“So?” she urged, trying to contain her impatience.
“So,” Seaver drawled, “there’s some kind of task force. Last Chance something-or-other. Best of the best sort of thing. And Pulaski wants you.”
SWEAT DRIPPED DOWN Payton Reynolds’s neck, pooling at the small of his back, his shirt sticking to him like a second skin. The hovel he currently called home was nothing more than a lean-to amidst the squalor of the Peruvian mountain jungle, the loam floor a pungent reminder that the usual occupants of the structure were sheep.
Still, it was better than sitting out in the pouring rain. A little better. He swiped at a mosquito and pulled the lantern closer to the map he was studying. According to his calculations, he was about a quarter mile from his objective.
Aimil Cortez was wanted in six countries, the combined price on his head enough to make someone a very wealthy man. Unfortunately, not Payton. His mission was to take the man out and then disappear as quietly as he’d come. By the time Cortez’s body was discovered, Payton would be long gone. And the world would be a safer place. Or at least a little less repulsive.
He checked his rifle, a.50-caliber high-powered Beretta, designed to hit just about anything, but particularly useful when hunting slime. Once assured that everything was ready, Payton adjusted his pack and stepped out into the humid night air. The rain had abated slightly, turning to a fine mist, the kind one found in a sweat lodge or a sauna. Except that there was no escape when it became too cloying.
Between the moisture and the vegetation, movement was limited, but Payton had already cleared a pathway with his machete earlier in the day. He moved now with the stealth of years of training, his mind completely centered on the task at hand.
He’d been hunting Cortez for almost three months now. The man kept fading into the jungle like a fucking ghost. But perseverance always paid off, and now Payton was about to close the deal. It had been a while since he’d killed on orders, but the drug war was fought on amoral ground. And at the moment, the dark forces were winning the day, governments like the United States more interested in fighting the enemies they could see—and use as a sound bite. Which left the dirty work to operatives like Payton.
He pushed through the last of the overgrowth, stepping into a clearing. Even without the rain it would have been a moonless night, but with the clouds and precipitation, it was almost pitch black. Just the way Payton liked it.
He stopped, crouching behind a stand of feather grass and pulled out his night vision binoculars, scanning the building directly ahead, an acting gatehouse of sorts. If things were running true to form, the watchmen were in the back drinking and playing cards.
Out in the middle of the jungle there really wasn’t all that much to guard against, and Payton had spent the past couple of days watching for patterns. All he had to do was wait for the man on rounds to head into the bunkhouse, then make for the fallen tree about fifty yards away.
As if on cue, the man arrived at the door, calling out to his compadres as he holstered his machine gun. Clutching his rifle, Payton ran toward the tree, crouching low to avoid detection. He waited one beat and then another, and when everything remained quiet, pulled up into the tree, climbing along its massive trunk like a spider.
With the added height, it didn’t take much for Payton to vault over the stone enclosure, and he landed silently in the soft dirt of the Peruvian compound. Lights glowed to his right, marking the bunkhouse. More, twinkling to his left, indicated the location of the house guards. All he had to do was make a beeline between the two toward the darkened windows of the bougainvillea-laden hacienda.
The whole thing took about two minutes, which meant Payton had about five more before the guard reemerged to continue his rounds. Staying low and sticking to the shadows, he crossed the courtyard and slid into the deeper gloom cast by the U-shaped walls of the building.
Sliding a climber’s rope from his pocket, he tossed it in the air, satisfied when it lodged around a balcony railing just above his head. In seconds, he was up and over the railing, dropping down onto the cement floor almost soundlessly. After checking to make certain that the room behind him was empty, he turned his sights on the wing across the courtyard.
Cortez’s room was directly opposite. Light spilled from the open window, the gauzy curtains lifting languidly in the water-saturated breeze. Payton waited, counting the seconds, and then released a breath as Cortez appeared through the window, crossing back and forth as he made preparations for bed.
It only took a moment to sight the gun and then Payton waited for the moving figure to hit center at the open window. One pass, two and then a third, before the man stopped to stare out into the night. With a quiet hiss, the bullet was instantly on its way, the only sign it had hit target a brief fluttering of the curtains as it passed, and a muffled thud as the body fell.
Holstering the rifle, Payton shimmied back to the ground, and moved swiftly back across the courtyard toward the fence, his mind centered now on escape. A cry from inside the house signaled his luck was almost out, and he broke into a run. Lights flashed on behind him, spilling out across the manicured lawn that stretched between the compound and its enclosure.
Dodging between bushes, he hit the fence running and was up and over in a matter of seconds, landing hard on the other side. Voices were filling the night now, trying to make order out of chaos.
Payton rounded the corner, heading back for the sanctuary of the jungle, the rain falling in earnest again, muffling the sound of his movements. He was just passing the feather grass when someone hit him hard in the small of the back. Reacting from instinct, he rolled and managed to move clear of the man, reaching for the knife in his boot, but before he could pull it free, Cortez’s man hit him again.
Payton stumbled back a step, and then cut forward, surprising his assailant and connecting with the man’s chin. Following up with a fist to the stomach, Payton succeeded in bringing the South American to his knees, and then, taking advantage of the opening, he grabbed the knife, moving in for the kill. But it seemed the guard had friends, and they were closing in, weapons at the ready.
Payton scanned the crowd, weighing his options, refusing to accept the fact that he was outgunned. Using the fallen man as a shield, he began to edge back toward the jungle. If he could just make his way there, he might have a chance.
Unfortunately the men with guns didn’t think much of their compadre. A pock-marked man with a gold tooth and braided hair lifted his rifle, the intent clear. Payton pushed his hostage forward, sidestepping the body as the bullet ripped through the startled guard. The man fell, clutching his chest, his surprise almost comical. Except that Gold Tooth was now aiming at Payton.
Accepting defeat, or at least living with it for the moment, Payton dropped the knife, holding his hands out, palms downward, in what he hoped looked like a gesture of supplication. Not that he’d ever give up without a fight.
With a sm
ile for the assembled South Americans, he fingered the grenade hidden in his hand. It was more than enough to blow the whole lot of them to kingdom come and back. The only downside being that he’d be a casualty as well. Still, he figured it was better than letting them take him prisoner. And it wasn’t as if he had anything else particularly important to do. Still grinning, he shrugged, and was just going to throw the thing, when a shot from above took out Gold Tooth.
The others spun to look for the unseen enemy, shooting blindly into the night. Payton took the opportunity and shot off toward the jungle, but not before one of Cortez’s men grabbed him by the foot.
The sound of rotors broke the night, the tall grass bending perpendicular in the manufactured breeze. The chopper appeared suddenly out of the mist like some sort of fiery bird from hell, the telltale tracers from gunfire spitting out of its yawning black maw.
Payton shook off the man and stumbled to his feet, already reaching for the rope ladder dropping from the side of the bird. A bullet whizzed by his ear, and then another, adrenaline surging as he sprinted forward, his hand closing on a white nylon rung.
The gunfire, combined with the chopper blades, was deafening, and the vibrations coming off the rotors almost shook him off the ladder. But he held his ground as the big bird pulled up into the sky, and when he was certain they were clear, he lobbed the grenade at Cortez’s men—a parting gift they’d never forget—or remember.
He climbed the remaining few rungs of the ladder and accepted the offered hand into the chopper, flopping aboard like the striped bass he’d caught once as a kid. Wherever he was going, it was a damn sight better than where he’d just been.
He sat up, wiped some blood from the corner of his mouth and turned to face his rescuer, his words of thanks dying at the sight of Cullen Pulaski sitting in the jump seat.
He might have been rescued from the devil, but he was still in hell.
CHAPTER TWO
“WHAT THE HELL were you doing out there?” Payton growled, leaning back against the leather seat of Cullen’s private jet. He had washed off the bulk of the blood and grime, even changed into a clean shirt and khakis, but that didn’t change the fact that he was bone-tired. The kind that even sleep couldn’t completely erase. “That was supposed to have been a classified operation.”
“Nothing is really classified, Payton. You should know that by now,” Cullen said, his gaze assessing. “Besides, you looked as if you needed a friend.”
“Don’t think I’m not grateful. Although I’d have found a way out if I’d had to.”
“Apparently taking half of Peru with you.” Cullen shot a glance out the window, as if he could still see the explosion in the jungle.
“I was doing what needed to be done. It’s as simple as that. The key objective was accomplishing the mission. Anything after that is icing on the cake.”
“Apparently I value your life more than you do,” Cullen said, his expression masked.
“Or you value my skills. It’s not the same thing, you know,” Payton said. “So I’m guessing something’s happened, right? Something you’re convinced only Last Chance can deal with?”
“Three senators were killed in a bomb blast at a hotel in San Antonio.” Cullen as always cut right to the chase. “Although no one is claiming responsibility, we can’t rule out the possibility of terrorism.”
“Which is why we have homeland security.” Payton took a glass of whiskey off the tray of a passing steward, thinking he could get used to this kind of opulence.
“This is bigger than that. Joe Ruckland is the highest-ranking Democrat in the country. Keith is a ranking member of his party as well. And Dawson sits on appropriations. There’s more to it than just a random hit, and the White House wants Last Chance to investigate.”
Payton had given up trying to understand the workings of the political mind ages ago, and he wasn’t about to bother with it now. Better to just accept the facts and move on to the matter at hand. “Where’s Gabe?”
When Gabriel Roarke wasn’t heading up Last Chance, he worked counterterrorism for the CIA. Payton and Gabe went way back, making him the closest thing Payton had to family. In his business he couldn’t afford attachments, but sometimes they came just the same.
“He’s flying in from an operation in California. Something to do with a DOD leak. I didn’t ask.” Cullen’s shrug was forced, but his expression remained blank.
Payton suppressed a smile. Evidently, not everything was accessible to the great Cullen Pulaski. “What about the rest of the team?”
“I’ve already briefed Harrison. Since he’s based in Austin, I’ve asked him to supervise setting up shop at Dreamscape’s offices there.”
Cullen’s corporation had divisions all over the U.S., which came in handy when it was time to set up an operations center. Last Chance had already based out of New York and San Diego. Austin would just be par for the course. And Harrison was more than up to the job of making their newest headquarters state of the art.
Harrison Blake spent the bulk of his career working for a computer forensics company called Phoenix, but he was also an indispensable part of Last Chance. His abilities with megabytes and cyberspace had saved their asses more than once, and Payton, for one, couldn’t imagine the team without him.
“How about Madison?” Payton sipped the whiskey, eyeing Cullen over the rim of the glass. “Can she fly?”
The mask evaporated in an instant, Cullen’s face coming alive with emotion. “I was totally against the idea, but she got her doctor’s okay, which didn’t leave me much room to argue.”
Madison Roarke was Cullen’s goddaughter and Gabriel’s wife, and she was six months pregnant. She was also an FBI profiler with an uncanny knack for seeing the world through the eyes of vermin, and when push came to shove, she wasn’t the kind to miss out on an operation.
“What does Gabe have to say about it?” Payton’s heart lightened as his mind moved away from Peruvian drug czars to thoughts of his friends.
“Gabriel doesn’t know. I figured it was better to let Madison deal with him.” Cullen’s smile was mischievous, with a hint of regret thrown in for good measure.
Gabe was the overprotective type, which meant the sparks between him and Madison were often more than merely romantic. Still, Payton recognized that the two of them shared something really special—something he’d sure as hell never have again—and being part of their “family” was something he cherished.
“So we’re on the way to Austin, too, I take it.” It wasn’t really a question, but Cullen frowned and sat forward, sending alarm bells clanging in Payton’s head.
“Actually, I’m on the way to Austin. You’re heading for San Antonio and the bomb site.”
Payton nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “I guess that makes sense.” He’d had his share of field experience with ordnance. Certainly more than anyone else on the team. But that didn’t make him an expert, and Cullen was a stickler for using only the best. There had to be something more.
“I’ve asked an ATF Explosives Enforcement Officer to join our team.”
The use of the word “our” grated on Payton. Cullen enjoyed pretending to be part of the action, but with the exception of throwing around his political weight and his money, he really wasn’t much of a player.
“Seems like a good move.” Payton frowned. “So why do you need me there?”
“She’s an unknown quantity. Her record is impeccable, but I’d feel better if someone I trust is on the scene as well.”
“Her?” Payton ignored the last part of Cullen’s little speech. Trust was the last thing the two of them shared.
“Samantha Waters. She’s supposed to be a hotshot. Youngest EEO in the history of the division, and she’s had experience with large-scale explosions.”
“Doesn’t sound like she needs babysitting to me.” Payton sat back, curious to hear Cullen’s logic.
“I didn’t say I wanted you to babysit.” He paused, staring at his hands.
“I just want a second pair of eyes. I don’t know this woman.”
“But you know me?” Payton waited for the older man to lift his gaze.
“I know enough.” Cullen raised his head, his eyes clear and steady. “Most importantly, I know you can handle the job with the discretion necessary. I’ve been led to believe Samantha Waters is something less than a team player.”
“Then why ask her to be a part of this?”
“Because she’s the best.” Cullen shrugged. “She cut her teeth on the Oklahoma City bombing, and hasn’t looked back since.”
“All right so I’ll babysit. But only because I suspect I don’t have a choice.” Cullen tackled life with his own rules, the rest of the world be damned. And when he wanted someone on his team he drafted them, with no chance for argument.
Although Payton had to admit Last Chance’s latest incarnation was sort of a kick, in a danger and daring kind of way. And it meant he and Gabriel got to work together again. But even in the moment, there was still the shadow of the past.
As if he needed tangible proof, he traced the line of his scar, the physical pain a memory, but the memories were still excruciating. Still, life moved on—whether one wanted it to or not—and though he sometimes regretted the fact, he’d chosen forward motion.
And if Cullen Pulaski was his albatross—so be it.
THE AIR WAS RANCID, acrid smoke stinging her eyes and the back of her throat. Sam moved carefully, studying the ground before taking a step. The site had already been cordoned off, dogs, robots and bomb techs having determined that there were no secondary charges. But it never hurt to be cautious.
The seat of the explosion was a hole in the floor of what had been the lobby. An elegant room, she remembered. The foyer had been open to the second floor with a balcony running around the perimeter. Mahogany, brass, velvet—very old-world.
At the moment it was a tangled mess of broken beams, pipes and electrical wires. The blast was strong enough to have crumpled the second floor onto the first, leaving a mechanical tumble reminiscent of some twisted apocalyptic scenario.
