“What the hell does that mean, motherfucker? You definitely don’t want to go where you’re going. And now that I think about it, I think I’ll stick with calling you ‘asshole,’ asshole.”
“Let me be perfectly clear, Mr. West. Either you give me what I want, or you find it for me. Otherwise, you’ll never see Sarah again. I don’t want to, but I’ll have one of my men hurt and then kill her. Please don’t test my resolve.” Juan paused, the words hammering Logan like shots to his chest. He said it matter-of-factly, and Logan didn’t doubt he’d do it.
Logan closed his eyes as the dark rage tried to overwhelm him. The fury, combined with his physical state, created such a blinding pain in his head, he thought his skull might fracture into a thousand tiny pieces.
Get ahold of yourself, Logan. If you can’t think straight, you’ll make mistakes, mistakes that might get Sarah hurt or killed.
He’d seen mistakes kill careful men before. In Iraq, a Marine had spray-painted “Complacency Kills” on a concrete barrier near Al Qaim, a city on the Syrian border. All too true, it was a constant reminder to be ever vigilant.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. An observer might have suddenly mistaken the good-looking man with an athlete’s physique and chiseled facial features for the devil himself, green eyes sparkling furiously within a dancing mask of pure, violent hatred.
“Listen very carefully, Juan. I’m going to find you, I’m going to stop you, and then I’m going to kill you after I’ve spoiled your little game. You’ll be seeing me soon.”
Logan was already leaping up the basement stairs as he hung up the phone. He stuck it in his cargo pocket as he dialed Mike with his personal cell phone in his other hand.
Mike answered immediately. He’s expecting me. “Mike, meet me at Sarah’s house now, specifically, at the entrance to the community. I think—scratch that—I know she’s in trouble . . . serious trouble. These people just upped the ante. I’ll call you from my car. You better grab our tactical gear. We’re going to need it. Talk to you in three minutes,” he said and hung up.
He prayed Juan’s threat was just a bluff, another way to get him to give up the flag. He had to know that if he harmed Sarah, Logan would never do what he wanted. Unfortunately, the logic didn’t calm the dread he felt.
The day had rapidly spiraled out of control. If he had any chance to get out of this mess, he had to take it now before Juan could make the next move. It’s my turn, asshole. He had to get ahead of whatever storm was coming before it consumed the only woman he loved. I’m coming, baby. Hold on.
CHAPTER 3
RURAL MARYLAND
Sarah West fumed over her soon-to-be ex-husband. Logan had dropped Daly off with no notice. He’d told her he was going out of town, but when she asked him if everything was okay, he’d lied to her. She knew it, but he’d insisted he was fine.
He told her he was going to ski Whiteface Mountain in Upstate New York. He said he needed to “clear his head” and that “cold air and fresh snow might help.”
She was certain something was wrong. She’d tried calling him several times since he’d left, but with no luck. He hadn’t answered. That in itself wasn’t uncommon, but she’d sensed something different about him after he’d left. He seemed more distant than when they’d been married, if that was possible.
Sarah had thrown herself into her work for the last three days, working feverishly on her housing crisis article for The Economist. Unfortunately, the article, her daily runs, and quality time with Daly, their three-year-old golden retriever, still hadn’t diminished the frustration she felt toward Logan.
She’d immersed herself in some serious house cleaning, hoping it might distract her from her concerns. It failed . . . miserably. She was furious that even now, when she was about to file divorce papers, he continued to weigh heavily on her mind. It was ludicrous.
Cooking had been her next diversion. As she placed a chicken parmigiana in the lower oven, she felt Daly paw her right foot imploringly, as if to ask, Where’s mine? She looked down and smiled, scratching behind his ears. He grinned and tilted his head to one side.
“What’s that, big guy? You already had your lunch. Sorry. This is for me for later.”
Daly whimpered and placed both his paws on her thighs, his sleek face open in a goofy and loving smile.
“Okay. Okay. How about this? Let me go check the laundry upstairs, and then we’ll head out back until this chicken’s done. Sound like a plan?”
Daly barked once, removed his paws from Sarah’s legs, and scampered over to the patio door that opened onto the back deck. His paws click-clacked on the hardwood floor as he moved. He stopped at the door and sat on his haunches, looking back and forth between the gigantic backyard and Sarah, waiting expectantly.
“I’ll be right back. Just give me a minute.”
Daly barked one more time in acknowledgment. Okay. I’ll be here.
As Sarah walked through the kitchen, she admired the rolling hills and woods that extended in all directions. It was a view of which she never tired. She fought the urge to stop and stare, as she often did at this time of day.
The setting was serene, unlike the chaos and emotional maelstrom that had been their lives until she’d finally given Logan an ultimatum in March of 2006. “Deal with your drinking, or I’m out. I can’t stand it anymore.”
Unfortunately, Logan had chosen to ignore the problem until she’d finally kicked him out of their house. Sarah was eternally relieved that Logan had finally gotten sober—for his sake—but by then, too much damage had been done for their relationship to right itself.
The five-thousand-square-foot home on twenty acres of what she called “suburban countryside” had initially served as their own private refuge from the outside world. It sometimes felt like it was a million miles away, when in reality, it was only miles from Route 40, north of West Friendship, MD. She was within an hour by car of Baltimore, Annapolis, and DC.
Still, when they’d first moved here after Logan separated from the Marine Corps, it had been a nice fantasy for both of them to imagine they were completely secluded, protected from the horrors of the outside world that Logan knew too well. Unfortunately, the horrors had been in his head, and he couldn’t run from them, no matter where they lived.
She couldn’t believe it had already been four years, but a lot had happened since Logan’s honorable discharge. Logan still refused to talk about what had so fundamentally changed him in Fallujah. He’d walked away from a stellar career in Force Recon, the elite of the elite as far as the Marine Corps was concerned.
She’d been to the funerals with him, and what little he did tell her was enough to prevent her from asking more questions.
For some reason, Logan blamed himself and his headquarters for his men’s deaths. The ironic part was that whatever had happened had made her husband a hero. He’d been awarded a Navy Cross, but he hadn’t wanted it. He told her he didn’t deserve it, that he’d failed to keep his Marines alive, that he’d been deceived into doing something that was a disaster he should’ve seen coming.
Sarah didn’t think he could’ve done anything in reality, at least not from what John Quick had told her. But it didn’t matter. Logan carried the guilt like a physical weight threatening to break his back. Psychologically, it had.
He’d promised to tell her the full story someday, but that had been four years ago. His drinking had escalated and resulted in his breaking that promise—one of many, now that she thought about it.
To shroud the situation with even more mystery, Logan had actually been provided with full retirement benefits even though he’d only served ten years. No one received that type of compensation, especially from the Marine Corps or any service in the Department of Defense.
Logan had tried to reject the benefits, but the Marine Corps had insisted. Lieutenant General Jack Longstreet—now the commandant of the Marine Corps—had visited their home one evening several months after Logan had retur
ned from his deployment. She knew General Longstreet had been with Logan in Fallujah. Their conversation had lasted less than thirty minutes. When the general left, Logan refused to discuss the visit, but he did acquiesce to the benefits package.
It was only several months after that visit that Sarah discovered Logan was donating each pension check directly to a fund established for children of fallen Marines who’d served in Iraq. She hadn’t been surprised.
Logan was independently wealthy, the heir to a small fortune that he never flaunted. His humility was always evident, even though he had more than one reason to be proud. It was one of the attributes she’d loved about him . . . before the drinking began to destroy the man.
She crossed through the hallway to the foyer and turned to the stairs, failing to look out the sidelight windows that framed the heavy oak double front doors. As a result, she didn’t see the four men moving up the wooded driveway.
CHAPTER 4
Logan fought to contain his panic. He’d been trying to call Sarah every few minutes from the car. He was still twenty minutes away.
Logan called Mike again. “She’s not answering. What’s your ETA? I’m about twenty minutes out. If I don’t get killed by one of Juan’s hired thugs, this fucking hangover will do the job for him.”
“Christ, Logan. You sure you’re okay to do this? I can have HRT there and staged within an hour. Just say the word.” Mike paused before continuing. “Hell, brother, I probably should. You know that. But it’s Sarah, and it’s your call.”
Logan knew the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team members were the most elite unit in the country for this type of situation. Most were former operators and trigger pullers from the Special Ops community, including Delta, the Navy SEALs, and Green Berets. Still, this problem was his, and he refused to allow the FBI to jeopardize his wife—soon to be ex-wife—until he knew what was going on. She’s probably fine. Could be any number of reasons she’s not answering.
“No way, Mike. Let’s hope everything is okay at Sarah’s, but if it’s not, we do this ourselves.”
Mike knew Logan wouldn’t yield, and no matter what laws he had to bend, he’d back whatever play Logan had in mind.
“You got it, brother. I just hope we’re in time. See you in twenty.”
* * *
RURAL MARYLAND
Sarah was upstairs in the hallway laundry room. She loved the convenience of it on the second floor instead of in the basement. She’d just pulled her load of workout clothes from the washer when she heard the beep-beep-beep of the alarm system. A door or window had just been opened.
Had Logan decided to pick up Daly without calling? What the hell was he thinking? She now had one more offense to add to his growing list.
She was about to call out when she heard Daly scrambling across the kitchen toward the direction of their garage, growling and barking as he ran.
It wasn’t Logan.
She started to move to the railing overlooking the foyer when she heard two loud gunshots reverberate throughout the house. Noooooo! She stifled a scream as her mind registered that the intruder had just shot their beloved dog.
She froze in her tracks as a toxic mixture of fear and grief smashed into the pit of her stomach. The panic gripped her, and her heart accelerated wildly. She was cemented to the carpet, transfixed by her horror.
She heard Daly yelp in pain and surprise, followed by a thump as his sixty pounds fell to the kitchen floor. She sank to the floor, temporarily overwhelmed by a paralyzing sadness.
Sarah had a chilling realization. Whoever was in the house was dangerous. If he shot our dog, he’ll likely shoot me as well. She had to move. Fast.
Now wasn’t the time to grieve for Daly. That would come later. She wasn’t going down without a fight.
After marrying a Marine, a Force Recon one for that matter, there was no way in hell she was going to allow herself to be a victim. Her grief was replaced by an ember of fury that grew brighter with each moment.
Sarah took two breaths to stop the shaking from her initial shock. She moved quickly and quietly to their master bedroom.
The entrance to the large bedroom had two doors. She carefully closed the right one behind her, leaving it open half an inch to prevent the latches from making even the slightest sound. She propped the left open halfway, allowing only a partial view of the bedroom from the hallway.
As she moved to the closet, she heard voices downstairs. They spoke in Spanish, a language she didn’t speak or understand.
This is unreal. This can’t be happening. Then she thought of Logan. Regardless of the current state of their marriage, she heard his voice in her mind, firm but silently encouraging her. Keep moving or you’re going to die.
She moved into one of the oversized walk-in closets, the one that had belonged to Logan before he moved out. In a back corner of the closet on the middle shelf she found what she was looking for—her husband’s Benelli M2 tactical shotgun.
He’d left it for her when he’d moved out. He’d shown her how to use it and said he didn’t need it since he was taking his pistols. He’d said, “Save it for a rainy day,” giving her a wide grin. She didn’t think he’d still be smiling if he knew she was actually about to use it to fight for her life.
She grabbed the black, menacing shotgun by the pistol grip with her left hand and pulled the cocking lever backward slowly—just as he’d shown her—to confirm it was loaded. She saw a shell in the chamber and exhaled in relief. This was real.
She couldn’t recall what Logan had loaded it with, but he’d told her, “Hon, if anyone ever comes into this house, and you shoot him with this, he’s not getting out.” He’d smiled when he said it, like most gun owners, proud of what their weapons could do but never really expecting to use them. She just hoped she’d live long enough to let Logan know how effective his shotgun was.
She grabbed the spare box of shells from the shelf, although she doubted she’d have time to reload. Each shot had to count.
She moved back into the bedroom and lay down on the floor on the left side of the bed, lining up the shotgun’s sights on the small opening at the entrance to the bedroom. She flicked off the safety and waited.
CHAPTER 5
Juan hadn’t told Cesar that there was a dog in the house. He knew Cesar had been terrified of dogs from childhood, where he’d grown up on the outskirts of Ciudad Juárez. Wild dogs had roamed the streets of his neighborhood in the evenings. Cesar and his friends had been chased by the predatory packs on more than one occasion. It had been just one more dangerous aspect of living near Juárez.
When Cesar entered the house through the side door near the garage and the yellow dog leapt at him in defense of its home, Cesar had panicked and fired two shots with his Glock 9mm pistol. The first one had missed and struck the wall on the other side of the kitchen, but the second round caught the dog in the left shoulder and knocked it to the floor.
As Cesar moved past the dying animal, he looked down and saw the dog following him with its gaze, blood leaking from the gunshot wound down its fur to the floor. The dog was still defying him with its last moments, as if to say, This is my house. You don’t belong here. The dog’s eyes closed, and it shuddered one last time.
Cesar knew the West woman was home, but there was no sign of her in the kitchen. It was a big house—much bigger than he’d expected—and he knew they’d have to search it carefully.
Their instructions had been to capture her, no matter what. Juan had emphasized that point.
“At all costs, Cesar. It’s critical that she be kept alive.” If the boss wanted her alive, then so be it. They had their orders, and they never deviated from them.
Juan Black compensated them greatly for their specialized work, but Mr. Black also had a ruthless way of maintaining order if his instructions weren’t followed precisely.
He thought of Marcos Rivera. The image of his head lying in a box, his face peeled away so that it actually rested on top of his black hair, wasn�
�t a pleasant one. Cesar was a hard man, but Juan Black still scared him.
Cesar turned to the other three men with him and spoke in Mexican-accented Spanish. “Angel,”—he pronounced it AHN-hell—“you’re with me. We’ll go upstairs. Antonio, you and Tomas check the rest of this floor and the basement. Again, no one kills the woman. Her husband is too important. If she’s dead, he won’t cooperate. Understand?”
Antonio and Tomas nodded and moved into the dining room, adjacent to the kitchen. Cesar knew both men would do precisely as they’d been told. Like Juan Black, Cesar also knew a thing or two about disciplining subordinates.
Cesar moved to the foyer, Angel following and watching the area behind them. Silence. The bitch must be hiding. Her dog was braver than she was. Like all women, a cowardly whore . . .
Cesar’s mother had abandoned him when he was seven, leaving him to care for his alcoholic father. His views of women had been formed at a young age. It was one of many reasons he preferred to be alone, refusing to compromise with a member of the inferior sex.
They moved up the curving staircase, making as little noise as possible. They reached the top, and Cesar turned right, spotting the entrance to the master bedroom. The door was ajar. I’ll bet she’s cowering in the corner like a scared little girl. “Search the other rooms. I’ll take this one.” Angel turned left and crept down the hallway.
Cesar raised his pistol in front of him as he moved toward the open doorway. He smiled at the thought of the pleasure he’d have once he captured the West woman. I’ll find you. You can hide, but I’ll find you. This is going to be fun.
* * *
Sarah heard the man moving down the hallway. He was quiet, but the soft rustle of his shoes on the plush carpet revealed his presence. The footsteps stopped outside the bedroom door.
Overwatch: A Thriller Page 2
