Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3)

by Marliss Melton

  Wearing jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt and looking as though he hadn't slept well the night before, Nuñez stood uncertainly before them, his hands tucked under his armpits.

  Canché studied him a moment before speaking. "I'm investigating the incident of the hijacked tourist bus, the one you accompanied to Tulum yesterday."

  Nuñez's Adam's apple rose and fell.

  "You know that it went missing," Canché prompted.

  "Yes."

  "This is the sister of one of the missing tourists," the detective continued, introducing Juliet. "And this man's colleague was also on the bus," Canché added.

  When Nuñez acknowledged him with a jerky nod, Tristan wanted to grab him by his shirt and shake the information out of him. Instead, he crossed his arms and waited.

  "Why weren't you on the bus when it left Tulum, Señor Nuñez?" Canché asked.

  The tour guide's brow furrowed. His chest rose and fell as he contemplated his reply. "Because I knew it wasn't safe," he finally answered.

  A chill ran up Tristan's spine, and he glanced at Juliet, who seemed to slump slightly where she sat.

  "I knew something bad was going to happen," Nuñez qualified on a hoarse note.

  "How did you know?"

  Dark eyes appealed to Canché for understanding. "I was heading back to the bus when I saw César Salvador talking to the driver."

  Canché sat up straighter suggesting he recognized the name.

  "Who is César Salvador?" Juliet demanded. Exactly what Tristan wanted to know.

  "A bad seed," Canché answered. "How do you know him?" he demanded of Nuñez.

  "We went to school together, here in Playa del Carmen." Nuñez dropped his hands to wipe his palms on his thighs. "César was a trouble-maker. He never finished school. He went to jail for selling drugs. I heard he got out last year, and now he's worse than ever. When I saw him talking to Paulo, I got a feeling they were planning something. I didn't want anything to do with it."

  Tristan moved to sit by Juliet and put an arm around her though he wasn't sure how she'd react. Surprisingly, she let him, and against his side, he could feel her heart beating hard and fast.

  "Why didn't you call the police?" Canché demanded.

  Nuñez looked down at the tiled floor then at the wall separating them from his wife and baby. He then stepped closer. "Listen, if I tell you what I know, you have to help me," he implored. "Otherwise, César is going to send someone here to kill me. He knows I saw him talking to Paulo, and no one's heard from Paulo since yesterday afternoon."

  The reason why Nuñez had quit his job became suddenly clear. He figured César would find him at work and silence him.

  Canché considered the man's predicament. "Deal," he said, before standing and holding out a hand for Nuñez to shake. "The police will protect you, Señor Nuñez. Please, you must tell us what you know so we can find these people and save them."

  Minutes later, they stood with Canché outside of Nuñez's house deciding what to do. If Nuñez was right, then César Salvador had probably taken his victims to Mérida, where, according to Canché, he likely had connections to a larger drug ring.

  Tristan could picture exactly what kind of man this Salvador was—one who killed innocents and only cared about how much money he could squeeze out of victims. And if Bullfrog was still alive, then he was no doubt trying to figure out an escape plan to get himself and all the captives away from this killer.

  "Mérida's outside of my jurisdiction," Canché said. "Worse than that, the police chief there is corrupt. Half the people working for him are involved in the narcotics trade. No one can be trusted."

  Better and better, Tristan thought. Now he'd be without police help in a foreign land. Just then, his phone beeped. Nodding to Juliet, he stepped aside, hoping for some encouraging news.

  Master Chief's voice at the other end seemed a long way away. But what little information he had confirmed what Nuñez had told them. Thanking his master chief, he hung up and rejoined the others.

  "Looks like Nuñez might be right," he told them. "Master Chief says the GPS in Bullfrog's watch puts him in Mérida. I have the coordinates."

  He watched as a ray of hope dispersed the dark clouds in Juliet's gray eyes.

  "We need to leave for Mérida now," she said to him, but it sounded like a question.

  "Agreed," Tristan said. "Master Chief is putting together a SAR team. They'll fly in to Mérida tomorrow."

  "Search and Rescue team?" she guessed. He nodded back. Smart lady.

  "I'm glad to hear it," Canché said.

  So was Tristan. Finally, a concerted rescue effort was underway. Perhaps by this same time tomorrow, Bullfrog would be safe and Emma and Sammy would be reunited with Juliet—if they weren't among the tourists who'd been brutally killed. Tristan kept that caveat to himself, holding onto hope.

  * * *

  Sweeping an eye around the lower level inhabited by their captors, Jeremiah's blood ran cold. Last night, the room had been swept and tidy. The state it was in that morning, littered with broken glass, chicken bones, and reeking of urine, suggested that their captors weren't just greedy kidnappers. They were narcos, drug-dealers who lacked discipline and valued nothing beyond the fulfillment of their addictions.

  Most of them still lounged in their hammocks, too hungover to rise even at this hour. Craterface lifted bloodshot eyes at Jeremiah and Emma as they neared the table where he sat, wreathed in smoke from his own cigarettes. He had spread out the ship passes and credit cards on the table's surface as if playing solitaire.

  An old laptop sat within arm's reach with an unfamiliar browser open, suggesting the man had Wi-Fi. At their approach, he tipped his chair back on two legs to regard them coolly.

  Emma's grip on his hand told Jeremiah she was stronger than she looked.

  "Señor y Señora Winters?" The leader sent them a crafty smile.

  "Yes," Jeremiah affirmed, taking small pleasure in the sound of her name linked with his, even if it was only make-believe.

  Dropping the front legs of his chair to the floor, Craterface plucked up three of the ship's card—theirs and Sammy's. He made a show of comparing Emma's photo to how she looked now, white-faced with fear, her auburn hair in need of a comb. He then tried to say her name, butchering it with a Mexican accent.

  "Ju no change jur name?" he asked.

  "We just got married," she replied, her voice hoarse with fear. "I haven't had time yet."

  Craterface showed her a bankcard with her name on it. "How much money ju haf?" he demanded.

  "About a thousand dollars," she replied.

  He tsked his tongue and shook his head. "I need fifty-thousand dollars. Ju have a pariente who can pay me? A relative?" he translated.

  As far as Jeremiah knew, her only family was Juliet. The sisters had lost their parents to a tragic car accident years ago.

  "Yes," she said, sounding not at all certain.

  Craterface indicated the pad of paper and pen on the table in front of them where the hostages before them had jotted down email addresses. "Escribe tu correo electrónico," he demanded.

  She bent over the notepad and, fighting the tremor in her hand, printed out Juliet's email address. Jeremiah took advantage of the leader's distraction to inventory possible escape routes.

  He made out a back door at the rear of the open space, bolted shut like the front with multiple deadbolts. Opening either door from the inside would take only a couple of seconds, but he didn't have that long, not with nine armed guerillas at his back.

  "Jerónimo," Craterfaced called him, modifying Jeremiah's name so he could pronounce it. "Eres médico, eh?"

  Jeremiah nodded. "Sí."

  "Ju haf no bank card, ninguna tarjeta de crédito?"

  He shook his head. "No, I left them on the ship."

  "Hmph. Who will pay el rescate for you?"

  "My father," Jeremiah said, drawing a sidelong glance from Emma, who knew his parents owned a horse farm in Loudon County. Tho
ugh he was certain his folks would happily part with fifty grand to secure his release, he wouldn't dream of putting them in that position.

  "Escribe su email," Craterface ordered, gesturing for Emma to give him the pen.

  Bending over the list, he saw that Emma had put down a Google address for Juliet. In crisp, clear script, he wrote down Master Chief Kuzinsky's private email, with its "NeverForget" alias. If Craterface sent out ransom emails on the laptop in front of him, maybe the Navy could trace them straight to this building using the IP address. The thought heartened him.

  "Mira."

  As he put the pen down, Craterface directed his attention to the man who'd shot himself in the foot the day before. That morning, he lay groaning in his hammock with his bloody sneaker propped up on one end.

  "Es mi hermano," Craterface admitted, watching Jeremiah for a trace of comprehension. "My brother, Sergio. If ju e-fix his foot, I no kill ju today."

  Emma's sharp inhale told him she believed the leader's threat.

  The injured man spoke up from across the room. "Me va a operar hoy, César?"

  Without meaning to, Sergio had just given up his brother's name. Jeremiah squeezed Emma's hand reassuringly. "I can help him," he said.

  "Ahora," César declared, shutting his laptop with a snap and pushing back his chair.

  "Right now?" Jeremiah asked.

  "Sí, ahora," the man repeated. "Vete, mujer," he added waving Emma back up the stairs.

  She started to turn away. Then, to Jeremiah's astonishment, swung back around and planted a fervent kiss on his lips, her eyes wide open and staring into his.

  Oh, wow. Okay.

  He would have given anything just then to explore the frightened but fiercely loyal look in her eyes. But she whirled away and ran up the stairs without a backward glance.

  He turned with reluctance toward the matter at hand. Saving a murderous narco from dying of his self-inflicted wounds wasn't exactly his cup of tea. The threat of being killed by Craterface, aka César, if he didn't save Sergio was his only incentive. But returning to Emma so he could nurture the feelings he'd seen in her eyes—that was his real motivation.

  He had pulled more shrapnel out of his teammates than he cared to remember. Easy day, he assured himself.

  Chapter 13

  Sitting in the passenger seat of the car they'd rented, Juliet craned her neck to better view the speedometer.

  Tristan kept the accelerator pressed to the floor. A wilderness of thorny trees and sandy soil streamed past them, keeping her from relaxing. The road snaking through El Parque National de Quintana Roo was riddled with potholes, making it less than safe for travel. But it was still the fastest way to hit the highway to Mérida.

  "You're going a hundred and twenty," she protested.

  His baritone laughter eased a portion of her tension.

  "Kilometers per hour, honey," he corrected her. "We're only going about seventy."

  Oh. She eased her grip on the armrest and reassessed their speed. Maybe this wasn't as dangerous as it felt. Tristan avoided the potholes with ease. He'd even swerved around the armadillo that scuttled into their path as if it was nothing.

  "Please don't call me 'honey,'" she heard herself say.

  In her peripheral vision, she saw him slide her a wounded look. "Not even after last night?"

  Her eyes sank shut. He would bring that up. The memory of what they'd shared sent a tide of bliss rolling through her.

  "Last night doesn't count," she insisted. "I was out of my mind with worry. I needed a distraction."

  The silence that followed drew her gaze to his somber profile. She realized she didn't like the fact that she'd caused the downturn in his mood.

  "So that's what I am." He nodded several times.

  "That's not what I meant." Turning slightly toward him, she spent a moment contemplating his splendid arresting profile—the high forehead, Greek nose, sensually shaped lips, and strong jaw. "You're incredible," she admitted, causing him to glance at her briefly, a spark of optimism in his eyes. "I can't imagine going through this without you. But last night should not have happened." She forced herself to be honest with him. "I can't be in a relationship, Tristan. I'm not that kind of girl. I need my space. Plus, you just got out of a relationship. I told you, I'm not interested in being your rebound lover."

  A humorless smile touched his lips. He nodded as if agreeing with her. "Well, you can't blame me for trying," he said, surprising her with his easy acceptance. "But don't let my history and your own prickly nature blind you to what we have now."

  "And what's that?" She didn't bother to conceal her skepticism. "Chemistry? A common bond born out of a scary and tragic situation?"

  Her edginess seemed to have no effect on him. He darted her an admonishing look. "You keep forgetting something, honey. We're a team. When we work together, we get better results. Don't sabotage that."

  His patient reprimand had her swallowing a retort. For the time being, he was right. What had started out as a joint effort to throw Emma and Bullfrog together had morphed, out of necessity, into a partnership of sorts. Right now, she needed him for his level-headedness and his connection to the SEALs. He needed her because Detective Canché couldn't go with them to Mérida, and she knew how to hunt down missing people.

  "I said not to call me that. And there's the ramp to the highway," she said, catching sight of it up ahead.

  "Yep."

  They would be in Mérida in two hours, about three o'clock in the afternoon. And then what? Would the GPS in Bullfrog's watch lead them straight to their loved ones? How long before the SEALs could enact a rescue?

  The thought of enduring another nerve-fraying night alone with Tristan prompted Juliet to gnaw on the inside of her lip. She could not claim the man as a mere distraction for a second night in a row. That wasn't fair to either of them.

  But the flames of their passion still lingered, heating her from the inside out. Of their own accord, her eyes strayed to Tristan's competent grip on the steering wheel as he swung them up the ramp. Just the sight of his hands, with their handsome knuckles and long dexterous fingers, excited her like no man's hands had done before. Recalling how skillfully his fingers had coaxed her toward climax, her hidden muscles clenched with the desire to do it all again.

  Stop it!

  The sex had been amazing—so what? Repeating the experience would only affirm in Tristan's mind that they were a couple now—which they weren't. They were simply teammates, like he'd said—colleagues of a sort. And she never, ever dallied with a colleague. One night stands with friends of friends—that was her modus operandi. It kept her independent and unattached, and that was how she intended to stay.

  Just keep telling yourself that, she thought with a bitter grimace. No, better to tell him.

  "Look. We're not going to have sex again," she stated—more to convince herself than for any other reason.

  He shot her an inscrutable glance, saying nothing.

  "I mean it," she added more firmly. "That was a one-off for me."

  He kept silent a minute longer, shrugged carelessly and said, "I got you. No worries." He paused, then he added. "Technically, we did it twice, or was it three times?" Then he chuckled.

  Suspicious of his indifference, she studied him out of the corner of her eye. Did he really not even care one way or another? Unexpected hurt stitched through her.

  "Good," she said, looking away to conceal her sudden misgivings. Maybe he was used to amazing sex. Maybe last night hadn't been anything special. Hell, he might have had it better with Mariah than with her. The thought soured her stomach.

  See, that's why one didn't jump in as someone's rebound, she scolded herself.

  Anyway, she would never have to worry about that for another moment because it wasn't going to happen again. Whatever the circumstances in Mérida, she was going to cope on her own without turning to Tristan for distraction—because, in spite of her assurances to the contrary, that was all he'd been and all h
e was ever going to be.

  * * *

  "Aquí," Craterface said, swiping an arm across a table at the front of the room. Chicken bones, a plastic ashtray, and several paper cups fell to the floor.

  With an inward shudder, Jeremiah realized this was going to be the operating table.

  "Agua?" He made washing motions with his hands—although with the table already a breeding ground for bacteria, what difference would it make if he disinfected first or not?

  The leader ignored him, going to help his brother from the hammock. Sergio had roused himself and was tossing a handful of pills into his mouth. Grimacing at the taste, he chased down the narcotics with a swig of tequila.

  Jeremiah sent a considering glance at the pill bottle. Were these men trafficking pills, heroin, cocaine, or all of the above?

  César put an arm around his brother and helped him lie back onto the makeshift operating table. Bringing over an old carpetbag, he gestured for Jeremiah to help himself.

  Inside it, he found an assortment of first-aid supplies, a bottle of peroxide, a dull scalpel, needles and thread, and a pair of dirty tweezers. With a wave of longing, he thought of his medic's kit back home.

  "Towels?" he inquired, and another man went to look for some.

  César barked at him to get it over with. Sergio, whose eyes were rolling back in his head, was clearly succumbing to the narcotic cocktail he'd consumed.

  Jeremiah inhaled deeply then slowly exhaled to center himself. Tackling the laces on Sergio's ruined tennis shoe, he pulled it gently off his injured foot. The smell of infected flesh layered over the stink of unwashed socks had him holding his breath. He removed the sock next, snipping off bits of thread coated in blood and stuck to Sergio's wound.

  With the sock finally off, he assessed the damage. A chunk of metal had embedded itself in the narco's big toe. It had gone straight through the toenail and might have broken the bone, but in itself, it wasn't a lethal injury.

  The infection that ballooned the toe with pus and turned his whole foot an angry shade of red might yet kill him, however. Karma was unforgiving, Jeremiah thought, recalling how this man had slaughtered the foreigners on the bus then doused them in gasoline and lit them on fire.