Logan stared at the phone in his hand, held it out as if it were toxic, his mind blank, in shock. The news that he’d waited eight years to receive brought with it an unbelievable anguish.
He stood and climbed back into the clothes he’d shed only an hour earlier. On the opposite bed, Gideon stirred and said, “Was it Michael?”
“Miles.”
Gideon tossed, turning from his back to his side. “Good news or bad?”
Logan moved steadily through the room, collecting items. Belt. Shoes. Wallet. Watch. “Both,” he said.
Gideon turned on the light. “What’s going on?”
“Miles has Hannah,” Logan said. “That’s the good news. He’s on his way to moving her out of the country as we speak.” He paused, turned to face Gideon, and, as if his mind couldn’t quite comprehend the reality of his words, said, “Michael was taken in the process of getting Hannah. Not by The Chosen but by the Sponsors they’d handed Hannah off to—a big-name local crime family.” Logan stood, momentarily blank, and then clasped his watch into place. “She’ll probably be tortured for information if they don’t kill her outright.”
“Sucks for her,” Gideon said, and then, realizing that Logan was preparing to leave the room, sat up. “Where are you going?” he said.
“To find Michael.”
Gideon lay back down and pulled the covers up to his chin. “Good luck with that.”
Logan paused and stared at Gideon the way he’d stared at the phone. “Incidentally, a little message to you from Miles,” he said.
Gideon rolled back and blinked an eye open.
Logan knelt and tied his laces. Tight. Old habits. “Michael not only had the locations of all of the puerteño Havens,” he said. “She had days of video and audio, a hierarchy map, and lots and lots of names. Whatever arrangement she made with you was between the two of you. Miles says the only way you’re getting anything that she had is if she’s the one to give it to you.”
Gideon swore. Flung the blankets aside and stood, muttering about blackmail. “So what are we supposed to do even if you do find her?” he said. “Just go marching in like two idiot targets, saying, ‘Here shoot at us, and let her go’?”
“Apparently, Miles left us a gift. It’s in the back of a car, and we’re going to go find it.”
Logan stopped. He stood square in front of Gideon, didn’t move, just stood until Gideon raised his head and said, “What?”
“Michael is my best friend, Gideon—more than friend—she’s the only family I have. She’s saved my neck more than once and put her life on the line to get Hannah because I asked her for help. Whether you come or not, I’m going after her. She deserves at least that from me. And you? You can either put up or shut up.”
Gideon raised a hand. “It’s cool,” he said. “Let’s go kick some ass.”
They found the taxi where Bradford said it would be, and the parking area not as empty as described. The morning was coming quickly. Logan fished the key out from under the seat, opened the trunk, and almost cautiously unzipped the long duffel bag.
There was a long moment of silence as he and Gideon stood side by side, mouths open, staring at what waited for them.
Logan took a quick look over his shoulder, checked again that they were alone in the parking area, pulled the bag to the ground, and then shut the trunk.
Gideon said, “Where the hell did he get that? And how, with all of this shit, did Michael manage to get taken?”
“Weapons are what Miles does,” Logan said. He grunted, heaved the bag onto the backseat, and closed the door. Slow and firm. “Miles has connections all over the place,” he said, and then paused, thoughtful, piecing together the unknown events of the darkened morning. Logan didn’t know much about Miles, but he knew Michael better than anyone else ever would.
“She didn’t want to go in shooting,” Logan said, “for Hannah’s sake. And Michael has always been more about stealth than bullets.” He nodded at the bag. “That was Miles’s doing—she probably didn’t even know it was back there.”
They climbed into the cab, Logan in the driver’s seat, Gideon riding shotgun. After another thoughtful moment, Logan turned the ignition key and pulled into the thickening traffic. It took several passes to find the hostel, and on the way, the boys discussed strategy. Logan outlined all he knew of the hostel and its security, a repeat of everything that Bradford had told him.
Gideon climbed from the front seat into the back. Pushed the bag to the floor and culled through it until he’d found what he wanted, then searched on Logan’s behalf. Most of the lighter pieces were Argentine made, an assortment of Bersas, reliable 9 mms, even if not well known outside of South America. There was a pair of Spanish Star Z-84 submachine guns, also 9 mm, a block of C4 with ample det cord, timers and remotes, smoke grenades, live grenades, night vision, and what had to be at least two thousand rounds of ammunition.
The sky was breaking into dawn, and day had come by the time they reached the neighborhood. Logan broke from the journey long enough to transfer the bag and its remaining contents into the trunk and then made his way to the hostel, parking the taxi just beyond the front door.
He shut off the ignition. Nodded at Gideon. “Ready?”
Gideon returned the motion. “Let’s do it,” he said.
They exited the cab, both doors slamming at the same time, walked the two steps up the hostel entrance, and once inside, separated. No point in creating a single target.
The desk clerk looked up, and his face clouded. Any idiot who’d been in the building within the last few hours would have reason to mistrust two men walking solidly through the door. The clerk’s hands fell below the counter.
Gideon drew, his weapon trained on the man’s chest. The clerk froze. And why not; all he had to do was wait for the backup that was somewhere upstairs and would soon be down.
In Spanish fluent from his years in South America, Gideon stage-whispered a demand to the man to place his hands where he could see them. When the clerk obliged, Gideon crossed the lobby, a few quick strides, and slid in behind the counter. He stood behind the man and out of reach, with the weapon still trained on him.
Gideon nodded to Logan, who had waited at the base of the stairwell.
Logan slipped behind the counter, rooted out the weapons from underneath it, and handed them to Gideon. He stepped back to cover the clerk while Gideon zip-tied the man’s hands behind his back.
With the clerk secured and still behind the counter, Logan returned to the bottom of the stairwell and, as casually as possible, weapon out of sight, waited. Disarming and securing the clerk had gone quickly—better than anticipated—almost like clockwork. This next part wouldn’t be as straightforward.
The hotel’s guests were beginning to stir, and Logan’s judgment call said that the first steps down the stairwell toward the cantina would not be those of the foot soldiers. He had little to go on in pinpointing the hotel security other than Bradford’s descriptions, which, admittedly would probably now be different, but something about the posture of the man on the stairs was wrong. Like Munroe, Logan knew the subtleties of facial expression, knew body language, skills highly attuned after years of trying to avoid trouble in the ever-changing, arbitrary structure of The Chosen.
Another set of footsteps came down the stairwell, and again Logan ignored them. The man passed through the lobby to the outside, but there would be more coming, others who would go instead to the cantina. The hotel guests, although guests, still mostly worked for the Cárcan family, and each provided his own separate threat level. Bradford had made that clear. The more of them that congregated downstairs, the harder it would be to pull off a repeat performance of securing the desk clerk.
Without turning, Logan said, “Change of plans, Gid. One of them should be enough. Let’s take him now while we’ve got a chance.”
“If we fail with him,” Gideon said, “we can’t come back for seconds.”
“We won’t fail.”
&n
bsp; Logan waited until he was certain the lobby would remain empty for the time they needed to get out, and then with the stairwell silent, he gave Gideon the all-clear.
Gideon nudged the man out from behind the counter. Halfway across the small space, the clerk, realizing what the two intended, realizing his partner would not be there in time to save him, began to yell. Gideon struck him, and Logan pushed him forward. The combined movements threw him off balance.
He stumbled out the front door. Tripped. Fell. Struggled to get up, to get away.
They each grabbed an arm and, straining against his weight, hustled him up and forward. Gideon yanked open the back door of the cab and, together with Logan, against the man’s struggling and continued clamoring, attempted to shove him inside.
Logan ran for the driver’s door. “Just shoot him,” he yelled.
Gideon put muzzle to the man’s struggling leg. Pulled the trigger.
The power of the weapon’s report was matched by the man’s bellow and followed a second later by the spit of return fire coming from the hotel’s front door. Gideon pushed. The man caved. Gideon threw himself on top of the clerk, slammed the door.
“Drive,” he yelled. “Drive!”
The rear window shattered.
For the second time in less than three hours, the taxi peeled away from the raunchy neighborhood of the Cárcan hostel.
Logan drove blindly. Madly. Weaving through traffic until Gideon’s voice finally registered.
Gideon was on top of the clerk, head inches from Logan’s, yelling, “Slow the fuck down, they’re not following us and you’re going to get us killed!”
From the tone, Gideon must have been repeating that mantra for a good minute now. Logan nodded, eased off the gas.
This was what adrenaline should be. This was a jacked-up heart rate, and nothing at all like the rush he got racing motorcycles or BASE jumping.
There was a moment of silence, and then as the reality of the moment sunk in, both he and Gideon burst into laughter. Their cackle was manic, the hilarity of insanity that calmed only when Logan said, “We’re drawing attention, get off the guy.”
The clerk, face to the seat, hands still behind his back and legs at an odd angle, had stopped struggling. Gideon shifted. Made sure the guy was still alive, and then with one hand, did a quick inspection of the leg. The wound was a clean through-and-through, muscle tissue, the slug somewhere in the seat cushion. Blood was pooling, but not fast enough to be serious. The clerk would live. Maybe.
Gideon tore the guy’s shirt, took what he wanted, and wrapped the leg to stanch the bleeding, and then slid into the front seat. The clerk turned so that his face was to the front.
“Sos un hombre muerto,” he hissed at Gideon. “A dead man. Both of you.”
Gideon pointed the gun at the man’s head. He said, “Bang,” and then ignored the insults that followed.
Logan got his bearings and changed course. They were heading out of town. Someplace deserted and quiet. Someplace where screaming wouldn’t raise an alarm.
Chapter 33
Awareness came slowly, a haze of sensory pulses that invaded the darkness and brought Munroe fully awake. She was seated. Chin on her chest, feet bound to the legs of a metal folding chair, hands secured behind it. Not by handcuffs, duct tape, or zip ties.
Her mind worked. Struggled toward lucidity.
Rope. Thin rope. Lots of it.
Idiots.
Whatever was wrapped around her eyes had been bound tight, and not even a kiss of light reached her eyelids. To her left were voices, raucous conversation, men sitting around a nearby table. Their volume and language spoke to playing cards or some other game of chance. These men—four of them, by the distinctness of tone—were unconcerned with her. They were killing time. Waiting.
Each sound, each smell brought with it a mental snapshot to create a composite of what she couldn’t see. There was no tell of a nearby guard, no restless feet or fidgeting fingers, no rustle of clothing, no breathing.
Cigarette smoke hung in the air, not heavy, as it would be in a small space; it dissipated in the same way the voices did. This place was large. Cavernous. Munroe gauged ten feet between her and the men at the table, maybe fifteen, no more than that. They’d set her off to the side, alone, with her face toward them, trusting that she was secure.
Such basic blunders made it easy to lower the estimate of threat, but she wouldn’t make the same mistake these men had. They would learn that to underestimate an opponent was the fastest route to getting dead.
Chin to chest, as if she were still unconscious, Munroe’s fingers worked, wrists twisted until they found the slightest bit of slack, pushing, prodding until she had enough play to slip free. Well-oiled rollers slid along tracks somewhere across the cavern behind her, pausing the escape.
She stopped to listen.
Doors easing open.
This place was a warehouse.
Only the faintest noise filtered in from the outside, no cars or horns, no pedestrians, no music.
A warehouse outside of town.
The rollers made a return trip, and the purr of a well-machined car engine drew close, shut off. The conversation around the table stopped. Chairs scraped against the floor. Feet shuffled. A car door opened. Shut. Followed by another.
Footsteps drew away from the table, toward the chair, and then fingers, hands, released the blindfold.
Munroe blinked.
The lighting inside the warehouse came from industrial lamps beside the worktable, and although the glare was easily swallowed by the building, the wattage was painful after having been forced into complete darkness.
Munroe winced, staring at the man in front of her.
She had expected someone from the Cárcan family to show, had planned on it, knowing that until the boss had a chance at her they’d keep her alive, a deliberate delay that would buy time not only for Bradford and Hannah but also for herself. That the tormentor had to be the guy who’d groped her in the Ranch hallway was an unfortunate twist.
He stared at her now, looking down in a long-drawn-out silence that spread to the men on either side of him. Munroe’s face relaxed from wince to deadpan. The boss man grinned, and his men remained motionless. He then stood back, forefinger and thumb to chin in an exaggerated pretense of thought.
He wagged his finger at her. “I know you,” he said.
Pulling at the knees of his slacks, the man lowered to a half-squat so that he was eye to eye.
“Yes,” he said. “I do know you.”
Munroe stayed silent, eyes glazed over in a stare of noncomprehension and ignorance. Her eyes didn’t track him when he stood, didn’t follow when he turned to whisper to one of the men that remained behind him. Now that she could see, could fully assess the situation, this Cárcan son was the least interesting object in the vast empty space.
Instead, her eyes darted to the table and then searched upward along the walls and around the circle, seeking out a way to escape, scouting for anything that could be turned into a weapon: instantaneous survival assessment of who, what, when, where, and how. She already knew the why.
The floors were smooth concrete, the walls cinder block, and the roof, fifty feet up, was of corrugated metal. The direction of echoes spoke to the warehouse being empty; the worktable near the wall and the lights around it seemed to be the only objects there.
The four men who had originally sat around the table had been joined by two more who’d arrived with the boss. All six stood on either side of him in a hungry, uneven semicircle, each carrying firearms, most of which were holstered and a few held in waistbands.
The men were similar only in their build—thick and stocky from too many hours spent in the gym. In contrast, their boss was slight and otherwise undistinguished apart from his expensive clothes and what Munroe already knew was an overdeveloped ego.
She absorbed the placement of men and weapons, each detail filtering into awareness with the accuracy of echolocation,
an appraisal that was swift and instinctual, made in less time than it had taken for the boss man to turn and speak.
It was difficult to predict the odds of survival. She’d fought against larger groups, but never in such a defined space, and never from a position of weakness. Speed was her friend, was always her friend, speed born from the will to survive when night after night she was hunted down and forced to defend herself in order to live. Agile and able to move faster than expected, she could handle four or five who were not trained military but thugs. Seven was pushing against reason.
Munroe’s eyes returned front, to the boss man’s second, the one to whom the boss had turned and whispered, the one who now strode toward her.
The second was the broadest and shortest of the seven, and he didn’t pause in his approach. When his feet stopped moving, his arm continued on, fist connecting with Munroe’s face. The blow, hard and dizzying, would have knocked her off the chair had she not braced for it, and were she not strapped to the chair.
Munroe shook her head to clear the dizziness. The telltale trickle flowed from the corner of her mouth, and the stabbing pain brought a hint of smile to her lips. Her heart began to beat the march to destruction.
The boss came close again to look at her swelling face, and she studied his. Her vision blurred to gray, the borders of sight narrowing to feral focus, the lust for blood, for retribution, rising, while long years of practice in pulling back the urge kept her from striking.
Bradford’s words scrolled against the back of her mind.
Have you ever considered that it’s not always wrong to kill?
The boss said, “¿Donde está la niña? Where did you send her?”
Munroe’s eyes glazed again, stayed focused ahead, as if his words held no meaning. The boss nodded to his second, and the man stepped forward again, struck again. The hit was harder. Set her ears ringing.
The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel Page 27
