by Vonnie Davis
He pressed the barrel of his gun under her chin. “I was never his friend. Never. Being head of the team in Chile should have been my job. DB had promised it to me. My security clearance was higher. My experience more extensive. But, no, Buck Gallagher saw to it that the position went to his son. Thought the undercover involvement would make a man out of him.”
T-Bone snorted. “I’ll confess the little shit did a decent job. Learned a lot of good intel. Too much, in fact. I had to keep Renata busy humping the kid so I could go about my business. Poor schmuck insisted the mole was back in DC.” He ran his tongue up her cheek, and she shuddered. “Hell, one of them was me all the time.”
The other guy slipped his hand under her nightgown, up her leg. “Chris, why don’t we just go ahead and do her? We can videotape each other. Aw, fuck, she ain’t got no hair. She shaves her cunt. What a fuckin’ turn-on.” His finger stroked over her and if she could have gotten her hands on him, she’d have choked him until his eyes bulged out.
“Not now. Maybe tomorrow, Kyle, after the younger two leave.”
Chris produced a hypodermic needle. “You’re going to have a long night without something to help you sleep.”
Kyle kept touching her and peering at her privates as if he was fascinated by it. He rubbed his obvious erection. “She’s a no-good cunt. Let me have her now.”
If Chris put her to sleep again, what was to keep horny Kyle from coming in here and doing things to her? She had to make a plea.
“No, you’ll make me sick and then I won’t be of any use to you.” She didn’t want his dirty hands giving her an injection. Here she lay, tied up on some filthy mattress, in a deserted building with a gun pressed to her neck and she was worried about someone needing to wash his hands. What about the hand that kept stroking her intimately? Her skin started to crawl, and she fought the urge to throw up. She hadn’t wanted any man to touch her there except Quinn.
Chris slipped the gun into the waistband of his jeans before he tore open a packaged alcohol wipe with his teeth and rubbed the material over the inside bend of her elbow. Struggling was no use with both her arms and ankles tied to the bed with ropes.
“It’s not that potent. Just a small amount of Lorazepam, enough to put you out for a few hours so I don’t have to keep checking on you.” There was a prick and a slight burning where he injected the drug.
“You’ll be out for three or four hours while my brothers and I play the latest Skylanders SWAT Force game. We like the volume high, so we can get the game’s full effect. That’s one nice thing about this part of town. No one bothers us if we make a little racket.”
He ran his tongue up her face again and she swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. “See how thoughtful I am to put you to sleep so you don’t hear the noise?” He cupped her breast again and pinched her nipple to the point of pain.
She refused to show any response.
“By the time you wake up, I’ll be ready for a little diversion. Think I’ll take that selfie for Quinn. Kyle and I might both have to screw you a few times before I kill you.” He laughed. “Yeah, set up a camera and record it for Quinn to watch.
I never got to do that when I screwed Renata. We had this little signal though. If Quinn spent the night, she’d sing to him in the mornings. Then I’d know not to come knocking at her door. Tell me, does he still mourn her?”
Cassie’s eyelids grew heavy and her thinking fuzzy. She imagined he talked about Montana and taking her there so he could keep torturing Quinn with pictures of them together. If this whack-job thought he could hold her captive and live to tell about it, he’d never met a Wolford before. He couldn’t keep her drugged all the time. The first chance she got she’d show him what the ugly in the word bitch meant. Okay, so she was never good at spelling, but she knew how to crush a man’s balls.
****
Milt could barely close the lid to his trunk. “Good God A-mighty, I haven’t seen this many weapons since that movie with Bruce Willis, that weird John Malkovich and Helen Mirren. Man, she’s one hot dame.”
Quinn helped him slam the lid. “You mean ‘Red’? Cassie and I loved both those movies. She keeps telling me to shave my head like Bruce.” Just the mention of her name and all the things they’d done together, everyday things like jogging, watching movies and texting like crazy, reminded him of happy times. How could he have loved her so much and never realized it?
Milt stepped closer and glanced at the rest of the guys before he spoke. “I’m a little worried about you.”
“How so?”
“What if you have one of those flashbacks in the middle of all this?” The old man flung his hand in the direction of the men separating equipment into piles. “You got any techniques you use?” Quinn looked away and shook his head. “Melvin, that’s my brother who got them, used to use a focal point when he felt one coming on. Sometimes they hit him so fast he didn’t have time to do anything, but when he felt the shakes and the sweats start, he’d relive the high-school championship basketball game. The other team was one point ahead, and Melvin had the ball. He dribbled down the court, glanced at the clock and saw three seconds left in the game. Three seconds, man. He was never the best at long shots. He was better under the rim, but his team needed him. So he made the long shot and the basket and won the game. He relived that moment time and time again through a helluva lot of flashbacks.”
Does this old man know how freakin’ much I hate basketball?
“If I was you,” Milt tapped Quinn’s stomach, “I’d think about the day Cassie unloaded your U-Haul and got ahold of your saxophone. If that wasn’t a day and a half.” He snorted. “Her making that awful racket and every dog in the apartment complex howling like it was a full moon. Think on that, son. Make it your focal point. Hang on to it for dear life until the flashback passes.”
Quinn stared at the man. God, he loved the old fart. He could get on a person’s nerves in a heartbeat, but he cared about people. “Thank you, sir, I’ll try my best to do that.”
“Good boy. Good boy. I gotta tell you, for a retiree whose high point of the day is spying on the neighbors, this night is one kick in the ass.” Milt practically bounced on his sandaled feet.
“You’ll have to check with Noah for instructions on how much of this you can share with anyone. He’ll debrief you on this entire mission.”
Milt’s head bobbed. “Top secret, huh?”
Quinn glanced over his shoulder at the rough-looking man who’d delivered the arms and ammo. There was something half creepy about the dude. “Yeah, Milt, top secret. This whole operation might be labeled that way.”
Like how did Quinn’s dad know about Barclay’s beach cottages? Only his closest friends at the station were aware Barclay had recently inherited the property from his uncle. His family legacy was five small, beachside bungalows too dilapidated to rent to tourists. Yet Quinn’s dad was familiar with these cabins in Indian Rocks Beach, not far from the Intracoastal Waterway bridge that became the well-traveled highway into Tampa. Still, Quinn had to admit, Barclay’s private property, hidden among palms of various sizes, was the ideal place to make the switch of equipment.
An hour earlier, when the muscled, silent man had opened the back doors of a black van marked “Sam’s Catering”, every ex-military man on the team acted like they’d gotten an instant woody. Words of “come to poppa,” or “I’m in love,” and “fuck me running” floated in the dark night. There were cases of guns, infra-red goggles, mobile communication devices, hand grenades as well as 30mm grenades, M320 grenade launchers mounted on M4 carbines, Mk48 machine guns, ammo, body armor, and both magazine and grenade pouches.
Now that the cases were either loaded into Milt’s trunk or stacked on the ground to divide between the men, the driver of the black van reached across the front seat and retrieved a clipboard. “Which one of you gentlemen is Quinn Gallagher?”
“That would be me.” He moved to stand in front of the stranger.
“According
to my instructions, I need both you and retired Major Noah Steele to sign these forms.” Quinn scrawled his name before handing the clipboard to Noah, and who the hell knew he’d been a Major? Noah had certainly kept that bit of information to himself. Once Noah signed, he handed the pages back to the man with a military bearing.
“Here’s an envelope for each of you.” He saluted them both. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.” Whoever he was hopped in his van and drove off.
Noah tore open his manila envelope and removed the thick set of papers. Using a flashlight, he scanned the pages. “Well, hell, guys, looks like we are now a temporary team of mercenaries, operating under the name Steele and Associates, assigned by the US Government to arrest one Christopher Mason and any of his accomplices for espionage, treason and kidnapping. We are authorized to use lethal force, if necessary.” A round of “hoo-rahs” and “fuckin’ A’s” were uttered.
“Hell, we even get paid, and damn fine, too, thanks to these enclosed checks from a DB Enterprises Incorporated account at Bank of America.” Noah turned to Quinn. “How did your dad know the name of every man going on this mission? Even Milt?”
“Hell, beats me.” I’m beginning to feel like he’s looking over my shoulder every freaking minute of the day.
Noah stared at him for a few seconds. “According to these orders, anything we do from this point out is legal as shit on a shingle.” He held a card. “For all fatalities, we are to call this number for pickup. We’re to use the same number if there are any survivors, although it is not advised there be any. They are our clean-up crew.”
“They’ve ordered a kill mission.” Wolf exchanged looks with Noah.
Ryder elbowed Quinn. “Damn, your old man must carry some heavy influence. Open your envelope and tell us what yours says.”
Quinn broke the seal and removed two sheets of paper. The first was handwritten. Short and concise. “Forgive me. According to your mother, I’ve been a pompous fool. And we both know the woman is never wrong. Stay safe so I have a chance to make things right.” On the second sheet, in a broad stroke of a Sharpie was one word: “Grandchildren!”
“Yeah, well I’ve got another word for you, buddy.” Wolf elbowed him. “Wedding. You knock up my sister before you put a wedding band on her finger and I’ll slice off your effin’ balls.”
The whole team was shining penlights over Quinn’s shoulder, laughing at the one-word command and Wolf’s reaction to it.
“Pompous ass never did have an ounce of patience.” Still, the thought of Cassie carrying his child wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe in a year or two. For now, he’d count himself the luckiest guy alive to cover her heart-shaped face with kisses and tell her how precious she was to him. This mission had to succeed or both of their lives would end in one manner or another.
Ryder and Jace took the dark-blue van Ryder kept equipped with surveillance monitors for use on his second job. Once in place up the street from the warehouse, plans were for Milt to exit the Cutlass and join Jace to monitor all audio and visual communication.
Following the van, Milt drove the Cutlass into Tampa with Wolf riding shotgun. Noah, Quinn and Barclay took the backseat.
Once they eased their vehicles into place, they put on their night-vision goggles and mobile communication devices. Milt shook each man’s hand before he hopped into the van with Jace.
With quiet efficiency, the rest of the team slipped into their body armor and slung ammo and grenade pouches around their necks. Each took an M4 carbine with grenade launchers attached and an Mk48 machine gun. Noah did a final check of his own sniper rifle mounted with an infra-red scope.
While checking the volumes on everyone’s mobile communication earpieces, Jace told them that microphones Ryder had set up earlier indicated four occupants of the building were busy playing a video game. “Sounds like Chris is whipping everyone’s ass.”
“Wait until he finds out what it’s like to really get his ass whipped.” Wolf reached for his machine gun, looping belts of ammo over his shoulders.
Noah took off on a silent run, his objective to take a sniper position on the roof of the building across the street. Barclay, the Ice Man, who had the reputation of moving like a ghost, would enter the building before anyone else. Ryder was going in as point man, followed by Wolf. Once Barclay, Ryder and Wolf gave Quinn the “all clear” signal—three taps to their mouthpiece—he was scaling the side of the building after his woman. By prior agreement, no vocal communication would take place to alert Chris or his cohorts. The three inside guys would take care of any occupants in the building. Noah would take out any who tried to exit the building and run. And, come hell or high water, Quinn would rescue Cassie.
The body-heat sensors Ryder had put in place, when he and Barclay did their earlier recon run, showed four humans in a room on the second floor and another in a prone position in a room down the hall. Jace transmitted the information to the men. Milt evidently counted the windows to the room that held the prone body they suspected to be Cassie and relayed that count to Quinn’s earpiece. Quinn raised his hand in acknowledgment.
The plans they’d gone over and over, back at the fire station and again under the palm trees at Barclay’s deserted cabins, until every step was embedded into their brains like how to change a flat tire on a car, were for Quinn to get Cassie free and clear of the building before the inside threesome opened fire. Plan B was for him to protect her with his life—as if he wouldn’t anyhow—if the rest of the team were discovered before he got her out. And if a flashback started, he’d think about Cassie playing the hell out of Uncle Mat’s saxophone—if he had the time before it overtook his mind.
Quinn tossed a grappling hook to the sill of the window Milt had indicated and climbed the side of the building, looping the rope around the arch of his foot for support. He pulled the crowbar Velcroed to the side of his leg and began the process of prying the rusted nails from the boards covering the window. Breezes blew palm fronds against his face, jogging his memories of the rain tropics of South America. Focus on the mission. Only the mission. Only Cassie.
He swayed back and forth until he braced himself against the building with his other foot. In the end, doing so was a good thing. It gave him extra leverage to pull out what few nails there were. And, thanks be to God, the glass that should have been behind the boards was gone. Two large palm trees and their fronds that brushed the side of the building, reminded him of the coves and inlets on the coastline of Chile.
He placed the two boards and crowbar on the floor of the darkened room as quietly as he could and crawled inside. By the sound of Cassie’s gentle snoring, she was asleep. To keep her from waking up and making any fuss once she realized he was there, Quinn tapped his mouthpiece two quick times and then once to signal to the rest of the team he was inside.
He waited for their copy signal.
And waited.
Sweat poured from his body. His hands shook. What if none of his team was alive to respond? What if this mission failed too? He breathed deep, the memory of Cassie honking on the sax reverberating through his mind until he heard two quick taps followed by one from each of his squad members.
It was then he recognized he’d slumped onto the floor, leaned against the wall, his knees drawn to his chest and his gaze fixated on the woman he loved, lying on the bed. As awareness took hold, he realized he’d been chanting her name in a gravelly murmur.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The hand that clasped over Cassie’s mouth jarred her awake, sending her into panic. Her heart pounded in her ears. It was a hand, right? Or was she dreaming? At least the hand wasn’t touching her privates or her boobs.
Lips moved against her ear. “Angel?”
She was dreaming. The whispered word was soft and strangely urgent. Only one person called her by that nickname. Oh yeah, she had to be dreaming. Safety warmed and flooded her soul at the sound of his voice. How could Quinn know where she was or how could he have gotten inside the building unnotice
d? Whatever. This was one great dream.
“Angel. Nod once if you can hear me, baby.”
She complied. If this is a dream, please let it continue through the night. Let me find shelter in the sound of Quinn’s voice.
“We’ve got a team here to get you out. Wolf, Jace, Ryder, Barclay, Noah. Hell, even Milt is here. But you must be quiet. No noise. Understood?”
Her drug-hazed mind slowly comprehended what he was saying. Was this…could this really be happening? She shook her head.
He repeated his words, and they permeated her sleepy, drug-induced mental state. A team? They’d come to rescue her? Those men wouldn’t touch her again? She started sobbing, and Quinn pressed kisses to her face, whispering words of reassurance. “I love you. Did you think I wouldn’t come for you? I’m going to remove my hand now. Remember. No noise.” As soon as his hand left her mouth, his lips covered it, pouring out all the worry and relief she could sense pulsating from his body.
When the kiss finally ended, she whispered, “Put your ear to my mouth.” He did and she told him about the buzzer under her pillow. Once the weight of her head left the pillow, the buzzer would alert Chris.
He shifted his head to whisper in her ear. “I’m going to cut your ropes. Then alert the guys. Be prepared for some gunfire. No screaming. Just do whatever I tell you. Okay, angel?”
She nodded. Gunfire? The guys must have brought along some pistols.
Quinn slipped a knife from his boot and cut the ropes at her ankles, briskly massaging them to get the circulation going. “I brought along slippers for your feet. Stretchy like we use for fire victims.” His voice remained at whisper level. He covered her feet with the slippers and then ran the knife under the ropes at her arms and wrists. His strong hands rubbed her arms and he kissed the pulse points of her wrists while he rubbed the areas around them. Once more he put his lips to her ear. This time the ornery cuss ran his tongue around the edge of it. “Hold on while I notify the team.”
