Santiago opened his mouth to respond, but the conversation was interrupted.
Knock. Knock.
Logan and Cole exchanged glances.
“He’s alone. I confirmed it with Jake earlier,” Cole said quietly, referring to Jake Benson, the director of the FBI and one of the senior members of Task Force Ares.
“Great. More variables,” Logan said softly. Events were happening faster than they’d anticipated. And we still don’t know where the meeting is supposed to be tomorrow, he thought to himself. But I bet your new friend does.
“You didn’t order room service, did you?” Logan said, hoping beyond all hope that was the case, even though it would be one of the worst decisions a covert operative in a foreign country could make—invite company to your ad hoc base of operations.
“Of course not,” Santiago said, slightly offended.
Logan nodded at Cole and holstered the Glock 19 in an inside-the-waistband Kydex holster inside his khaki lightweight trousers, the suppressor extending farther down than was comfortable. The dark-blue polo hung over the pistol grip, concealing the weapon. Cole followed suit, as Santiago sat quietly, watching the two men.
Knock-knock-knock.
The sharp thuds increased in tempo, heightening the tension in the room.
“I didn’t think so,” Logan said. “Here’s how this is going to play out.” The moment he said it, part of his brain rebelled, reminding him of the countless times his plans had gone off the rails the second the tactical train had left the station. Good luck with that.
* * *
Santiago looked through the peephole and blinked, as if in disbelief at what he saw. It can’t be. For the first time during his time on the island, a brief moment of panic burrowed itself into his gut, and then it faded. So be it. He exhaled, closed his eyes, and opened the door.
Two smiling Venezuelan faces that masked the cold personas beneath met his gaze through the gap in the door. “Hello, Santiago,” a forty-something handsome man with short brown hair cut in a flattop said. While his lips were spread in a smile, his dark eyes were hostile, malevolent intent dancing in them.
“What brings you this way, Hugo?” Santiago said to the SEBIN chief inspector in charge of the immediate action unit responsible for counterguerrilla operations inside Venezuela. Notorious for a streak of cruelty fully expressed in bodies and blood, his presence sent a wave of dread through Santiago. “This is way outside your area of responsibility. If you’re here, you obviously know what I’m doing here and who sent me.”
Hugo pushed his way into the room, and the door swung back against the wall to the right, forcing Santiago backward into the room, almost adjacent to the bed. He was followed by a young man no older than twenty-five. He was at least six feet tall with dyed blond hair that reminded Santiago of one of those pop artists he’d seen his daughter watch on Hispanic TV. While Hugo at least feigned a bad attempt at pleasantries, his protégé had not learned the subtle art of deception. He glared down at Santiago—two full inches shorter—with contempt as he entered the room and positioned himself next to the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar.
Hugo stopped several feet inside the room and paused as if contemplating whether or not to fully enter the room. “I do, but like you, someone very powerful sent me to stop you.” It was stated as a matter of resolved fact, devoid of doubt.
“That’s not going to happen, Hugo,” Santiago said.
The painful grimace vanished instantly from Hugo’s face. “Do you think you actually have a choice? Why do you think my young friend, Eriko, is here?”
At the sound of his name, the Venezuelan wannabe pop star withdrew a matte-black knife with his right hand from the back of his brown trousers. As Santiago examined the blade with his eyes, Eriko smiled and ran his finger across the serrated back of the straight four-and-a-half-inch blade.
“Is that supposed to be for me?” Santiago asked, a tone of amusement in his voice.
Expecting fear or acquiescence and surprised by the absence of both, Eriko glanced at Hugo for reassurance and started to take a step forward.
“You really should have thought this out a little better, young Eriko,” Santiago said.
The words forced the young man to pause, momentarily ceasing his forward momentum.
From within the darkened bathroom, an arm shot through the opening, followed by the imposing figure of Logan West. As his left hand latched on to the back of Eriko’s wrist, Hugo’s eyes widened, a reaction that was cut short as the closet door less than a foot away to his left slid open like two panels of an accordion, and Cole Matthews launched himself at the SEBIN chief inspector.
The plan was to take them alive, and Logan raised Eriko’s arm upward, rotated toward the younger man, and delivered a solid punch to his rib cage. He felt the man gasp in surprise, and he hit him again. Eriko buckled slightly, but he held on to the knife, refusing to release the only advantage he had.
Rather than waste another upper body blow, Logan swept his left foot forward behind Eriko as he grabbed his right shoulder and pulled him backward. His properly executed move knocked the man off balance as his right foot was swept out from underneath him. Eriko, with only one leg to support him and Logan pulling him backward and down, crashed into the nightstand, his upper back slamming into the upper edge. The nightstand was propelled into the wall, and the impact sent the lone night lamp into a violent wobble.
Logan grabbed Eriko’s wrist with both hands and kicked him in the ribs, hoping the pain would uncurl the death grip on the knife. Come on already, kid. Let the fucking knife go. He bent his wrist backward and adjusted his feet, so that he was leaning toward Eriko, hoping to break his wrist and secure the knife.
Had Eriko just released the blade and sat still, he likely would have avoided calamity. Unfortunately, Hugo had selected Eriko for his athleticism and willingness to unleash it on anyone that his superiors deemed enemies of the state. He was a violent young man not known for his tactical prowess or excellent judgment. A tough decision for Eriko was whether to wear a brown belt with black shoes, not how to execute a complicated hostage rescue mission. In this case, his decision-making doomed him.
As the lamp toppled over and off the table, Eriko pulled his right leg in, kicked outward at Logan’s shin, and released the knife. He pulled his arm backward in a last-ditch effort to grab the falling lamp and wield it as a weapon.
In his mind, he saw himself smashing the lamp into the side of his attacker’s head, picking up the knife, and killing the second man in the room, proving himself to be the hero his twisted logic told him he was.
Unfortunately, the kick knocked Logan off-balance, and he fell forward, holding the knife, which was aimed at Eriko’s throat. Oh no, Logan thought, and tried to redirect the point of the blade. All that did was guide the point of the knife directly into the right side of Eriko’s neck, slicing his carotid cleanly and cleaving a bloody gash along his neck.
Blood spurted into the air in a warm gush and across Logan’s face, burning his eyes and filling his nostrils with the smell of copper. He dropped to his knees, and his left hand kept him upright as the right hand still held the knife that he’d pulled out of the dying man’s neck. Eager to see, he rolled to his right, sat on his haunches, and rubbed the blood out of his eyes.
The image before him sent a flash of the Sudanese prison through the window of his mind, the knife penetrating the wounded monster’s neck, and the final twist for all to see that ended his evil existence. Great fucking memories, for sure, he thought, temporarily sickened.
Blood pumped out of the side of Eriko’s neck as his eyes fixed on Logan’s, his body spasmodically jerking in its final moments. His eyes blazed intently in defiance, as if cursing Logan. His pupils suddenly dilated, and his eyes went vacant, leaving the glassy-eyed expression that Logan knew too well. Nothingness.
He felt a slight twinge of guilt, but then his warrior’s mind reminded him, He pulled a knife. He wasn’t going to use it to t
aunt Santiago. He was going to kill him. He made a bad choice, like all the others before him. His hardened resolve back in control, he started to stand when a single gunshot roared across the room.
When Logan had ambushed the young killer with the knife, Cole had blindsided Hugo. He’d crushed him into the wall and slammed his own right shoulder into the man’s left side, but to his surprise, Hugo had absorbed the blow, turned toward Cole, and delivered an uppercut that glanced off Cole’s jaw. Momentarily stunned, Cole had turned his head away and reached out. He’d locked his hands behind Hugo’s neck and delivered a powerful knee to the Venezuelan’s midsection.
His knee had struck something solid—metal—and he’d looked down to see Hugo attempt to withdraw a black compact pistol from inside his waistband. Cole’s tactical mind had changed his thought process from subdue to survive, and reflexively, he’d released his left hand from the back of Hugo’s head, reached down, and grabbed the barrel of the semiautomatic. He’d yanked the pistol up and away from his face. For a reason unknown to Cole, Hugo had already placed his finger inside the trigger guard, and the movement of the weapon caused his finger to pull backward on the trigger.
Bam!
Cole’s ears rang from the proximity of the shot, but it could’ve been worse. He glanced up into the face of Hugo, which was now missing the lower back right half of his jaw as the round had shattered it on its path into his brain, killing him. Blood and bone speckled Cole’s tan polo. Damn. Should’ve worn a darker color.
He yanked the pistol out of the dead man’s hands, let the body slump to the floor, and turned to see how Logan had fared against the other man.
A thick, viscous pool of blood lay on top of the nightstand, and blood still flowed—although at a slower rate—from the man’s destroyed neck. The lower half of Logan’s face was red as if covered with Native American war paint.
“Jesus, man. Did you have to do that?” Cole said, out of concern not for the loss of the young man’s life but for the mess it had created in the room. “No way housecleaning is going to go for this one.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Glass House,” Logan said, and nodded behind Cole.
Cole turned and saw the mess of blood and tiny chunks of flesh that had covered part of the wall. “Damn. Guy had his finger on the trigger. Who does that?”
“Someone looking to use it immediately,” Santiago said, speaking for the first time since the violent encounter had begun. Who are these two men? They seemed too disconcertingly comfortable with the level of violence they’d just perpetrated on two men they didn’t know. And then he realized the glaring truth of his mission: there’s a reason you were sent to find Logan West. He instinctively knew that the scene that had just played out inside his room might be only the tip of the proverbial iceberg when it came to the two Americans.
“Who were they?” Logan asked, placed the knife on the bed, and reached for his cell phone from his left rear pants pocket. “I need to know, and I need to know now, but I also need to call our embassy before we all end up in whatever passes for jail down here. I don’t do well behind bars.”
“That’s a fact,” Cole said, remembering how they’d been incapacitated and held—temporarily—in a Sudanese prison that didn’t officially exist.
“SEBIN, like me,” Santiago replied, “but much more ruthless and cruel.”
“You might have some explaining to do back home, in that case,” Logan said as the other end of the line started ringing.
“More concerning is how they knew I was here,” Santiago said. “I literally only spoke to two—”
Bang!
The hotel door flung inward as parts of the lock shattered. Cole instinctively dove backward into the room, lifting his newly acquired FNS-9 compact 9mm pistol toward the new threat.
A third man stood at the entrance, and at the sight of Hugo’s corpse, lifted his own FNS-9 and opened fire as Cole Matthews did the same midair.
Crack-cr-cr-crack-crack!
The series of shots was deafening. Two rounds shattered the sliding glass door, but Cole’s return fire strayed high. He slammed on to his back with a thud, ensuring his finger was off the trigger to prevent a negligent discharge.
Just as quickly, the man disappeared down the hallway to the left, even as Logan darted for the door in pursuit.
Logan reached the door as Cole scrambled to his feet and followed, shouting at Santiago, “Stay here. We’ll be back.” There was no time to argue.
Logan looked left and then glanced right, and saw a second figure fleeing down the opposite hallway. He turned to Cole and said, “Another guy just went this way. You get him. I’ve got the shooter.” He vanished out the doorway to the left.
Here we go again, Cole thought, as he dashed out of the entrance and turned right.
CHAPTER 5
Logan sprinted down the hall, but his quarry had a head start, hitting the T-intersection at the north end of the Coral Towers. In a flash, the man in the dark-green polo and tan chinos fled left around the corner. Logan ran harder, twenty yards from the end of the hall. He heard a door slam as the fleeing man hit the opener on the stairwell door. If he makes it to the ground floor, he’s gone, Logan thought, remembering the endless paths and buildings the man could use to easily disappear.
Logan reached the corner, slowed down only as much as necessary to avoid barreling into the hotel room across the intersection, and sped up, the stairwell door closing twenty feet away.
Within seconds, he covered the distance, blew through the door, and bounded down the steps two at a time. He heard another door slam open at the bottom. Move faster, or he’s gone.
His body responded, and a moment later, he arrived at the bottom floor and crashed through the door into the warm, humid, relaxing breeze of the Bahamian night. The man was nowhere to be seen. He forced himself to be still, inhaled to control his gasping lungs, and held his breath.
The faint thwap thwap thwap of soft-sole shoes fleeing down a path to his right into the illuminated network of walkways reached his ears. That’s all I need, he thought, and started running once again.
It. Never. Fucking. Ends, he thought in between controlled breaths, closing in on his prey.
* * *
For Cole Matthews, having the gun only added a layer of chaos and complexity to the foot pursuit. His target had run to the southern end of the hotel, turned left, and disappeared into the stairwell.
A hotel room door fifteen feet ahead of him opened up, and an older, distinguished-looking couple dressed for an evening of dining and entertainment stepped into the hallway. The woman, attractive with graying hair and a sparkling gray-sequined dress, let out a quick gasp at the running figure of Cole Matthews holding a gun and covered in blood.
“Sorry, folks, but I’m actually the good guy,” was all he thought to say as he dashed past them, hit the intersection, and followed the only way out. I’m sure that calmed them down and allayed all their concerns, idiot, his mind snapped.
Like Logan, Cole hit the door, pursued the man down the stairs, and found himself outside on the east side of the tower, facing another network of walkways that led to numerous pools, the conference center, the Beach Towers, and golf course. Where the hell does this guy think he’s going?
A flash of movement to his left disappearing around a curve into the overhanging palm trees caught his attention. He followed, lampposts faintly illuminating the way ahead. Fortunately, foot traffic was relatively light on the east side of the hotel, as most of the vacationers were getting ready for a night at the restaurants, shops, and casino. The absence of people also cut down on the ambient noise, allowing him to follow the footsteps trying to evade him. Good luck with that.
Less than a minute later, he emerged into an opening, and he realized he was at one of the many kids’ pools. A giant, round, vertical water fountain resembling a mushroom on a ten-foot stalk that poured water onto enthralled children below during the day stood like a sentry in the middle of the abandoned poo
l. A statue of the upper body of Neptune, trident in hand, reaching outstretched for the heavens, rested on top of the fountain. Cool trident, Cole thought, and recalled the voice of Brick from Ron Burgundy, “I killed a guy with a trident.” Well, I hope it doesn’t come to that here, Cole thought, and ran through the deserted pool and down another walkway.
He realized he was headed toward the beach and the villas when he heard a shout from twenty yards in front of him, and he redoubled his efforts, moving quickly through the gloom of dusk.
* * *
Logan ran through the maze of walkways, trees, and lampposts and emerged at another decision point. He heard the footfalls of the shooter, closer and from his left, but a much louder sound reverberated throughout the area—waterfalls—and he realized where he was, the rope bridge at Predator Lagoon.
Spanning the north side of the lagoon was a wooden 110-foot rope bridge just above the water adjacent to the man-made waterfalls that served as a barrier between the resort and the sandy beach beyond. It was a woven latticework of rope and wood that formed a tube across the lagoon, its sides rising more than seven feet above the surface to prevent the wayward tourist from plunging over the side into the predator-filled water.
Logan saw the east entrance to the bridge and the fleeing figure already ten feet across it. He kept running and hit the bridge, gaining ground. The bridge swayed in the breeze from the pounding of the two men dashing across its suspended boards. The sensation was slightly unsettling, but the cargo netting sent Logan back momentarily to the infamous obstacle and combat endurance courses at Officer Candidate School. At least I don’t have to go through the fucking Quigley again, he thought, remembering the claustrophobia he’d first experienced when his foot had become stuck going into the submerged, narrow concrete tube. He’d been upside down on his back, muddy, cold water filling his lungs at the first sensation of panic in the dark before his boot had dislodged itself. The good old days, when you were young and stupid . . . and hadn’t killed dozens of men, justifiably or not.
Rules of War Page 3
