Pitbull (SEAL Team Alpha Book 10)

by Zoe Dawson

  Hemingway tapped Dodger’s shoulder and pointed with the muzzle of his sidearm he’d purchased along with the twin knives concealed under his pants legs.

  He listened carefully, but then heard something metallic coming from the upper level. The sound of a blender whirred, and they both moved, knowing the sound would cover their footsteps.

  At the base of the stairs, they paused. They could hear the movements of the inhabitant above them. A phone sounded, breaking the relative stillness.

  The guy spoke in Portuguese and solidified that Hemingway now had the notorious Picador.

  They heard his progressive steps above them and took cover behind several large stacks of crates.

  He came down the stairs and headed to the secured door while still talking about delivery timetables on the phone. The sound of a pressurized lock releasing made a whooshing noise as the door swung open. Inside, they could see a sophisticated security monitoring system and a laptop on the table.

  Jackpot.

  He set the phone down and exited the room, heading toward the back of the warehouse. He and Dodger slipped out of the boxes and followed him.

  “Hands up,” Hemingway said in Portuguese.

  Without warning the man whirled and something black flew from his hand, catching Dodger at his temple. He went down hard.

  Hemingway fired. It met its mark, lower ribcage, and the guy flung forward. No blood. Kevlar, fuck him. Then it hit, and Hemingway realized it was a bola whip. It snapped around the weapon, the clackers smashing against his wrist, jerking the weapon out of his hold. The assault rifle flew, hit, then spun across the concrete floor.

  He ran for cover, the pain from the clackers vibrating up his arm.

  “I bet that stung,” the man mocked in Portuguese.

  He saw the bola and his gun against the office wall, but there was no cover to get to them, and he had to assume that Picador was armed. He freed the double-edged knives and flipped them into fighting position.

  He spied a handgun on the table in the enclosed room. Maybe the man wasn’t armed. He would have to take that chance. He came away from the boxes and the man froze. He was working his way back to the room. Looking at the gun, he bolted for the door. Hemingway blocked his way, kicking out and connecting with the man’s head. He landed in a crouch, ready to spring again. He never let go of the knives. Picador wobbled on his feet, shook his head like a dog, and Hemingway saw the cuts marring his clothes. The attacker threw his fist, and Hemingway blocked with an upward swipe and opened the man’s cheek, a swipe downward cut his thigh. But the man was determined, pushing Hemingway back by brute force until they were grappling, and he was fighting to keep his own knife from his face. He released the knife and it made a sharp metallic sound as it hit the concrete.

  Suddenly a shot rang out and they bucked apart.

  “You’re a dead man,” Picador said. He went for the knife, but Hemingway punched him, and he stumbled back. With his hands up like a boxer, Hemingway’s blows snapped the man’s head back with each punch.

  He went down by the third hit. Hemingway stood over him, breathing hard, then stooped to search him, glancing over at Dodger.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, wanker rang my bell.” Dodger got to his knees and stood just as the man was up and bolting to the gaping door. He made it inside and grabbed the gun off the table.

  Hemingway watched as the muzzle swung around and aimed for him. The shot never came. Dodger plugged him in the head, and he fell against the table, lying still.

  Hemingway sighed and threw a look at Dodger, who shrugged his shoulders.

  Dammit, now he’d have to crack the guy’s damn passwords. Doable, but it would take time. Time he didn’t have.

  13

  Fully dressed and back in command, Mak was watching as Kai went through the intel. Sighing, she looked up at her. “There’s nothing here that will help us.”

  Mak nodded and went to the windows, the sun lighting the gray rooftops and washing the world clean. Well, for a few minutes anyway, she thought. She hadn’t been touched by death since her family was murdered. She wouldn’t let it, but now she felt it on the back of her neck like a fire-breathing monster.

  She hadn’t avoided attachments. She’d only thought she had.

  Behind her, on the table, the burner phone rang. She whirled around and met Kai’s wide green eyes.

  By the second ring, she picked up the phone and answered.

  “Who is this?” A deep male voice asked in slightly accented English.

  She stiffened and looked at Kai, who was watching Mak like a hawk. “Special Agent Makayla Littlestar. Who is this?”

  “Vero Cortez. You have something we want, and by design we have something you want.”

  Mak was aware the Brazilians wanted the Cortez brothers as badly as the Americans did. They were an international curse. “What is it you want?” She kept her voice neutral, knowing exactly who he had, even as her heart pounded.

  “Our hermanos…familia.”

  “They’re locked up for murder.”

  “Get my brothers out or your agents will stop breathing. They will know where to go for the exchange.”

  “That will be a lot of string pulling.”

  “I propose you start pulling,” Vero said low and deadly.

  “Not so fast,” she said firmly and hastily, cutting straight to the chase. “I’m not doing a damn thing until I have proof of life. Let me speak to them.”

  “You are in no position to negotiate,” Vero sneered.

  There was something up with the brothers. Why all of a sudden did they want their brothers back when they had seemed content to let them rot in prison? “You must have a big reason for suddenly wanting your brothers sprung from prison. Proof of life or no deal.”

  Kai squeezed her arm, her eyes alarmed.

  There was silence, then suddenly she heard, “Mak? Is that you?”

  It was Paige. She breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, we’re coming for you and Chris. Hang in there.”

  “Be careful,” Paige said.

  Mak held herself suddenly still, catching something in Paige’s voice. The hair on the nape of her neck slowly rose, sending a purely fear-induced bolt of panic down the length of her spine. It would be a no brainer to expect that the Cortez brothers had a hidden agenda. Something, her gut instinct, was telling her that she had to be prepared for something underhanded and shady from these men.

  “That’s enough,” a man said roughly, and her mouth tightened when Paige cried out.

  Another silence, then Chris’s pain-filled voice came on the line. “Mak, don’t trust them,” he said hastily before there was the sound of a tussle in the background, the muted sound of men shouting.

  “If you hurt them, there won’t be a rock you will be able to crawl under,” she threatened, so angry her voice shook.

  Cortez’s final words were devoid of any emotion, chilling her to the core. “You have three days.”

  She stood there, not an ounce of heat left in her body. She was frozen numb with anxiety. Terror was too mild a word to describe the talon-like emotion that had taken hold of her heart. Terror implied a certain heated chaos, but there was nothing but a cold warning freezing her blood solid.

  Maybe it was residual emotions from her past when she’d lost the people she loved, or maybe it was just fear for the two people whose lives were in her hands, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she was going to go in with everything she had and die trying to rescue them if need be.

  “Do you understand the words needed and alive? I needed him alive, Dodger!” Hemingway said, his voice tight, his eyes narrowing.

  Dodger looked away, shook his head, then swore under his breath before looking back up. “He was going to shoot us. What did you want me to do? Play pattycake?”

  “I don’t know,” Hemingway said, giving Dodger a baleful look. “Wing him?”

  “Wing him?”

  It was clear Dodger wasn’t buying
his suggestion, even though it was a moot point. The guy was way past getting winged.

  Dodger laughed and slung his gun down. “I’m a Navy SEAL, mate. If someone’s pointing a gun at an innocent, a teammate, or me, I shoot to kill. Hashtag: Sorry, not sorry.”

  “Screw you,” Hemingway said, annoyed and tired and fucking half sick with worry for his sister. Usually he was smoother than this.

  “I’m going to let that pass because fucking you up right now would take too much time, and I’d have to answer to LT—keeping you safe and all that rubbish.”

  “Why do I feel like I’m a straight man in a comedy act?” he groused, his mood getting shitty all over again. “Help me with this guy.” He gestured to the very dead Picador.

  “What a bloody mess,” Dodger said, moving into the room with Hemingway.

  “Really? For the love of…” Hemingway held up his hand to stop Dodger from saying anything. “Just help me with him. I have a lot of work to do now.”

  Dodger’s affable expression took on a feral gleam. “Americans…all they do is grouse and complain.”

  Hemingway didn’t have to act exasperated. It came through in his voice. “Aren’t you an American?”

  Dodger grinned. “dual citizenship, and I’m proud to be a…a…British American.”

  Hemingway met his gaze with chagrin. “Can I trade you in for a new model? Fucking British American.”

  They transported the body to the back of the warehouse, and Hemingway found a tarp to cover him up. “Yanks are also very sensitive. You need a stiff upper lip.”

  “You’re going to get a fat upper lip. Let’s move.”

  “There’s no need to get narky.”

  “Don’t mind me, Dodger,” Hemingway said. “Under most circumstances, I’m the nicest guy ever, but in this case, I hate to fucking lose.”

  “Don’t worry, Yank. I don’t either and I never, ever quit.”

  After moving and covering up the body, they cleaned the blood off the equipment and washed up, Hemingway sat down with the computer first. It would be more forgiving. He was feeling the gray edge of fatigue. “Reset the cameras and the security while I try to pull these passwords out of my ass.”

  Dodger went off mimicking, mocking, and mumbling to himself. “Oh, one more thing. Yanks are bossy as bloody hell.”

  “When you get back make a lot of black coffee!”

  He had to admit he liked Dodger. He had slick charm that made him seem less threatening. He had a feeling the man slipped and slid through many obstacles and came out smelling like a rose. You’re only in trouble if you get caught. He was a lot like the Aladdin character who had coined that phrase. The man was untouchable, always with a backup plan to save his ass and his teammates. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had a magic lamp and a genie hidden in that tack vest. The door slammed and Hemingway laughed softly to himself, cracked his knuckles, and started with the usual suspects.

  After a call to the director, who then contacted SECNAV, who then took the request to the appropriate channels, Mak got the Cortez twins released and on a plane to Brazil. She was informed that an escape attempt had been made to release the twin brothers a day before the request had been made, and Mak understood now why the older Cortez brothers had taken so long to contact them. They had been stacking the deck. If springing their brothers from prison didn’t work, they would have Chris and Paige to exchange for them.

  The attorney general wasn’t all that happy, but he also didn’t want two dead agents on his hands. It took eight hours for the brothers to arrive. COT took control of the twins from the U.S. Marshals who had accompanied them, locking them up for safekeeping.

  The CIA had arranged for a chopper to fly them into the jungle.

  “I don’t like it,” Fast Lane said.

  They were currently standing in the command center and Mak had just laid out her plan. She and Pitbull would accompany the brothers on the chopper, meet and make the exchange for her people.

  “We don’t have a choice,” she said firmly. Fast Lane was in a very stubborn mood. “You know they’re going to have eyes on us. The Cortez brothers rule around here. People are so afraid of them they won’t get involved. You know he’s got a contingency plan. He won’t allow a detachment of special force operators to accompany us on the chopper. We will find some way to get the coordinates to you.”

  “I still don’t like it,” he growled.

  “You can be prepared to follow us as soon as I am sure they won’t know.”

  “A tracker.”

  The COT leader spoke up. “Once they hit the canopy, you’ll lose the signal. Nothing is going to transmit in that dense jungle, my friend.”

  “The director has sanctified this madness?”

  “He has. He has confidence in my abilities.”

  “Lady, you have no idea the kind of monsters out there. If you think this guy is going to play by the rules, you’re not thinking right.” His attentions switched to Pitbull. “You want to put yourself in this situation? It’s a tactical nightmare.”

  “LT…we’re sworn to protect her. We can’t let her go alone.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Mak asked, reaching out and touching Pitbull’s forearm. He didn’t want to go against his commander. It was in his voice, eyes and posture, but he also wasn’t going to allow her to do this on her own.

  “Demand that he exchanges Paige and Chris here in Foz do Iguaçu. At least, in a populated area, where we have a chance of nailing their asses. Fuck, even Ciudad del Este would be better.”

  She stepped closer to him. “I think your concern for me is clouding your thinking, and I’m touched. I’m an NCIS agent. I used to run with the Shadow Wolves. I tracked down and killed one of the most notorious drug lords in Mexico. I’m one of the best trackers in the world. Trust me. We will win out. We will get them. If not this time, then next. Right now, I have two agents and close friends that I need to think about. Wouldn’t you do anything in your power to save your men?”

  “You know I would,” he said, resigned to following along with this mission. She could see it in his dark eyes.

  “Watch your damn sixes,” Fast Lane growled before they left the command center and headed for the chopper and the Cortez twins to take them deep into the jungle. She was one step closer to Paige and Chris, and she was ready for anything.

  At the COT base, she saw the Cortez brothers standing near the helo, and she walked up to them.

  One had longish hair pulled back off his face, the other one’s was short. “Which is which?” Mak asked.

  “Vincent,” the one with the long hair said, inserting so much hostility in the one word.

  “That makes you Victor.”

  “I didn’t know we were being handled by an American puta,” Vincent said. He spat at her, and Pitbull stepped forward and shoved him against the side of the chopper.

  “You shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”

  Vincent glared at him, then her, but said nothing else. His dark eyes held a depth of violence she hadn’t seen since she’d subdued and cuffed Sean Leary.

  “I apologize for my brother,” Victor said. “Prison hasn’t worked its lesson on him.”

  Vincent let loose a long stream of rapid Spanish. Somewhere in there Vincent called him a lot of names, weak was one of them. His disdain for his brother was as ugly as it was for his American captors.

  “We’re going to be returning you to your brothers in exchange for two NCIS agents that were kidnapped.”

  Victor shook his head. “I’m sorry for my siblings’ acts of violence. I can only guess that my madre is dying. She was ill when we were captured, and I know it would mean a great deal to her to see us again.”

  “Vero said you would know where the exchange would take place. You are to direct us once we fly into the jungle.”

  He nodded. “I know the place. Si, I will give you this information when the time is right.”

  “How you cooperate with them makes me sick,�
�� Vincent said in Spanish. Pitbull pulled out a gag and stuffed it in his mouth, covering his lips with tape.

  They boarded the chopper and strapped themselves into the seats, Mak and Pitbull putting on headsets. Pitbull turned to Victor and put one over his ears, adjusting the mic.

  The pilots went through their preflight procedures. When the big rotors fired up, the interior of the helo vibrated and the engines roared so that normal conversation was impossible. The smell of jet fuel and exhaust was strong.

  With a rumble of the engines and a whine of the rotors, the helicopter lifted into the air.

  “I understand my brothers tried to break us out of prison recently.”

  “That’s correct. It failed.”

  “I see, and your friends were insurance, no?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He sighed, his dark eyes sad, nothing of the killer in them that had been so evident in his booking photo. “I can’t say I relish returning to that way of life.”

  “You regret the drug dealing and the murder of those federal agents?” she asked, surprised that he wouldn’t want to be free. But then she amended that. Freedom had a different meaning when men like Victor were born into a criminal family.

  “Deeply. I am Catholic and prison life gave me a chance to embrace my faith in a deeper way. I was in prison for life, but if I was ever granted another chance, I would devote myself to the priesthood. Make amends for what I have done.”

  “Is that what you intend to do now that you’ve been freed?”

  “My hermanos won’t like it, but my madre will. That is enough for me, even if they kill me in my sleep.”

  Family, she thought. Victor’s was born out of violence, even when there was strong bonds and love. Hers had been born out of nothing but pure love every step of the way. Victor had found hózhó. A murdering drug thug had found his way to his faith and changed his way of thinking. The obstacles to that were enormous.

  She thought of Matt and Ajei. Thought about the last time they had been happy. It was on their last vacation when they’d taken their daughter to Disney. Ajei had loved every minute of it, especially the breakfast with the princesses. She had been so little, so beautiful with her sharp cheekbones, wide dark eyes and straight black hair, but with a zest for living every minute she had. She’d never been a cranky kid or given over to fits and tantrums. She had been too busy sucking up the joy of life.