by Cindy Dees
Dutch set the last charge and headed for cover. He’d chosen a spot in the rocks high above the rest stop. There were outcroppings interspersed with heavy snow up here. It wasn’t the best cover in the world, but the granite boulders would stop a bullet, and he was close enough to the action for the crude parabolic mike he’d built in high school to pick up the conversation. He adjusted the white winter-hunting parka around his shoulders and hunkered down with his bag of assorted gadgets and weapons to wait. His watch said 12:45 a.m.
He went through his usual routine of calming his breathing and slowing his pulse to help him focus. But tonight it didn’t work worth a damn. Figured. The one moment in his entire career when he really needed to be calm and he was as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
A pair of headlights came into view on the highway. His senses went into high gear as the headlights slowed down, pulled off at the exit, and slowed down in front of the rest rooms. A middle-aged man sporting a hefty beer gut climbed out of the car and went into the men’s room. Dutch silently urged the guy to hurry and get the hell out of here. It was 12:53 when the guy finally moseyed to his car and drove away.
Literally moments later, another car slowed down on the highway, maybe a half-mile away. Dutch recognized the sedan he’d rented earlier that day. His adrenal gland emptied itself into his bloodstream with a jolt so powerful he could hardly hold his position. Julia had arrived.
* * *
The parking lot was deserted as she pulled her car into a space. She turned off the ignition and sat there in indecision. Should she get out and go find a spot for the meeting, or should she stay here and let her father call the shots?
If he stayed true to form, he would want her to climb into his plush, heated limo. And then she would be at his mercy. No way. Tonight it was her turn to be in charge. She got out of the car before she could change her mind or chicken out. She walked out across the expanse of thin, crunchy snow behind the restrooms.
A covered gazebo a hundred feet away caught her eye. It held a small picnic table, and a lone light bulb overhead illuminated a ten-or twelve-foot radius around it. Plus, it was free of snow.
She headed for the table. After walking a complete circle around it, she took the bench facing the parking lot. For some reason, it felt like the position of power. The wood was cold beneath her thighs but not nearly as cold as her heart. The slow rage that had been building in her heart ever since that fateful night ten years ago finally bubbled over. Enough was enough. She wasn’t going to be her father’s puppet any longer.
She jumped as a strange sound intruded upon the night. It got louder and louder, but no car approached on the deserted highway. And then a light abruptly shone down from above. A helicopter.
Leave it to her father to make a spectacular entrance, bound to intimidate his opponent.
The aircraft made a slow three-hundred-sixty-degree circle around the rest stop before settling slowly to the ground in the parking lot. Her father’s broad-shouldered silhouette stepped out of the chopper, flanked by a pair of burly men.
This was it.
Chapter Seventeen
Tom frowned as Howdy reported in a bare whisper, “I’ve got movement out the back side of the helicopter. Four men. Fanning out quietly. They look to be surrounding the meet. Armed, blacked out, night-vision gear, but no IR equipment and no visible radios or headsets.”
That was good news. Infrared equipment was a trick to hide from. And if the men didn’t have radios, that meant they couldn’t act in a coordinated attack. Like his men could. Tom replied tersely, “Keep an eye on them. Report their movement. Don’t let them get too close to Dutch. It’s him they’ll be looking for.”
“Roger,” Howdy replied with the icy, competent calm of the topnotch sniper he was.
Tex commented, “I doubt they’ll go up that cliff.”
Dutch had himself parked on the mountainside like a damned billy goat and was, indeed, likely safe up there.
Tom turned his attention back to the helicopter. He would order one of his guys to move in and booby-trap the thing right now, except for the possibility that Dutch and Julia might end up on it with Eduardo. And despite his doubts about Julia’s sincerity or Dutch’s transgressions, he wasn’t prepared to order their deaths just yet. It was the hardest part of command. Deciding who lived or died.
The biggest threat the helicopter posed was that Ferrare could make a getaway they couldn’t follow. The Blackjacks had come in prepared for a ground pursuit, and the slippery bastard had outmaneuvered them by choosing an aerial approach.
“Doc, get on the horn and radio the state police. Ask them to get a helicopter into this area ASAP.”
“I’m on it,” came his medic’s quiet reply.
“The hostiles are hunkering down,” Tex reported. “One is behind that stand of holly bushes about fifty feet beyond the gazebo. One is parked about a hundred feet to the left and down the hill from Dutch. One is behind the rest rooms.” A pause while he located the last man with his extraordinary eyesight. “The fourth guy is attempting to sneak—very noisily, I might add—about halfway between my position and Doc’s.”
Howdy’s voice. “They’re setting up telescopic rifles.”
Tom breathed a sigh of relief. If they weren’t on radios and weren’t within easy earshot of Eduardo Ferrare, then they couldn’t receive a verbal command to kill Julia or Dutch. Which meant most likely that their instructions were only to see to it that Ferrare got away from this meeting in one piece. The two thugs who were sticking to Eduardo like mold on bread would be the executioners if it came to killing Julia or Dutch. Both men were huge. It would take several well-placed shots to drop either one of them. Those two could be problematic if it came to a shooting match.
“Get a microphone on Ferrare and his daughter. It looks like they’re getting ready to talk,” he ordered. “And stay sharp. This could turn ugly real fast.”
Julia watched her father walk toward her, his two bodyguards scoping out the area, their heads swiveling constantly.
Eduardo wore a long, beige cashmere coat, a maroon wool scarf wrapped high around his neck and ears, and a pair of black leather gloves. His nose was red, and he sniffed loudly. He was not a fan of cold weather. He looked significantly thicker than usual through the torso. Wearing body armor, was he? Well. That spelled out what the rules of engagement for this little tête-à-tête were going to be, then.
He sat down in front of her at the table and stared at her in stony silence. She didn’t rise to the bait and start babbling like an idiot. She met his glare with a cool look of her own and held her silence, as well.
Finally, he broke the stalemate. “You’re enjoying dragging me out here to this godforsaken tundra in the middle of the fucking night, aren’t you?”
She answered grimly, “I’m not enjoying anything about this meeting.”
His gaze narrowed. Reassessing. Take that, Daddy. Mousy little Julia’s not rolling over and jumping through your hoops, tonight. She’d changed over the last couple of weeks. She’d grown a spine, with Dutch’s help.
Eduardo’s tone of voice changed. Grew harsh. “You said you want to make a deal. What sort of deal?”
“A trade. You let Carina go and promise not to harm the man who’s been helping me, and in return, I’ll agree not to testify against you to the U.S. authorities.”
An immediate snort of derision from her father. But then, she’d expected that. He was too shrewd not to bargain for more than her initial offer. He countered, “How about this for a deal? You tell me where my money is, and I let you live.”
She let out her own snort of derision. And saw surprise flicker through his steely gaze.
“I do believe, Father, I’m the one in a position to call the shots here. Frankly, your money should be the least of your worries right about now.”
He slammed his hands down on the picnic table and half rose from his bench. He growled, “You think seven hundred million dollars isn
’t important?” He ended in a shout, “I want it back, and I want it now!”
She shook her head and tsked chidingly. “Temper, temper, Father.”
His face went beet red. She was playing a dangerous game, baiting the bull like this. But her instinct told her to keep him off balance. Do the unexpected.
He subsided back onto the bench, but a vein continued to throb rapidly in his temple. “What did you do with my money?” he snarled between clenched teeth.
“Obviously, I moved it,” she replied lightly, “since it’s not in your account.”
“Where to?” her father choked out.
The man looked in danger of having a stroke.
“Let Carina go and swear you’ll leave my friend alone.”
“Never,” her father said.
“Well, then, I guess we have nothing to talk about.” She made to stand up.
“Sit down,” her father barked.
She raised an eyebrow at him and took her time about it, but she did sit down again.
“You’ve had your say, you spoiled little brat. And now it’s my turn. My men have guns aimed at you and have orders to kill you when I say the word. You start talking right now and tell me where my goddamned money is, or you’ll never walk out of here alive. In addition, I swear this to you. I’ll kill your sister and I’ll hunt your boyfriend to the farthest corner of this planet and see him dead, too.”
Fear twisted and coiled like a nest of vipers in her stomach. But this was the crucial moment. She either caved in now and never again had a moment’s peace, or she made her stand. Once and for all.
She released a long, slow breath. “I’m sorry. No deal.”
Her father leaned across the table and grabbed her hand. He yanked her forward until the edge of the table dug into her midsection. His face loomed a scant foot from hers. Close enough to see the rage boiling in his gaze and a speck of saliva flecking the corner of his mouth. He looked too apoplectic to speak. She felt the explosion building inside him.
She spoke succinctly. “If you ever want to see your money again, you’ll let Carina go and swear never to harm my friend.”
“What about you, my traitorous flesh and blood?”
She shrugged. “You can do whatever you want to me. But let them go.”
Calculation whirred through his eyes. “Somebody put you up to this. Your boyfriend.”
“No,” she answered firmly. “I’m acting on my own.”
“I don’t know why, but for some strange reason, I believe you. Here’s my counteroffer. I’ll let you and your sister live, but you hand my money and the big, blond bastard over to me. Your sister for your lover,” Eduardo growled. “Take it or leave it.”
Dutch leaned forward, listening hard to the conversation. His gut yelled at him to reveal himself, to cut into the conversation and tell Eduardo to go to hell, then blow the guy’s head off. He was positively itching to rescue Julia. He could hear in her voice that she was so scared she could hardly breathe, but there she was, going nose to nose with the bastard without flinching.
Dutch froze as Eduardo issued his ultimatum. And there it was. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Carina or him. Sister or lover. Which would Julia choose?
Obviously, she had to choose her sister. Carina was the innocent here. Dutch knew what he’d walked into and it had been purely his choice to see this through. He couldn’t blame Julia one bit for the choice she was about to make. Besides, Eduardo was already trying to hunt down and kill the Blackjacks. This new threat from Ferrare wouldn’t change the status quo one bit.
It was a win-win situation for Julia. Her sister would live, and he would carry on as he had before they met, locked in battle with Eduardo Ferrare.
Except she was taking a long time to answer. She shifted in her father’s grasp and Dutch’s attention snapped back to her. The wind changed direction, and Eduardo’s voice grew muddled. Dutch adjusted the parabolic mike slightly and her words carried clearly to him once more. “…you know who my boyfriend is, Father?”
“Of course I do, you ignorant little slut. You’re spreading your legs for James Dutcher. From the Blackjacks. Does it give you a cheap thrill to sell your body to the American soldiers you set up?”
Even from up here on this hill, Dutch felt the pain Eduardo’s insult caused Julia. But she rolled with the blow, absorbing it stoically and climbing back to her emotional feet. Pride in her resilience surged through him.
“You know, Father,” she said slowly, “I let you blackmail me into betraying the Blackjacks ten years ago. The way I see it, I owe them an enormous debt. And now I owe you one, too, in a strange sort of way. You see, tonight you’ve given me a chance to finally pay back my debt to those brave men.”
“What are you jabbering about?” Eduardo demanded sharply.
She straightened deliberately, pulling free of her father’s grasp. What the hell was she doing? Dutch sensed what was coming as she opened her mouth. No, Julia! Don’t do it! Take the deal! he shouted silently.
Her voice was utterly calm as she pronounced each word. “Father, you can take your deal and shove it. I will never betray the Blackjacks again. At any price.”
Dutch’s heart actually missed a beat. She wasn’t going to betray him again. She would choose death for herself and her sister rather than turn on him. Did it mean… Hell, how could it mean anything else? She loved him!
“You would let your sister die for a bunch of fucking American commandos?” her father roared.
Julia lifted first one leg over the picnic bench and then the other. She looked down at him for a moment and then said clearly, “If you kill your own daughter, her blood will be on your hands, not mine. I know my sister, and she would rather die than let you go on harming and killing innocent people. As much as I love her, and as long as you’ve used that against me, it ends now. It’s over, Father. Carina and I are done being the tools of your evil. And you can kiss all your millions goodbye.”
Oh, Lord. She’d done it now. Dutch jumped up and took off running down the mountainside without bothering to wait and see what was coming next. Eduardo was going to blow a gasket. As Dutch slid down the steep, icy bank, he saw Eduardo’s head turn in slow motion. The man said something to his two henchmen, and the big men reached under their coats for the weapons concealed there.
Dutch yanked up his own semiautomatic rifle and opened fire at the thugs. In surreal clarity, he saw the pair of goons jump at the sound of gunfire and dive for the ground.
He noted vaguely that Julia never flinched as the gunfire erupted around her. She just walked away, one foot in front of the other, her back straight and her head high.
“Julia! Get down!” Dutch bellowed as he reached flat ground and took off sprinting toward her. Shots rang out around him. From multiple directions. He ignored them all.
Eduardo stood up then, reaching under his own coat. No. Oh no. The bastard was going to shoot his own daughter. Dutch put on a burst of speed he didn’t know he had in him and dived for Julia as Eduardo’s silver-plated revolver came up into firing position. Dutch’s feet left the ground, and he stretched out at full length in midair in a desperate attempt to catch the lead projectiles meant for the woman he loved.
They impacted him in a quick barrage, four shots one right after another in his chest. Their impact knocked him to the ground. He felt no pain. The gazebo light spun overhead for a moment, and Eduardo’s face came into view above him. Leering in rage.
Ferrare spoke, his voice dragging out slow and distorted, deeper than it ought to be. “You stupid son of a bitch. You made a whore of my daughter to get to me and now you’ll pay.”
The silver pistol glinted as it came up to point at his head. And then something dark and fast rocketed into Dutch’s line of sight from the right, plowing into Eduardo’s bulky form like a football lineman.
“Nooo!” Julia screamed as she knocked down her father.
The collision rolled the two of them over and over on the ground. No! Bad!
She would get herself killed. She didn’t know how to wrestle an armed man! Dutch somehow got a message to his body to push itself upright. He felt completely detached from his limbs, and it took extreme concentration to move forward. Left foot. Right foot. Julia was in trouble.
Tom watched in intense concentration. If he called his team’s assault too soon, they would be exposed to hostile gunfire from those four concealed gunmen. Too late, and Dutch and Julia could die. Thank God Dutch had his bullet resistant vest on. He would be bleeding like a stuck pig right now if he hadn’t been wearing the garment.
Tom drew breath to call the attack, when Howdy’s voice came across the headset tersely. “Movement. Ferrare’s backup thugs are closing in.”
Outstanding. The gunmen were about to give his team their backs. Tom closed his mouth and watched the four mercenaries run at a half crouch toward the confrontation in the gazebo, rifles held at the ready in front of them. They acted confident. Sure that they were in charge. The corner of Tom’s mouth curled up sardonically. Clearly, they didn’t know the Blackjacks were on the field.
One of the commandos shouted in a British accent. “Freeze! We’ve got you covered, Dutcher.”
Dutch rolled and climbed to his feet slowly, dragging his right leg. Tom nodded knowingly. Dutch’s standard fake-injury move. Dutch wasn’t anywhere near as hurt as he was pretending. Tom recognized the act from a dozen previous missions.
Another few seconds to let this farce play out. And then it would be time for the endgame.
Julia lay in a tangled heap with her father, unsure of what to do next. If she stayed on top of him, maybe his men wouldn’t kill her. But then she looked up. Into a beautiful pair of sapphire-blue eyes. Dutch was alive! The man had more lives than a cat. She’d seen the bullets slam into him. How was he still standing?
