Don't Let Go Page 21

  They waited for what seemed like a lifetime for the Populist Army to roll past.

  The SEALs then consulted their compasses and fanned out. It was Vinny who discovered what had to be Lucy Donovan’s vehicle, parked in a graveyard for railroad cars, not far from a warehouse that was buzzing with activity, military jeeps coming and going, men shouting.

  Rallying up, the SEALs searched the Hummer silently. Solomon pulled Lucy’s cell phone from between the seats. He powered it up and discovered that—Jesus—he’d been the last person Lucy had called.

  So where were she and Jordan and Miguel? Foreboding spread like ice water through his veins.

  “What the hell is this shovel for?” Haiku whispered, his head buried under the backseat.

  No one answered him. Gus’s head came up suddenly. “Did you hear that?”

  They found two men, security guards, on the other side of the lot, bound and gagged, kicking the inner walls of an abandoned railroad car.

  “Lucy did this,” Gus decided, taking one look at the cuffs that bound them. “Vinny, put them to sleep,” he added, and the corpsman reached for his syringes.

  “Lucy’s in the warehouse,” Gus guessed, as the SEALs brainstormed in the shadows of rusting boxcars.

  “Then where are the other two?” Solomon asked, dreading corroboration of his fears, grinding his molars to keep from howling at the dark, smoky sky.

  “Maybe she left them somewhere safe,” said Gus, but tension in his voice told Solomon that they shared the same concern.

  “What’s inside?” Solomon snapped, eyeing the vast, metal structure. The corrugated walls rippled and groaned in the offshore breeze. Another explosion turned night into day, and the SEALs hit the ground again.

  “I’m not sure,” Gus admitted, spitting dirt from his mouth. “But Lucy wouldn’t be taking chances like this if it wasn’t important.”

  Solomon swallowed a virulent curse. There was nothing in the world more important to him than Jordan and Miguel’s safety. As he pictured them inside that warehouse, held against their will, he clawed the loose earth beneath his fingers. What would he and Silas do without Jordan? Oh, why hadn’t he let her keep Miguel the first time? “Let’s get this the fuck over with,” he pleaded, pushing off the ground.

  “Slow down there, Senior Chief,” Gus advised, with authority that Solomon had only sensed in him before but never heard. “We’re going to do this my way.”

  With a shuddering breath, Solomon reined himself in. The only reason they were here at all was because Gus had orders from the CNO.

  Gus signaled to the other men to surround the building, wait, watch, and report. In classic hostage-rescue situations, the observation period averaged forty-eight hours, with the SEALs noting routines, shift changes, mealtimes, et cetera.

  The prospect of inaction made Solomon’s stomach churn. It was necessary, of course it was, especially when the odds were five to what looked to be a dozen or more. But just suspecting Jordan was inside, probably scared out of her mind, made cerebral, tactical planning virtually impossible. His commander had been right to ask whether his feelings would interfere with the objective. He wanted to smash into the warehouse with guns blazing, pluck Jordan, Lucy, and Miguel free, and prove himself the hero of the day.

  The possibility that it might really be too late for that lodged very uncomfortably in his mind.

  Lucy had been trained to cope with rape. Cope, as in keep from spilling the truth, scurry into the corner of her mind where nothing could touch her, and not go stark, raving mad. But her training at The Farm, however realistic, hadn’t involved an actual, physical rape, just a mauling that she’d handled like a champ because she’d known her instructor wouldn’t really hurt her.

  She didn’t know if she could actually cope with the real deal.

  The lieutenant had his fly unzipped, and he was gaining the upper hand on her determination to remain clothed.

  She craned her neck to send a pleading look at the junior officer. Santiago stood way back in the shadows by the door. Please, she begged him silently, keeping her jaw clamped shut. Begging out loud would only goad the lieutenant, who was muttering crudities under his breath as, inch by inch, he exposed her lower half.

  He didn’t hear the junior officer slip soundlessly out of the office.

  There was nothing she could do to stop this. Lucy squeezed her good eye shut and sought that elusive corner in her mind to hide in. But her brain was a maze, and she scurried like a frightened mouse as the lieutenant hauled her to her feet, spun her around, and shoved her facedown on a work table.

  With her cheek ground into the desk’s surface and her hipbones bruised against the table’s edge, she dove into pleasant memories of the past, into her first two years in college, when the world seemed like a great place to be. She tried to block all feelings from the neck down, but her tears seeped from her eyes as he positioned himself behind her.

  The room flooded abruptly with lights. An authoritative voice from the doorway barked, “Back away, Lieutenant! You do not have the authority to degrade our captives.”

  The lieutenant responded like a petulant child. He seized Lucy by the waist and flung her across the room. With her ankles bound, she plowed headfirst into a metal file cabinet, her forehead slicing open as it struck a pull handle.

  The lieutenant and captain commenced to sharing heated words. Santiago crossed wordlessly to Lucy, pulled her clothing up over her hips, and helped her back into the chair. Her head throbbed and burned. Blood slipped warmly down one side of her nose.

  “What has she told you?” the capitán demanded.

  “Nothing,” snapped the lieutenant.

  “We’ve wasted enough time questioning them,” decided his superior. “Bring the other woman up here. The child will come with us. Tie them up. We have work to do.”

  “And then what?” demanded the lieutenant. “We can’t just leave them here. They’re spies. It’s obvious.”

  “I have orders to destroy the building. They won’t live to tell any tales,” added the capitán, meaningfully.

  Lucy’s skin shrank. They were going to blow up the building? Dear God! She’d seen what explosions did to the human body. The roadside bomb that had killed three friends in Valencia during her junior year abroad was the main reason she’d joined the CIA: to stop terrorism.

  This was not the way she envisioned her own demise.

  “No,” she croaked, but the lieutenant had already turned to bark at the junior officer. “Santiago, bring the other woman up here and secure them tightly.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Blinking through the blood that ran into her good eye, Lucy watched him leave. The other two ignored her as they discussed which of the crates to load and which to leave. Missile launchers and submachine guns were their first priority. “If we have room for rifles and ammunition, we’ll take those, too. What’s left must be destroyed.”

  Santiago reappeared with an unconscious Jordan in his arms. He tried to prop her up in the chair opposite Lucy’s, but Jordan slumped to the floor. He left her there, checking the flexicuffs at her wrists, then binding her ankles like Lucy’s.

  “Thank you,” Lucy whispered to him, softly so the others wouldn’t overhear.

  He didn’t so much as glance at her, but she saw him stiffen. He stepped behind her and, in the guise of checking the cuffs at her wrists, slipped his knife into her hands. Lucy’s pulse leapt as she furled her fingers around the haft, hiding it from view. God bless you!

  He stepped casually away from her. “The hostages are secured, sirs.”

  The capitán glanced at his watch. “Three hours to daylight. Let’s go!” he commanded, striding out the door.

  The lieutenant followed with a parting leer. Santiago risked a glance over his shoulder as he extinguished the lights and shut the office door.

  “Jordan,” Lucy called, scraping her chair toward Jordan’s limp form. “Wake up,” she urged, nudging her with her foot even as she wor
ked to cut the tough plastic encircling her wrists. They had about ten minutes to get out of the building before it blew.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jordan felt like an ax had been wedged in her skull. “Oh,” she moaned. It hurt to talk. She pushed into a sitting position, and her stomach roiled. “Where am I?” she asked, making out a dark room. She remembered with a gasp. “Where’s Miguel?”

  “We’re in the office of the warehouse,” said Lucy, quietly, quickly. “Listen to me, Jordan, I need you to stay calm and stay focused.”

  Goose bumps ridged Jordan’s skin. How she wished she’d just dreamed it, but she hadn’t. They were still in serious trouble.

  “We’re going to get out of here,” Lucy reassured her, breathing hard, leaning over her, “but we can’t be seen.”

  “Where’s Miguel?” Jordan repeated. Panic roared through her bloodstream, driving back the pain in her head. She squirmed to her knees and promptly gagged.

  “Calm down,” Lucy ordered. Jordan could just make out her silhouette. “I’m almost loose. I’ll cut you free in a minute.”

  “Tell me,” Jordan gasped, “where Miguel is.”

  “He’s safe,” said Lucy.

  “Where?” repeated Jordan, her volume climbing.

  “They’re taking him with them.”

  “No!” She’d come so far, given so much of herself to bring him home. She sank to her knees as the will to persevere drained out of her. “I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered, too heartsick to cry.

  “Yes, you can,” Lucy countered. Snap! She stood up suddenly, bent down to cut the cuffs at her ankles, then groped in the dark to free Jordan. “Let’s go.” Something warm and wet plopped on Jordan’s neck.

  “You’re bleeding,” Jordan realized, suddenly concerned.

  “I cut my head,” said Lucy shortly.

  Outside the office, the volume in the warehouse swelled. Men shouted. Large metal doors rumbled open. A truck with a noisy muffler backed into the cargo bay. “What’s going on?” Jordan asked.

  “They’re loading up and shipping out,” Lucy explained.

  “We can’t let them take Miguel,” said Jordan, pushing shakily to her feet.

  Lucy seized her arm and propelled her into a chair. “Listen to me, Jordan,” she commanded, putting steady hands on either side of Jordan’s shoulders. “This isn’t about Miguel right now. This is about us getting out of here before this building explodes. I’ll help you find Miguel later, but right now we need to get out of here. Understand?”

  “Why would they blow up the building?”

  “To keep people like me from finding out who’s supplying them with weapons. Now, come on, you’re going to get out through the window.”

  “What about you?”

  Lucy hesitated. “I have to do something first. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Jordan squeaked. “You just said they’re going to blow up the building.”

  “I won’t be long,” Lucy promised. “Now, move.” She urged Jordan toward one of the two large windows overlooking the lot of abandoned boxcars. “Get up on the desk,” she instructed, tugging on the glass pane. A warm, sulfurous breeze blew in as the window slid open.

  Kneeling on the desk, Jordan peered two stories down. The area behind the warehouse looked quiet and deserted, but her heart beat with dread. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Do it for Miguel,” Lucy insisted. “You want to get him back, don’t you?”

  Even given Lucy’s motivating words, it took all of Jordan’s courage to stick her feet out of the window and squirm backward, so that she dangled into nothingness.

  “You can do it,” Lucy repeated.

  Peeking down at the tremendous drop to the ground below, Jordan balked. She clung to the metal window frame until her knuckles ached. And then she plummeted, swallowing her scream.

  In the next instant, she slammed into the ground. The breath whooshed from her lungs. Darkness filled the corners of her eyes. She fought to remain conscious, to get up and run, but her mind went blank, her muscles limp.

  Crouching in a clump of sea grass at the front right corner of the warehouse, Solomon watched a soldier swagger out of the building to speak with the driver of the loaded truck. Something about the man’s demeanor struck him as familiar. Solomon’s nape prickled. Well, son of a bitch! If these weren’t the Elite Guards whom he and his men had trained a month ago, back before they’d been bought off by the Populists.

  He thumbed his mike, reporting his discovery to Gus.

  “Are you sure?” Gus asked.

  “Positive,” Solomon snarled. He listened to Gus inform their commander over the SATCOM radio. The Elite Guard had betrayed them—soaked up the tricks of the trade the Navy SEALs were willing to teach them, then switched sides.

  “We should put ’em out of their fucking misery,” Harley opined from his sniper position.

  Solomon agreed. The traitors deserved sound punishment.

  “Yo,” Haiku suddenly exclaimed. “Someone just dropped out of the second-story window. They aren’t moving, either.”

  Solomon’s heart stopped dead. Not Jordan! He longed to leap up and check, but moving would expose his position.

  “Vinny, go in to take a look,” said Gus. “Haiku, you cover him.”

  It took Vinny a full four minutes to report while Solomon suffered through hot and cold sweats, thinking something awful had happened to Jordan, wondering where Miguel was.

  Vinny finally reported. “It’s Jordan Bliss,” he said, freezing Solomon’s blood. “She’s unconscious, possible broken bones, big bump on the back of her head. But her vitals are good.”

  Solomon wilted into the sea grass, clutching the stalks as the earth seemed to spin. Thank you, God.

  “Pull her to safety,” Gus instructed, grimly.

  Solomon could tell by his tone he was wondering where Lucy was.

  Shouts from within the warehouse snared their attention. The Venezuelan Elite Guard was loading up, preparing to pull out with whatever goods they’d recovered from the warehouse. Canvas-covered trucks revved their motors and eased away. A dozen or so soldiers swarmed the armored cars. One of them was carrying a child in his arms. Solomon blinked in disbelief through his NVGs. That couldn’t be Miguel . . .

  But who else would it be? Jesus, Jordan would rather die than lose him again.

  “Sir!” he hissed into his radio. “They have the boy. We have to stop them.”

  “Negative,” said Gus. “No time for a firefight. The CO wants us to recon the warehouse. Our gunships will take out the convoy.”

  “No gunships,” Solomon refuted on a raw note. “I repeat, they have Jordan’s boy with them!”

  “Our orders are to search the warehouse, Senior Chief,” Gus repeated. “There’s nothing we can do for the boy if he’s not American.”

  Fuck the orders. Solomon had followed them to the letter once before and regretted it ever since. He edged out of his hiding place, keeping low.

  In the next instant, he was on his feet, sprinting parallel to the slow-moving convoy, moving through the shadows to remain hidden. He heard Harley, who had the only clear view of him, report to Gus that he was following the convoy.

  “Mako,” Gus hissed. “Turn back now!”

  Solomon pretended not to hear. He lengthened his stride, his heartbeat doubling and then tripling to meet the demand of speed. But the convoy was getting away from him. He couldn’t keep up.

  But he had to. How would Jordan ever return his love if he let Miguel die while in the clutches of the enemy?

  He gasped for oxygen, felt the muscles in his thighs burn as he continued to pursue the trail of lights now half a mile ahead of him. Every footfall on the uneven terrain jarred his spine and tested his resilience. “No!” he roared, painfully aware of his limitations. He wouldn’t be able to keep this pace up much longer, let alone overcome them.

  Then, to his immense relief, brake lights flared, and
the convoy slowed to a stop, right there on the open road.

  Wary of having been sighted, Solomon cut away, circling around. He couldn’t afford to die, either. Silas needed him to come back home. As he crept toward the truck that held Miguel, he kept an eye on the action taking place behind the last vehicle. A soldier was hoisting a missile launcher on his shoulder. Another man was helping him to arm it.

  Solomon breathed a swearword. “Sir!” he whispered hoarsely into the interteam radio. “Incoming missile, sir! They’ve stopped to fire on the warehouse!”

  “Roger that, Mako. We’re inside right now looking for Lucy. Harley went after you. Harley, can you hold them off?”

  “Yes, sir,” Harley huffed. “I’m almost within range.”

  “Fire at will,” Gus instructed.

  “Lucy!” Gus called. The warehouse was immense and mostly empty now. There was no telling where Lucy might be, only that she had to be unconscious not to hear him and Vinny calling for her.

  He’d recovered a backpack that probably belonged to Jordan. He found traces of blood in the office—Lucy’s blood?—and an open window. He was stepping out of the office when her voice called out to him.

  “I’m right here.”

  He spun around in astonishment. She stood in the shadows, and he recognized her silhouette, still as slender as she’d been in college, but more athletic. She took a step toward him, and the light from the office illumined her face. Shock strangled his vocal cords at the sight of blood streaming from her forehead, down the side of her nose. One eye was little more than a slit. And she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.

  “James Atwater,” she exclaimed in a steady, almost serene voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  But then she swayed ever so slightly, and he leapt forward to catch her if she fell. Of course, she didn’t. She put her arms around him, however, and he could feel her heart hammering. She wasn’t as unperturbed as she sounded. “We need to get out,” she warned him. “The captain of the Elite Guard gave orders to blow up the building.”