Damian (The Caine Brothers #3) (7 page)

He spoke to her as if he was teaching a child. “Your father must learn a lesson. I will meet him and he will pay back everything I’ve ever paid him, and to stress the consequences of crossing Los Reyes, I will return your body to him later this week.”

Well, fuck. Things just got serious.

She swallowed hard and forced tears into her eyes and panic into her voice. It wasn’t too much of a stretch. “Please, don’t,” she said, her voice a terrified whisper. “You don’t have to kill me. He’ll do whatever you want. I don’t want to die.”

El Jefe sat forward in his seat and placed his hand on her knee. “I hate to have to kill such a pretty girl, but your father has forced my hand. When I return from our meeting, I will make your last few days comfortable.”

Elena planned to be gone before then.

She had the information she needed about Ramos’ plan for her father, plus plenty of other useful intel about his organization, so it was time to figure a way out.

She could probably get her hands on some kind of weapon and get out of the house. The problem came once she was out. She had no idea where she was—other than Colombia—and had never taken any wilderness survival training, not to mention she wasn’t up to the task of jungle warfare with over a hundred—possibly hundreds—of cartel soldiers.

Which left her with a choice: sit around waiting for Ramos to kill her or make a run for it and take her chances in the jungle. Given those options, staying at the house kept her in her comfort zone. They had no idea she spoke Spanish or that she could fight. If she could get her hands on some weapons, she could probably kill her way through guards—and maybe even Ramos himself if she got to him before he left. That might give her enough time to get to a garage and steal a car. Too bad she couldn’t fly a plane. Learning to fly would have to go on her to-do list if she managed to get out alive.

In the meantime, she needed to continue her charade with Ramos, so she let the book drop to the floor and she slid down next to it on her knees. Pleading with Ramos, she said, “Please don’t. I’ll do anything.”

One of his thick, dark brows arched slowly as he looked down at her crumpled in a pathetic heap at his feet. She could only imagine the ‘anything’ he conjured up and it made her skin crawl. Her training said to bring him in to face justice—and to extract whatever information they could from him—but if he laid a hand on her, she’d bring him in damaged.

He reached for her, tucking hair behind her ear. “It gives me no pleasure, mija, but it must be done. I promise, it will be fast. You won’t feel any pain.”

She forced tears into her eyes, then scrambled to her feet and ran from the room. As she headed for the stairs, she heard Ramos order some of his men to follow her.

In her room, she slammed the door behind her and paced the floor, swiping at the tears. Her skin buzzed with tension. She needed a plan. Taking and holding the house single-handedly would be the biggest challenge she’d ever faced, but no way she’d roll over and give up. If she was going to die, it would be in an effort to save herself.

The first thing she had to do was get her hands on a weapon. She might be able to snatch a knife at dinner. It would be a lame steak knife, but sharp and stabby was sharp and stabby and she’d take what she could get. Once armed, she’d wait until late into the night when more people slept than were awake, and start by taking out her guards. She could trade up her weapon from whatever they had, then start a stealthy trip through the house until she had Ramos. Hopefully with him in hand, everyone else would fall in line.

Hope in one and shit in the other, see which one fills up first…

An image of Damian’s confident grin popped into her head and bolstered her courage. She’d channel her inner SEAL, and if she made it out alive, she’d track him down no matter where on the planet he hid and have words with him about a possible future. And have sex with him. Lots of that.

In the meantime, her plan wasn’t much but it was the best she could hope for given her circumstances, so she’d have to make it work.

Elongated shadows and a barely perceptible cooling of the breeze heralded the oncoming evening. Elena had spent the rest of the afternoon in her room psyching herself up for her upcoming mission. She could only imagine her father’s horror when he realized he wouldn’t get her back in the exchange. Her heart went out to him on a human level. Nobody should face that kind of news about their child. On the other hand, he’d really fucked up taking payoffs from a drug lord, so she had a hard time affording him too much pity. When she got home, he’d catch hell from her right before she turned him in to face the consequences of his actions. What if Ramos had kidnapped Janine from the party instead of her? Elena shuddered at the thought.

She used her anger at her father for endangering his family, redirecting and focusing it on the task ahead. Her sundress didn’t afford much in the way of hiding places for a knife, so she tore a piece of sheet and tied it around her thigh. She’d tuck the knife in there. Otherwise, her only preparation was mental.

A knock at the door signaled game on. One of her guards opened it and gestured for her to follow. “Cena, señorita.”

She forced herself to appear subdued. She slumped her shoulders, hung her head, and shuffled downstairs between the two guards. While she did, she assessed their personal arsenals. Each carried an AK-47, but they also wore holstered handguns and tactical knives.

In the dining room, Ramos and his lieutenant, Romero Camacho, stood when she entered. The irony of their gentlemanly manners almost made her snort. They lived by a twisted code which, when she thought about it, probably wasn’t so different from a lot of warrior cultures throughout history. That didn’t make it right, and she refused to play the part they expected of her. She was no sacrificial lamb.

Once she’d taken her seat, they resumed theirs, and the guards went to stand by the door. Presumably they’d eat later and somewhere else.

“I’ve had my chef prepare a special meal for you,” Ramos said.

Lucky me.

“I’m not very hungry,” she said, even though she was.

The chef backed into the dining room, pushing the door open behind him, and turned to reveal two plates heaping with food. He placed one in front of Elena, and one in front of Ramos, then hurried back to the kitchen and returned with a plate for Camacho.

“This is called bandeja paisa,” Ramos said. “It will fill your belly and make you happy.”

And then you’ll kill me. No thanks.

Elena clamped down on the sarcastic retort that bubbled up in her mind. Instead, she said, “How do I know it’s not poisoned?”

“You have my word.”

Oddly, she trusted him. So far from everything she’d learned, he always kept his word. It may be twisted and brutal, but when he promised something, he did it.

The plate in front of her was a mixed pile of chorizo, steak, friend pork rind, beans, rice, a fried egg, a slice of avocado, and banana chips. She’d never be able to eat it all, but she was glad for the protein and carbs, and most of all, she was glad for the sharp knife on the napkin next to her plate.

She tucked into the meal, which was as delicious and satisfying as he’d promised. They ate in silence for a while before she finally asked, “Will you be leaving soon to meet my father?”

“Yes.”

She nodded and scooped some beans and rice onto her fork. When she didn’t respond, Ramos and Camacho started a discussion—in Spanish—of an upcoming meeting of what she assumed was middle management of his organization. They talked about production and distribution and planning for how to improve the operation overall. While they talked, they ignored her so she took the opportunity to place her napkin over top of the knife, then after a couple of minutes she casually scooped the napkin and knife into her lap. From there it was easy to tuck it into the makeshift garter on her thigh.

For another half hour or so she pushed food around her plate, tried to appear defeated, and listened. Finally, she used the napkin to wipe her mouth, then dropped it on the plate and stood, signaling her intent to leave.

The men stopped mid-sentence and looked up at her.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to my room.”

Camacho went back to his plate, and Ramos nodded, making a shooing gesture to dismiss her.

She headed for the stairs and her two guards followed.

Hours later she jolted awake from a nap to the rumble and whine of a small aircraft engine landing at the airstrip. Her gut clenched at the sound. It had to be Ramos’ plane coming to pick him up and take him to meet with her father. If she had any hope of using him in her escape, she’d have to move now.

She rolled off the bed and padded to the dresser where she pulled out her sweatpants and tank, along with a dark gray button down shirt, and went about changing. It was easier to move in sweats than in a dress. She debated the shoes. With only one pair to choose from—leather sandals—she waffled between the quiet stealth of bare feet versus not knowing where the night would go and the possible need to protect her feet if she had to escape outdoors. Shoes won out.

Once she’d slipped her feet into the sandals, she did a perimeter check from her windows. The weak light of a crescent moon made it difficult to make out the number of guards on patrol. For all she knew, a small army swarmed in and out of the jungle.

She took a deep breath to steady her thumping heart. If she survived the night, it would be a fucking miracle, but all she needed to do was subdue the guards inside and get to Ramos. After that, she had something to bargain with.

Hopefully.

She pulled her hair up and secured it in a knot on her head, then rolled her neck and shook out her arms, heaving in and out a couple of breaths like a weightlifter about to do a deadlift.

“You’ve got this, Mitchell,” she whispered.

Gripping the handle of the steak knife tight in her left hand, she considered how critical the next few moments would be. She’d run the plan through her mind over and over before napping, like counting sheep. Now was the time to change her mind, but she really had no choice. It was either this or let Ramos kill her, and she wouldn’t go without a fight.

Damian’s face came to mind, and she took a moment to savor that memory. She only wished she had more time with him, to get to know him.

“If you survive this thing, you can find him and screw his brains out,” she said. “Now, focus.”

She pushed Damian out of her mind and headed for the door. Resting her hand on the door knob, she closed her eyes and centered herself, calming her roaring heart. She had one chance to get this right, and it all depended on speed and surprise.

She yanked the door with her right hand and rushed the guard standing to the left, stabbing the steak knife square into his neck, then ducking and reaching for the tactical knife strapped to the right-side guard’s thigh. She’d been fast enough that the guard on the right didn’t even have time to react to the door opening, and it wasn’t until the guard on the left slumped to the floor with a muted thump that he finally turned all the way around. In the span of less than a second he saw her—and his comrade in a bloody heap—and his face went from open-mouthed surprise, to angry frown. Before he could haul his weapon up and point it, Elena thrust his own knife into his chest under his ribs and up into his heart. It took a lot of strength, but adrenaline fueled the effort.

“Sorry,” she whispered as he crumpled to the floor.

She took a deep breath. Step one, done.

Squatting on her haunches, she rummaged the corpses, collecting handguns from both of the men, along with extra clips and the other knife. She cocked her head at the distant drone of an engine. It sounded more like a plane than a vehicle, so she dismissed it. Just a jet flying overhead. While she unbuckled the utility belt from the more slender of the two guys and secured it around her own waist, her mind had already moved to the next step in her plan.

When she stood, she adjusted the belt with the weapons then headed down the hall on sneaking feet. She’d almost reached the stairs when she heard thumping noises on the roof above and excited male voices yelling outside, then gunshots.

What the fuck?

***

Damian and his guys made the roof, no problem, as did Ewing’s team. Practice makes perfect, and they’d done enough precision drops that if they hadn’t hit the roof, they didn’t deserve to be SEALs.

They all shucked out of their chutes and switched to assault gear, bringing weapons up, locked and loaded. West took lead, and they followed his signals to execute their prearranged plan to disperse around the perimeter of the roof and scan the scene using their night vision goggles. Damian hurried to the east side of the building and took a knee. He scanned the area, watching as the other teams crept into position from their landings, a big circle of SEALs closing in on the unsuspecting building.

West gave the signal to regroup, then murmured quietly into his comm. Damian heard him as if he spoke right into his ear. “We’re a go.”

West took point and headed for the door. Everyone took up position to the side, out of range of anyone who might be standing inside. West tried the handle, careful to be slow and quiet, and when he found it unlocked, he opened it. As the next in line Terrell swept the opening.

“Clear,” he hissed into the comm.

They funneled in one by one, down the stairs and into a hallway with doors along both sides, some closed and some open. The most striking feature, though, were the two dead men sprawled on the floor in pools of their own blood. Damian had to wonder who’d got there before them.

Using hand signals, West indicated they should disperse and check all the rooms. Like wraiths in the night, the men scattered to check and clear the rooms. Damian and Cox—one of the guys from Ewing’s team—took the room with the dead guys outside. As soon as Damian entered the room, he knew Elena had been held there. Not only did he catch a whiff of her scent, but a yellow dress lay in a pile on the floor, and he sensed the ghost of her presence. Call it instinct, but her energy filled the space.