Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) (22 page)

"
Sí.
" Jeremiah answered. "Penicillin."

"
Ah, penicilina
," Craterface said with a nod, but then he shook his head. "
No. Tiene alergía a penicilina
."

Terrific. The man was allergic. "You can try Bactrim," Jeremiah suggested.

César scratched his jaw while frowning with concern at his brother. Taking Sergio to a clinic or a hospital was apparently out of the question.

"
Si se enferma, te corto los dedos
," César threatened, pretending to hack off his own fingers to illustrate what he would do to Jeremiah if his brother died. "
Basta
." With a jerk of his head, he gestured for his hostage to return upstairs. "
Vete
."

All too happy to retreat, Jeremiah headed for the stairs. He hadn't gone halfway to the second level when the sound of booted feet outside the building made him freeze. A pounding at the door reverberated through the old building.

Who was this? Had the local SWAT arrived to arrest the drug traffickers? His heart pounded with hope.

But the
narcos
didn't seem the least bit alarmed, least of all César, who ordered one of his men to let the visitors in.

Jeremiah withdrew just far enough up the steps to avoid potential gunfire while maintaining his line of sight into the room below. The door swung wide, and in swarmed eight men—the same who'd been replaced by these men the night before.

Duty rotation, he realized, disappointment raking over him. The newcomers charged into the room, fussing at the current occupants for the condition in which they found it.

Jeremiah scanned their faces searching for Chubby. In lieu of the military-style clothing they'd all worn the day before, today they were dressed like ordinary youths, scruffy and unkempt.

The last man to enter was the one who'd stolen his watch. Jeremiah's gaze went straight to the young man's left wrist, but the watch was gone.

No
. His disappointment doubled. He'd assured Emma that the SEALs would rescue them soon. But the truth was his watch could be anywhere by now, so how would Master Chief know where to find them?

On feet that had turned leaden, he climbed the remaining stairs only to be shoved into the room by the butt of the guard's rifle.

"Jeremiah!" Emma, who stood near the door waiting, threw her arms around him. "Are you okay?" She hugged him so hard, he could feel her heart hammering in her chest. "Did you do it?"

"Yeah, it went fine. I should wash my hands," he said, careful not to touch her. Mostly, he just needed a minute alone to reshuffle his thoughts.

"Be right back," he promised turning away. Shutting himself in the men's washroom, he set about scrubbing Sergio's gore off his hands, but he couldn't wash the stink of infection from the inside of his nostrils.

It took every ounce of his willpower not to let negative thoughts crowd his mind.

Yes, their situation was a bad one. His watch was God-knew-where, sending their rescuers on a wild goose chase. But at least he'd made inroads into securing César's trust and confidence. Their captors all thought him a doctor. If for no other reason, they would keep him alive while waiting for his ransom money.

The next time one of them called on him for treatment, he could try to get his hands on Sergio's pills. If he found a way to slip them into the tequila that the men drank, he might even debilitate them to such a degree that he could steal a weapon and escape.

Once out of the building, he could locate a telephone and contact his master chief in person. But that meant he would have to leave Emma and Sammy to fend for themselves.

His heart balked at the thought of abandoning them. Ultimately, he might not have much choice. Without the watch providing their coordinates, no one was going to find them here. They had simply vanished, making rescue impossible.

Chapter 14

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" Juliet asked sweeping her gaze up and down the city block as Tristan parked along the curb.

In contrast to the pink and white colonial buildings on the nicer side of town, they'd driven to a section of Mérida devoted to industry—at least it
had
been back in a better economic era. Idyllic parks and swept streets had yielded to rundown houses, slums, and abandoned factories. Picturing her sister and niece here made Juliet's skin crawl.

Tristan checked the compass on his own watch. "The watch is within fifty feet of us," he affirmed, "if it hasn't been moved since I spoke with Master Chief."

Considering the graffiti-covered facades of buildings around them, Juliet quailed at the number of windows fronted by wrought-iron grilles. Was that an indication of the crime here or just a common architectural detail? Her gaze snagged on a store sign written in English—Pawn Shop—and the top of her head tingled.

"Oh," she said.

Tristan followed the direction of her gaze. "What?"

"What if it's in there?" She pointed out the shop.

Dismay wreathed his face. "Crap. That wouldn't be good."

"You said it's within fifty feet of us. I think we'd better check," she suggested.

He shook off his seatbelt. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

Heat rose off the concrete as they crossed the street together. She could feel people watching them, but she couldn't see anyone. Aside from a cat licking itself on a low concrete wall, the area stood deserted. If criminals ruled this side of town, the inhabitants probably knew it wasn't safe to walk around.

Bells jingled on the door as they pushed it open. Juliet trailed Tristan into a musty, poorly lit room filled with display cabinets. The shop sold everything from used furniture to pistols to jewelry. An ancient suit of armor drew their gazes to the corner of the room.

Suddenly, a man as short as Detective Canché but twice as old stepped from behind a curtained recess to regard them mistrustfully.

"Hello," Tristan called, heading toward him. "Do you speak English?" Gaining a curt nod, he extended his wrist. "I'm looking for a watch just like this one."

Recognition flickered in the shop owner's eyes, but he shook his head.

"No," he said, edging toward the area from which he'd emerged.

Juliet gripped Tristan's arm. "He's lying," she whispered.

"You're sure you don't have a watch like this one? Someone would have brought it in here last night."

"No, no watch." The man waved them off and turned away.

"I have money," Tristan called out, digging into his front pocket.

The shop owner looked back, his deep-set gaze sliding toward the wad of bills Tristan withdrew. "Four hundred dollars," he offered, holding the cash out to the old man, "to buy the watch back from you. More money if you can tell me who sold it to you."

Well done,
Juliet thought. She'd have made the same offer, but coming from Tristan, it sounded like a smart deal.

The shop owner turned back, stretching out a hand to take the money.

"Show me the watch first."

Tristan's cool tone brought a sheepish expression to the old man's face. Moving to a glass display, he unlocked it with a key strapped to his wrist and pulled out a watch identical to Tristan's. It had been sitting in plain view the whole time, camouflaged by the sheer number of watches, bracelets, and rings crowding the case.

He extended it to Tristan while holding out his other hand for payment.

Tristan made the swap, strapped Bullfrog's watch on his right wrist, and showed it to Juliet who could tell it was worth way more than four hundred dollars.

"Someone brought it to you last night?" he asked the old man.

The shop owner firmed his lips and glanced down at Tristan's pocket.

He sighed audibly and pulled out another wad of bills. He laid a fifty on the countertop but slapped a hand on it before the man could whisk it away. "Who brought it to you? Do you know him?"

The shop owner nodded. "
Se llama Manolo,
" he said with contempt he didn't bother hiding.

"Manolo. What's he look like?"

"
Gordo,
" said the shop owner, holding his hands out to indicate Manolo's girth.

"Old or young?"

"
Joven
."

"Young then." Tristan let him take the money. He laid another fifty on the counter.

"Where can we find him?"

The shop owner bit the inside of his cheek, deliberating. He finally pointed toward the north end of the block. "
Por allí. En una casa amarilla
."

Tristan kept his hand on the bill. "In a yellow house up the road. Do you think he's there now?"

The shopkeeper just stared at him.

"Does he work?" Tristan rephrased. "
Trabaja?
"

The old man averted his gaze. "
No sé,
" he muttered.

"Does he work for César Salvador?" Juliet asked, growing tired of the cat and mouse.

The old man startled back a step, his gaze darting wildly.

"We'll take that as a yes." Tristan held up the fifty. "
Dónde está César Salvador ahora?
" he asked in rudimentary Spanish.

But the shopkeeper was done talking. "Go," he commanded, waving them toward the door. At the same time, he edged toward the curtain, no doubt intending to arm himself.

Tristan backed swiftly away, taking Juliet with him. "
Ya vamos, señor,
" he called in an easy voice. We're leaving. "
Gracias
." Grabbing Juliet's arm, he drew her swiftly outside, back into the blinding sunshine.

"Well, that was a jackpot," she admitted as he hustled her up the uneven sidewalk. "You really are lucky."

He shot her a grin.

"Plus, you'd make a decent detective," she added.

"Thanks. All SEALs are versed in interrogation."

As they moved up the block, she kept her eyes peeled for trouble. She felt naked without the nine millimeter she carried back home. "I wish we'd bought one of those pistols he was selling."

He glanced her way and shook his head. "Figures you would know how to shoot," he commented on a note of irony. "Don't worry. My teammates will be loaded for bear when they get here."

She slowed to a halt, forcing him to do the same. "Wait. Are you saying they're going to take over and I won't get to shoot Salvador myself?"

He stopped walking and searched her face with concern. "You're joking, right?"

She propped her hands on her hips. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

He loosed an incredulous laugh. "Trust me, it's not that easy to take down a
capo
."

"A what?"

"A
capo.
That's the name given to drug lords." He scanned the immediate area with eyes that seemed to see everything. "You can't just blaze your way into his
hood
and expect to come out of it unscathed. A
capo
has no scruples. He'll kill every one of his hostages and then himself before he gives in."

She widened her stance to counteract a wave of dizziness. "So how do you do it?"

"Stealthily." His long lashes cast shadows onto his cheekbones as he looked down at her. "That's what we're trained for. That's why we're the ones who'll go in when the time is right. Okay?"

Anger flared within her. "No, it's not okay. We're talking about my family. I want to be a part of the rescue effort."

"You are part of it." He put his hands on her upper arms. "You're helping to locate the hostages. But don't let your ego get in the way of their safety."

That stung. She shrugged him off and kept walking. "Let's go find this yellow house," she snapped.

But there weren't any yellow houses on the block.

"Let's try the next one up," she suggested, not slowing her step. Assuming she and Tristan managed to locate the hostages, how many hours of planning would the SAR team require?

Shops and businesses began to pop up as they made their way north.

Tristan caught her elbow. "Check it out," he said, gesturing to a pale yellow house standing at the corner of a busy intersection.

Its tiled roof sagged. Wrought-iron grilles covered the windows. As they turned the corner, a middle-aged woman stepped outside the door to beat a rug.