Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) (25 page)

"
Sí, sí, sí
." The confused man was all too willing to agree.

"Bueno." César looked around at his recruits. "
Pongan atención,
" he told them. Then he raged at them in Spanish saying no one was to
ever
touch his captives without his permission. An expression Jeremiah had seen on the faces of radicals all over the world slid over the enraged man's face as he pointed his AK-47 at the wide-eyed
narco,
pulled the trigger hard, and sent four bullets slamming into his torso, killing him instantly.

As the man hit the floor, the captives screamed—all except for Jeremiah and Joe who shared a look of concern. Well founded, for in the next instant, César swung around and fired one more bullet, straight into Joe's right leg.

With a roar of agony, Joe fell to the floor. Jeremiah lunged forward then stopped. He could probably take out the drug leader, but he'd be set upon by all the others at once.

Cheryl flew across the room to throw herself on top of her man, and Jeremiah braced himself, ready to attack should the
jefe
try to shoot her also.

But César had lowered his rifle. "Let that be a warning to ju," he rasped. Then he did a slow circle, taking in all his captives. "All of ju," he reiterated, leveling his gaze on Jeremiah and holding it there for a long moment. Then rapping out instructions to his men, he ordered them to remove the dead men from the room.

Two bright trails of blood bisected the floor as the corpses were dragged by their feet to the door. The last to leave the room, César stood for a moment watching Cheryl sob hysterically over a writhing Joe.

"Do something!" she raged at Jeremiah, and César's dark eyes fastened with suspicion on Jeremiah.

Crossing cautiously toward the couple, Jeremiah dropped to one knee to examine the wound. Joe's kneecap had been shattered by the single bullet. Bits of cartilage and bone peeked through the blood that spilled from the gaping hole. Looking up, he intercepted César's smirk. The man's look said plainly,
Don't mess with me again
.

Then before Jeremiah could ask for the carpet bag with the medical tools in it, César withdrew, shutting and bolting the steel door firmly behind him.

"We need something to slow the bleeding," he said to Cheryl.

"Take my belt," Joe ground through clenched molars. As Cheryl went to unbuckle it, the lights went out, plunging the room back into darkness.

Working in the dark and with the others standing over them calling words of comfort to Joe, he and Cheryl fashioned a makeshift tourniquet from the belt.

"Loosen it in an hour or so," he instructed Cheryl. "It should clot by then. I'm sorry. There's nothing more I can do right now."

"I'm fine," Joe insisted, but his rough voice told a tale of misery.

Helping him to stand, Mike put a shoulder under his left arm and Jeremiah under his right. Together they assisted him in crossing to his hammock. He collapsed into its folds with a groan. Catching Jeremiah by his T-shirt, Joe pulled his head down and muttered in his ear, "Check in the toilet tank."

It took a moment for Jeremiah to realize Joe had dropped the second pistol into the tank where it had been overlooked. Excusing himself on the pretext of washing his hands, he stepped into the dark bathroom and shut the door. Feeling his way to the toilet, he lifted the ceramic lid and plunged his hand inside the tank.

There it was.

Lifting the pistol from the water, he let himself enjoy its weight as water trickled from the cracks and crevices. He checked the magazine for rounds.
One, two, three.

Damn it. If he'd emptied the magazine on the gun he'd surrendered he'd have a full clip. Too late now. Still, a gun with three bullets was better than nothing. And Joe had sacrificed his welfare to get them this much. Sliding the magazine back in place, Jeremiah contemplated hiding it elsewhere. But he could think of no better place, and the Glock could tolerate immersion for a while, anyway. Lowering it back into the water, he gingerly replaced the lid.

Then he flushed the toilet to conceal his activities, washed his hands and made his way back to Emma and Sammy, conscious of Cheryl's soothing words of comfort and Joe's occasional stoic groan.

As he stretched out on the floor to wait for dawn, Sammy's frightened voice reached his ears.

"We're going to die here, aren't we?"

"No way." Emma's confidence gave his spirits a much-needed boost. "Aunt Juliet's good at finding people, remember? She found that runaway teen last year. I bet you she's almost found us already."

"I hope so." Sammy's assertion ended on a sob.

"I know so, baby," Emma insisted.

Despite the night's unexpected violence, Jeremiah found something to be grateful for. Emma was growing braver by the hour. By the time they gained their freedom, she'd surely be willing to risk her heart by deepening their relationship.

Closing his eyes, he pinned his thoughts on that eventual outcome, willing it with all of his cerebral might.

Chapter 16

"Which way?" Juliet whispered.

They'd been so diligent about not being seen by Manolo, they'd lost sight of him merely three blocks from his house. The young thug had risen late, frustrating their desire for an early start. Now, the sun shone directly overhead, leaving scant shadows for them to hide in as they trailed him up a diagonal street through several intersections. One minute, he'd been buying a churro off a street vender. The next, he had turned a corner ahead of them and vanished.

Juliet's gaze raked the facades of the buildings in front of them. Had Manolo entered one of the houses and shut himself behind a brightly painted door? How could such a bumbling, unintelligent-looking youth have given them the slip?

Sandwiched between Tristan's bigger body and a stucco wall, it was all she could do to concentrate on their pursuit as Tristan leaned into her to peer around the corner.

"Let's try the alley," he said, directing her gaze to a narrow opening between two buildings.

Her hopes resurfaced as he grabbed her hand and led her toward it.

What's with the hand holding?
she thought about asking.

Working partners did
not
hold hands. It went against her professional grain to let him keep her hand in his. But after the previous night's rejection and the long fear-filled hours of sleeplessness, she couldn't bring herself to pull away. After Sammy and Emma were safe and sound, she would feel strong enough to stand alone again.

Crossing a quiet street, they peered into the alley, where a glimpse of Manolo's yellow T-shirt kept Juliet's optimism high.

"Stay behind me," Tristan urged, guiding her into the narrow passage littered with trash.

Accepting his chivalry with a roll of her eyes, she let him precede her.

Clotheslines crisscrossed the space overhead. "God, this makes me nervous," he admitted, his eyes on the rooftops of the buildings pressing in on them. "Feels like a trap."

With their senses on high alert, they moved forward through the ever-shrinking shadows. The bark of a dog startled them as they passed an open window. Tantalizing aromas of meat being roasted with garlic reminded her that she hadn't eaten much breakfast that morning.

The alley spit them onto a road that hadn't seen much traffic in a while. Weeds grew through the cracked cement and a refrigerator lay on its side in the broiling sun. Manolo paused at a gate about fifty yards away, joining several other youths who'd converged at the same point. Tristan backed Juliet into the alley again.

"Let's wait," he suggested.

Vulnerability assailed her. "I sure miss my nine millimeter," she whispered.

"I'll get one of my teammates to loan you one," he promised.

The SAR team had arrived in Mérida just hours before she'd stumbled out of her room in the early dawn. According to Tristan, the SEALs were settling into a safe house provided by the CIA. After Tristan delivered the coordinates of the hostages' perceived location, the SAR team would sweep in and take over.

And she would become a third wheel. "What for, if you won't even let me close enough to the bad guys to use it?" she groused.

Her grumpy tone wrested Tristan's gaze from the street. "You didn't sleep much last night, did you?"

His up-close examination no doubt showed him the same bloodshot eyes she'd seen in the mirror that morning. Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at him, Juliet poked her head out of the alley and was pleased to see the trio of thugs entering the gate.

"Let's go," she urged, starting after them.

He caught her back. "Not so fast. There could be others coming."

Sure enough, male voices drifted up the alleyway behind them.

"Like them," Tristan stated, drawing her swiftly into the street in the opposite direction from the gate. With long-legged strides that had her trotting to keep up, he hustled her past several sad-looking buildings, clearly hunting for a place to hide.

As the youths broke into the street laughing and shoving each other, he hauled her into a covered doorway, pulling her against him to keep her blond hair from catching the sunlight and drawing their attention.

Adrenaline sang through Juliet's veins. The thrill of courting danger was one of the reasons she'd gone into investigative work. The other reason had been laid to rest.

But it wasn't just adrenaline that kept her blood flowing. Plastered against Tristan, she felt his heart thudding within the muscled cage of his chest and the warmth of his body right through his clothing, and she definitely felt the glaring evidence of his arousal pressing against her pelvis.

Aha! He wasn't immune to her after all. "Do you always get turned on in dangerous situations?" she needled.

He studied her upturned face. "That would suck for me, considering I work in a platoon of sixteen men. No, I guess I'm just finding you a distraction."

Touché.

The sound of footsteps nearing their hiding place muted their quiet conversation. All it would take was for someone to see them in this neighborhood to arouse suspicions. And there was nowhere to hide... unless the door next to them happened to be unlocked.

Tristan depressed the latch and—miracle of miracles—the heavy door swung inward. He pulled her inside what proved to be a foul-smelling stairwell, shutting the door quietly behind them just as a young man sauntered past, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Exhaling in tandem, they peered up the shadowed stairway.

"What is this place?" Juliet asked.

"I don't know. Let's find out." Catching her hand up once more, Tristan led the way up the stairs.

Graffiti and bullet holes desecrated the walls of the dim stairwell. Gaining the second floor, they faced a hallway of abandoned offices. The doors had been scavenged—except for those too damaged to salvage.

"Nice place to work, huh?"

"It was at one time, though," she replied, taking in the high ceilings and the peeling wallpaper. Beyond the gaping doors, she glimpsed broken desks and chairs. Trash, including old liquor bottles, was strewn across the bare floors. Anything of value had been stolen or destroyed.

"Let's find a bird's-eye view to that gate," Tristan suggested, gesturing to the next level.

On the third floor, they found what they were looking for. An inner office led to a room at the corner of the building where the windows had been removed, casings and all. A tropical breeze blew through the openings, fluttering the pages of an old newspaper. As Tristan crossed to the window to look down, Juliet retrieved a broken picture frame off the floor.

The family in the picture held a sea of smiling faces—mom, dad, and half a dozen children. Where were they now, she wondered, and were they still happy?

"Juliet." Tristian waved her to the window and pointed.

Behind the gate stood an old, rundown factory building, two stories high and as wide as it was deep, with a long flat roof with a water tower and door providing access to the roof in case of fire. Surrounded on all sides by a cinderblock wall and similar, single-story buildings, it resembled a tower within a fortified stronghold. An unsettling feeling overtook her as she took in the boarded-up windows on the second story.