Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) (29 page)

Toro had cocked an ear toward the sound, but he kept right on walking, slightly ahead of Jeremiah. Hércules, deaf to anything but his own muttered threats, prodded Jeremiah once more between the shoulder blades.

He didn't hesitate before gesturing discretely for Tristan to intervene.

An infrared dot appeared on the back of Toro's head. No doubt there was one on Hércules, as well. In the next instant, there came an almost silent
pop! pop!
, and Toro hit the ground with Hércules falling simultaneously.

Jeremiah bolted from the scene, sprinting in the direction of the fired shots. Adrenaline lent him added speed. He darted into a side street and ran straight into Tristan, recognizable only by the breadth of his shoulders, as he was dressed in black, his face smeared with camo paint. He caught Jeremiah by the arms and swung him up against a building.

"Hey, you good?" he asked, eyeing him with concern.

"Yeah, yeah." But lightheadedness broke over him suddenly, and he had to sink into a squat, putting his head between his knees. "Haven't eaten much lately."

The sound of a candy wrapper being torn open encouraged him to straighten. He took the power bar Tristan held out to him. "Thanks."

A pebble crunched beneath the sole of a shoe and Jeremiah swung around, but it was only Master Chief, recognizable by his stature.

"Let's get out of here," he said, moving swiftly past them.

* * *

Jeremiah barely got through the makeshift command-room doorway when a woman threw herself at him, making him think of Emma.

"Juliet," he exclaimed, recognizing Emma's sister. "You're here, too?"

Emma hadn't been exaggerating when she told Sammy that her aunt was looking for them. He'd thought she would have stayed on the ship and returned to New Orleans by now.

"Of course I'm here." Short nails dug into his upper arms as she all but shook him. "Tell me they're alive," she ordered in a fierce, but fear-filled voice.

"Yes, they're alive," he assured her. "Emma and Sammy are fine," he added, except he couldn't shake the feeling that they were in more danger than ever. What had begun with the chill pooling in his stomach had morphed into a full-blown premonition as he'd watched Tristan and Master Chief drag the bodies of the dead
narcos
into an alley and conceal them. By the time they'd made their way to the safe house—the same tall building he'd spotted the day he'd broken a bit of plywood of the window and looked outside—he was certain something bad was about to happen.

He set Juliet at arm's length. "They're going to be okay. We're going to get them out of there." He said it as much to convince her as to convince himself. He'd made Emma a promise, and they had a lot of work to do if he was going to keep it.

"Here, drink this." Master Chief handed him a bottle of orange juice, and he quickly chugged it down.

"Now tell us what you know," Master Chief ordered.

He started from the beginning, recapping their tale of capture and including last night's altercation that had resulted in Joe's injury. "We have to go in tonight," he insisted.

The four SEALs in second squad just looked at him.

In the faint glow of Hack's computer monitor, he could make out Master Chief scowling at him. "Why?" his leader demanded. "What are you seeing?"

His colleagues had learned to take his intuition seriously, and his insistence had gotten their immediate attention. But he didn't want to give voice to his premonitions with Juliet in the room, so he offered up a secondary reason.

"When César's men don't come back, he's going to assume someone's on to him. Either he'll relocate the hostages, or he'll just... get rid of them like he did to the others on the bus."

Juliet's stifled gasp made him wince. There just wasn't any delicate way to talk about this.

Feeling Emma's pull on him, Jeremiah broke away to gaze out the window in the adjoining office. With a painful tightness in his chest, he stared up the street at the dark factory building. Silence filled the room behind him.

Emma.
He could sense her fear from here. She was starting to doubt whether he would make it back.
I'm right here, English.

Kuzinsky's stealthy footfalls announced his approach. He stood next to him a moment. "You know I hate being rushed," he stated.

But the resignation in his tone told Jeremiah he would act tonight. His eyes closed and he exhaled slowly. They were going in. The hostages would soon be rescued.

"We've already got men on the roof," Master Chief pointed out, talking himself into an insertion, "and you can describe the layout of the entire building, correct?"

Jeremiah turned to face him. "Absolutely."

"All right then. Let's go talk to Sam."

Together they returned to the inner office to get on the radio. Master Chief snatched up the transceiver. "LT, do you copy?"

"Affirmative."

"Bullfrog says we need to execute tonight. He'll describe the building's layout and anything else we need to know. What are your thoughts?"

Sam hesitated. "Works for us," he said. "Is this before or after the night shift rolls?"

Jeremiah had almost forgotten about the rotation of César's men. A fresh influx came every night at midnight. According to his watch, which Tristan had recovered from a pawn shop, they had half an hour before the next shift rolled in. Putting out a hand, he requested the handheld, and Kuzinsky gave it to him.

"Hey, it's Bullfrog," he said. "What if we show up in lieu of the night shift?"

He described the rescue the way he saw it unfolding, with first squad coming off the roof at the same time as he and Kuzinsky knocked on the front door in place of César's men. With two avenues of escape cut off, the
narcos
would all flee out the rear exit where Haiku and Hack would pick them off.

"Yes, do it," said Juliet from across the room.

Jeremiah felt a jolt go through him. Her voice was so like Emma's.

"Bullfrog?" It was Lt. Sasseville questioning his sudden silence.

"I'm here." He deliberated telling Juliet to be quiet. Any distraction at this juncture could not be tolerated.

"Okay, we're happy to do this any way you—oh, fuck. What now?" the lieutenant interrupted himself.

"We've got company," drawled Bronco, who was with him.

The unexpected announcement sent every SEAL, including Jeremiah, dashing to look out the window.

No, no, no!
He raged at what he saw—a total of three vehicles idling at the factory gate. Someone got out and cut the lock with a pair of bolt-cutters, letting the chain hang free. That same man swung the gate open, and the convoy proceeded inside, disappearing behind the ten-foot walls.

Just like that, Jeremiah's plan to rescue the hostages went up in smoke. His intestines twisted slowly into knots. The newcomers had to be the source of his latest premonitions.

Kuzinsky donned his headset and tabbed his mike. "How many unfriendlies, Sam?" he asked.

Jeremiah heard the answer coming from the speaker in the other room. "I count six—make that seven."

"Shit," said Tristan, who was standing next to him. And from the far wall, he heard Juliet give a moan of denial.

"Heavily armed," Sam's voice added. "Looks like they may be enemies of César Salvador's—or not. Someone just opened the door for them. Wait a fucking minute... Isn't that—?"

His voice cut out as he released his mike to confer with one of his teammates. A second later, he added in an excited whisper, "You're not going to believe this, Master Chief. One of the newcomers is
El Cuchillo,
or a dead ringer for him."

Astonished silence filled the temporary operations center.

Jeremiah's heart sank. He tore his gaze off the factory to gauge Kuzinksy's response.

Kuzinksy went perfectly still. Then he swiveled on his boots and marched back into the inner office. The remaining SEALs followed him, ready to take orders.

"Hack," Kuzinsky rapped out, "tell the OGA our suspicions, and ask them if
El Cuchillo
has a presence in Mérida. If he does, tell them I want ten more men here within the hour. We can't let that sonofabitch get away a second time."

Jeremiah swallowed down bile burning his esophagus. Suddenly, this wasn't a simple rescue operation. SOCOM and the CIA's top priority wouldn't be the safety of the hostages. It would be the capture—or unavoidable death—of the notorious drug overlord. He'd escaped confinement the last time they'd captured him. He wouldn't be so lucky this time.

Chapter 18

At the sound of vehicles pulling into the yard, César Salvador glanced up from his brother's waxen face, a splinter of alarm sliding beneath his skin. Hércules and Toro should have been the ones showing up with the medicine, but they hadn't left in a vehicle, so who was outside?

"
Quién es
?" he demanded, waving one of his men to the window to check. Only a few loyal men held keys to the gate and none of them owned vehicles.

Chucho, who'd imbibed a fifth of rum over cards, rolled out of his hammock and staggered to the window. Peering through the adhesive tint, he stared a moment then turned back with a look of alarm. "
Es El Cuchillo
!" he cried.

A humming sound filled César's ears. He swung a panicked gaze around the filthy lower level of the building. Of all the times for
El Cuchillo
to drop in unexpectedly—this was the worst. Not only had his soldiers made a mess of their living space, but most of them were wasted, sleeping off their last hour as they waited to be relieved of duty.

What did
El Cuchillo
want with him at this hour—surely not his fealty money? He had to know it was too soon for that.

A crisp knock at the door left César no time to conceal the steel safe standing conspicuously against the wall. On leaden feet, he crossed the room to let the
capo
in. Summoning a wide, plastic smile, he threw the door—and his arms—wide open.

"
Jefe!
" It was best to make
El Cuchillo
feel welcome. After all, without the overlord's protection, the police chief would have chased César out of Mérida months ago.

"Welcome,
Tío
,," he continued, pulling the older man inside and embracing him with as much warmth as he could pretend to feel for a man who was not his uncle and would just as soon kill him as look out for him. "Come in, all of you."

He waved the posse inside—all but one man, who turned his back on them in order to guard the front entrance.

The much-feared
capo
stopped just inside the threshold and looked around. Envisioning the room through his superior's bespectacled eyes, César cringed.

"You must forgive the filth my men have made," he said, blaming his underlings for the state of the place. "Chucho, secure the door," he ordered. "Pedro
y
Sutura, clean off the table. Get
El Cuchillo
a chair.
Rápido!
"

Fussing and clucking, he escorted the
gran capo
to the table as his men worked desperately to clear it. For his part,
El Cuchillo
remained stoically silent. His gaze fell upon Sergio, lying half-dead in his hammock.

"What's wrong with your brother?" he asked.

"An infection," César admitted. "Some of my men have gone to fetch medicine for him. Please, sit," he added, gesturing to the chair he had pulled out. "Can I get you something—tequila?"

The
capo
's hair—it had turned silver since César had last seen him in prison—glinted under the halogen lights as he turned his head to consider the table. This isn't a social visit, César realized. In fact,
El Cuchillo
's men had positioned themselves throughout the room, surrounding his inebriated
narcos
in a menacing semi-circle. Every one of them bore sneers of contempt and scars to prove their mettle. An assortment of weapons bristled from their bodies. César's greatest ambition was to become one of them.

"I have come for my fifty percent,"
El Cuchillo
announced, confirming César's realization.

His mouth turned dry. "Of course. Of course,
Tío
. But you must know it's too soon." He spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "It's only been days that I have held these
gringos
. Not all of the ransom money has been paid—in fact, very little."