Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) (30 page)

The spectacles that gave
El Cuchillo
such an intelligent demeanor magnified the chilling ruthlessness in his muddy-brown eyes. "How much do you have?" he inquired, fingering the knife at his waist that had given him his fearful nickname.

César sent a dismayed glance to his safe. Every last dollar he had stolen from the tourists, the money he'd made pawning off their jewelry, and every withdrawal he'd managed to get at an ATM from the captives' bank cards would be taken from him tonight. His heart broke at the thought of parting with it.

He would have to comfort himself with the sum that he'd made the old couple transfer to his secret bank account.

"All that I have is yours," he stated generously. His men gaped in astonishment, but even in their sotted states they were quick to glean the reason for César's charity.
El Cuchillo
would just as soon slaughter them all than put up with any competition. If they wanted his protection, it would have to be on his terms.

Crossing to his safe, César toggled the lock, gathered up the contents, and carried the bills to the table where he spread them out making it look like more money than it actually was.

"Help yourself,
compadre
," he invited.

Without any outward expression,
El Cuchillo
pulled out a chair and sat before the bills to count them.

"Suturo," César hissed, "get him a drink!"

As Suturo laid out three shot glasses, filling them from a bottle that trembled in his hands, César took the chair next to his overlord.

"How is your wife?" he asked, determined to engender feelings of camaraderie in the formidable old man. Back in jail, they had gotten to know each other fairly well.

El Cuchillo
reached for the fifties first. "She is sick," he said, counting them by two's.

"Don't tell me!" César professed his dismay. "I'm so sorry to hear it. Give her this money. Tell her it is from her husband's most loyal friend."

With a snort of disgust,
El Cuchillo
kept right on counting.

* * *

"OGA says they've secured the perimeter, Master Chief," Hack announced. "They've picked up two of César's night shift already and plan to snag the rest. We're cleared to approach the building."

In the muted light of the temporary operations center, Juliet's heart beat a painful tattoo as she watched Kuzinsky jam three spare magazines into the loops of his webbed belt. What was supposed to be a simple rescue operation had turned into an inevitable firefight where the main objective was to capture or kill a high-value target. No one had so much as mentioned her sister and niece since
El Cuchillo
came on the scene.

"Bring all the firepower you can carry," Kuzinsky said to his underlings. "You remember what happened in Palenque."

The comment wreaked havoc on Juliet's imagination.
El Cuchillo
had obviously put up a fight before he was taken the last time. The fact that Kuzinsky expected a similar outcome turned her blood to ice-water.

Hack looked up from his laptop. "The OGA wants access to our radio frequency," he reported.

"Oh, come on," Tristan scoffed. "We don't need them meddling in our operation."

"Give it to them," Kuzinsky said to Hack. "Don't forget who we're dealing with, Halliday," he added.

"Only the biggest, baddest
capo
in Mexico," Haiku chimed in.

A shiver traced Juliet's spine, top to bottom. Hack shut his laptop and the room went dark. As he began sliding it into his pack, she realized that he was leaving, too. They were all going to jump into the fray and just leave her there.

"What about my sister and niece?" she demanded, speaking up suddenly. "Who's going to protect them when the bullets start to fly?"

With an apologetic glance at Kuzinsky, Tristan made his way quickly toward her.

"Listen," he said, pulling her into the room with the window so others wouldn't overhear. "Your sister and the other hostages are still a priority. We've got this covered. You don't need to worry."

"Like hell I don't," she protested, focusing on the man she'd recently shared so much with. Yet Tristan's face, slathered in camo-paint, looked unfamiliar, and suddenly, he was a stranger, simply a man doing his job with no emotional connection to her or to her family. After all, he had Bullfrog back.

She curled her hands into fists and tried to keep her voice down. "You're already outnumbered. You know
El Cuchillo
is heavily armed and that he's going to resist being taken. Who's going to protect the hostages if you're all busy shooting?"

"We'll protect them," he reassured her. "We've done this a million times. We know what we're doing."

"Let me help," she pleaded. "I really want to help."

He heaved a sigh. "You can't
help
us, Juliet. I hate to say this, but you'd only be in the way. Having you around would only serve as a distraction. "

That word again. She wished she'd never used it in the first place.

"Here, take this," he urged, pressing something metallic into her palm.

Recognizing the familiar contours of a nine millimeter, her fingers closed instantly around its reassuring weight. The thought that she could use it to kill men who'd stolen her family elevated her pulse.

"Only use it to defend yourself," Tristan added. "You're going to be up here all alone, for a while anyway."

Like hell I'll be up here.
Releasing the clip she was heartened to feel that it was full of bullets.

"Let's go," Kuzinsky called from the other room. "We're moving out."

Tristan caught the end of her chin and forced her gaze up. "Don't do anything stupid," he warned, as if sensing her private thoughts.

She knocked his arm away. "You
promised
me we'd get Emma and Sammy back."

"Hey." Her vehemence obviously surprised him. "We will. It's all good, honey. Everything's going to work out. You'll see." He went to hug her but she pushed him away.

"Go," she ordered.

With a sigh and a searching look, he turned and disappeared out of sight—and seconds later, out of hearing.

"And don't call me honey," she muttered, but no one was left to hear her.

Right then, it was crystal clear that, despite the camaraderie she had enjoyed with Tristan, in spite of his ability to make things seem better than what they were, and even in the face of her devastating attraction to him, they had no future together. If she were the kind of woman to indulge in a long-term relationship—which she wasn't—she could never do it with a man who answered to orders
before
he followed through on his personal commitments.

She'd thought they had an understanding. Apparently not. Tristan couldn't be counted on to ensure that Emma and Sammy emerged from the current situation unscathed. She would have to do that herself.

* * *

"Two thousand twenty three."
El Cuchillo
laid the last dollar bill down on the pile he'd created while counting the money. Helping himself to a second shot of tequila, he then leaned back in his chair and sighed.

To César's hopeful eye, he appeared slightly more relaxed.

"This is not nearly enough money to ensure my protection," the
capo
stated with a shake of his head. "You will have to give me more. Much more."

César's chest hurt. "And I will,
Tío
. I will," he assured him. "Soon the ransom money will come flowing in. I will give you fifty percent on top of all this. Please, it's yours. Buy something special for your wife."

"Hmph." By the glint in
El Cuchillo
's dark eyes, he saw straight through César's generosity to the fear that engendered it. "I tell you what," he continued, slamming the shot glass onto the table and making César jump. "I will take three female hostages with me now, and leave you with
all
the ransom money."

At first the offer struck him as a good deal. The ransom notes had all been sent. Money would be transferred into his secret account whether the captives upstairs lived or not. On the other hand, he had gone to the trouble of capturing the Americans. He felt unmistakably possessive—especially of the women.

"It will cost you less to feed them," the
capo
added.

Yes, but he had planned to sell them to a pimp after the money came in, and now
El Cuchillo
would do that, profiting from the price they commanded. White women had to be worth more on the black market than he'd realized.

Regret vied with greed. For a split second, he weighed his odds of overcoming
El Cuchillo
and his posse and keeping the money and the women for himself.

But in his peripheral vision he could see the
capo
's henchmen tensing in anticipation of a backlash. Given their firepower and their fighting experience versus that of his wasted, good-for-nothing hoodlums and his unconscious brother, he stood zero chance of winning such a battle.

"Of course,
jefe
. You should have asked me for the women earlier. All that I have is yours," he repeated. "Come, come." Pushing back his chair, he gestured for the
capo
to rise and join him. "Inspect the women for yourself and pick out any three who please you."

El Cuchillo
's dark eyes slid over him looking for weapons, but César carried none. Gesturing for two of his most trusted men, the
capo
rose and followed him.

On his way up the stairs, César turned and called down, "Cucho, turn on the upstairs lights!"

* * *

The lights blinked on unexpectedly, so bright that Emma flinched.

She'd been lying in her hammock as stiff as a board listening to the voices penetrating the concrete floor. The worry that Jeremiah would come to harm and not make it back kept her from falling asleep. People had entered the building recently—could he be one of them? Perhaps he'd brought the local police with him. The words she could overhear were clearly in Spanish.

But there'd been no sign yet of the purple smoke he'd mentioned nor of the Navy SEALs who were supposed to rescue them.

The sudden grating open of the steel door suggested he was back. It sent her rolling out of the hammock to be the first to greet him. But it wasn't Jeremiah who stepped into the room. The guerilla leader, accompanied by a trio of strangers, swaggered into the midst of the hostages.

Emma's gaze went straight to the man in glasses, and a fingernail of fear raked her spine. Unlike the thugs who'd held them for days, this man wore a lightweight trench coat over slacks and a dress shirt. His silvery hair and spectacles made him look older than his smooth complexion suggested.
This is a capo
, she realized, remembering the word Jeremiah had taught her. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his soulless gaze touched upon her unkempt hair and yellow dress before swinging away to inspect the others.

His attention snagged briefly upon Joe, whom he recognized as potentially dangerous, until he noticed the injury that kept him helpless in his hammock. Joe's grim expression confirmed Emma's worst fears.

Shifting, she sought to block the
capo
's view of Sammy, who lay sound asleep in their hammock. But the newcomer took note of her protective gesture, and turning back, he approached her and dropped a considering gaze upon the sleeping girl. Emma's hands curled into fists as she willed him to move away. Casting her a smirk that turned her heart to ice, he finally did, venturing deeper into the room with César right behind him and the frightening thugs still at the door.

Fear-filled silence fell over the hostages as they realized the extent of their helpessness with Jeremiah gone and Joe debilitated. All of them except Sammy had come awake when the lights blinked on. Like Emma, most stood on their feet, impelled by their survival instinct to assume a defensive stance. Only Mike and his bride cowered within the cradle of their shared hammock.

As the
capo
approached Noah's family, the youth edged before his womenfolk, his eyes wild, his chest rising and falling as if he'd just run a mile.

The
capo
strained to see over Noah's head and caught sight of Katherine. He pointed her out to César. "I'll take her," he said in Spanish. And then Emma's thoughts shut down as he swung around and added offhandedly, "plus the redhead and the sleeping girl."

"
Claro
," their captor agreed with just the slightest hesitation.

Emma froze.
This is a nightmare.
She willed herself to wake up. This could not be happening. Jeremiah was supposed to be here, saving them. He had sworn he would be back tonight.

With a jerk of his head, the newcomer signaled for his henchmen to collect the women he'd selected. As they moved forward, Joe tried climbing out of his hammock only to fall back with a roar of helplessness and pain.

"No!" Emma threw herself over Sammy, who roused at the rude awakening.

"Mom?"

Across the room, instead of holding his ground to protect his aunt, Noah clapped a hand over his mouth and fled for the bathroom.

Hands that felt like manacles banded Emma's arms and lifted her off Sammy, who screamed in protest.

"It's okay. It's okay, baby." Emma's hoarse voice sounded like a stranger's. But she knew it wasn't okay. She and Sammy were about to be carted off to God knew where. They would be sold to some pimp in the slums of Mérida, who would pump them full of narcotics—and then her precious baby girl would be forced to endure the perversions of adult males.