Operation Summer Storm (25 page)

“Sir,” Tate murmured.

“Maddox,” the other man responded briefly, “It’s good to see you son,” he added, and Summer knew this man was not going to be a threat to these men.

The other men in uniform moved toward the group, and her friends handed over their weapons, surrendering their wrists to be cuffed with secure plastic flexi-cuffs.

“What are you doing?” Summer gasped, making to move toward the men, but found herself held back by Tate, with a hand on her upper arm.

“It’s all right Summer, we’ve turned ourselves in, we’ll be in protective custody until they bring Tréago to trial.”

Tears welled up on her lashes, and she felt her throat tighten. He dropped a hard kiss to her lips, and she felt his anguish and regret and the wish that things could be so, very different for them. Pulling away, she bit her lip, refusing to fall apart in front of so many strangers.

Tate jogged over to the other Marines, and she watched his wide shoulders, stiffen slightly, as he were handcuffed and led away, the short distance to the wharf, where the boat sat waiting.

Climbing reluctantly into the plane, she saw them board through blurring eyes, as the plane slowly taxied up the airstrip preparing to take off. Miserably she watched the boat backing away from the wharf—wishing she were with them.

The flash came from nowhere.

* * * *

The explosion shook the slowly taxiing aircraft Summer sat in, making it reverberate with the impact. Thrown back against her seat by the initial blast, her terrified gaze flew to the window and she realized the plane was no longer moving.

Craning her neck to look for the pilot, she saw him slumped over the controls in the cockpit—blood soaking through the shirt on his back. The front windscreen of the plane was gone and flames were leaping up the nose of the aircraft.

The plane was on fire! Frantically she looked to the big bear of a man who had boarded and saw him coming to the same conclusion as she had. They had to get out. Summer scrambled from her seat and followed him to the door. Outside—flames licked the front of the plane where, whatever had been fired at it, had landed in the ground, barely a few meters in front of the small aircraft.

The man turned and reached up to help her out, before half dragging her in a run, away from the burning wreckage. The sound of the explosion that followed boomed through the night air, and a bright orange ball of flame engulfed the plane and cast an eerie glow over the airfield around them. Summer tugged weakly on her arm, still in the man’s grasp and gasped that she had to stop. A stitch stabbed her side with every step and jagged breath she took. He paused long enough for her to bend over and catch her breath, before prodding her onwards once more.

“We’re sittin’ duck’s out here,” he yelled over his shoulder at her.

They’d taxied quite a way before the plane had been attacked. The jeeps and Mercenaries in the distance, still looked a long way off. She could barely make out the headlights bouncing in the distance as they regrouped to head towards them.

The single shot that rang out was almost lost in the roar of the helicopter that swooped over them, coming seemingly out of nowhere to fire at them from behind but Summer heard it only a fraction of a second before it hit the man beside her sending him crashing to the ground and dragging her along with him. Scrambling to her knees, she stared down at him, shock rendering her immobile. As he lay on his back his face wore a grimace of pain while his eyes stared sightlessly up at the night sky.

The realization that he was dead sent her scampering backwards crab-like in alarm. She looked down at her hands, splattered with the big man’s blood, and saw that they shook uncontrollably. As she jumped to her feet, instinct took over, urging her to flee from the danger that now stalked her. She no longer heard the fire raging behind her or the men shouting, only the pounding of her feet and her own labored breathing until she landed hard on the dusty ground, knocked off her feet by an unseen force.

Kicking and screaming, she fought as hard as she could against the man who had tackled her to the ground, but she was no match for his brute strength and soon tired, her energy and fight dissolving. The man, dressed in dark clothing, pulled her roughly to her feet and dragged her into the helicopter, which had barely touched down. Another figure loomed over her and a large cloth was placed firmly over her mouth and nose. She struggled against the over powering chemical smell—her head reared back in alarm before she felt herself slipping away into darkness.

* * * *

Micronesia

Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean

Slowly Summer became aware of the things around her. She could hear the throbbing of the helicopter -the noise becoming louder like someone turning up the volume of a stereo system. Carefully, she opened her eyes and found herself seated between two large, dark-clothed men. She tried to clear her foggy brain and figure out who they were.

That they weren’t friendly—she’d managed to work out. So if they weren’t military and they weren’t Duffy’s mercenaries—she figured -with a rapidly sinking heart-they had to be the men who’d been after Tate and the others. Summer drew in a sharp breath at the thought—Tate.

She felt ill, and her head swam, with the after-effects of the drug they’d knocked her out with. She was too sick to realize just how terrified she really was. By the time the aircraft landed, it was all she could do to place one foot in front of the other as they landed on a large yacht, in the middle of the dark ocean.

Inside the elegant salon, complete with soft white leather sofas and a bar, the noise of the ocean were blocked out, as the soundproof glass softly slid shut behind them. From up a staircase, which led, presumably down below decks and further extravagance, the head and shoulders of a man emerged, and Summer braced herself to hold his cold gaze.

Samuel Tréago wore a slimy smile, which grew larger, as he took in her disheveled appearance and fearful gaze.

Dressed impeccably, in sharply creased grey linen trousers and a navy sports coat, his soft Italian loafers were so clean they almost sparkled, and his hair, stylishly trimmed, the dark streaks, mixing freely with hints of grey. His fake smile and polite greeting grated on her nerves like fingernails down a chalkboard. He reminded her of a politician at election time all that seemed to be missing was the baby-kissing performed for the cameras.

“It’s a pleasure, indeed to see you again, Ms. Sheldon,” he greeted her warmly as he came towards her. “I hope you had a comfortable trip.”

Summer eyed him peculiarly—was he mad? Did she look comfortable? Caked in dust and blood? No, she bloody well wasn’t comfortable! Forcing herself to stay calm, she gritted her teeth and tried for a non-threatening tone.

“Why am I here?” she demanded trying to keep her fear in check.

His eyes hardened, but he forced that fake smile to his lips once more. Strolling over to the window he said, “Your spirit reminds me of your brother–in-law,” and turned to face her with a smile, that send shivers up Summer’s backbone.

“Terrible tragedy. A young man killed in the prime of his life and profession, like that,” he said with a tisk of his tongue, “plane crashes are terrible things. Sad really, how they can come out of nowhere.”

The impact of his statement hit her with all the subtlety of a tank. Of course she knew now, Willow had been right about Michaels accident, but to hear the man admit it—boast about the fact even, staggered her.

“Ahh, I see you understand Ms. Sheldon. Good. It makes it so much easier to work with bright people—much less stress involved in explaining the situation,” he said cheerfully, “now we both know Michael was a very curious fellow…that’s why he made such a wonderful investigative reporter no doubt...however his snooping caused me a great deal of inconvenience. I didn’t seem to have much luck with his wife, as you will recall, she found my hospitality, lacking, and left before she could give me the information I needed…how fortunate, that you are here and can perhaps, shed some light on my problem…I want to know where his files are Ms. Sheldon.”

Summer stared at him blankly, “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” she denied.

Tréago’s expression changed immediately, as he crossed to her side. “I know you found them—there was no other way you could have located Maddox—by the way thank you for leading us to him, that’s one less problem to take care of –now, I’m going to ask you once more…where is the file?”

So, there it was. He knew.

“I don’t have a file. I only had Maddox’s name—I asked him for help.”

“I know Maddox. He is not a man who would fall for a pair of pretty, blue eyes Ms. Sheldon. He’s far too focused for that. What did you offer him in return for this favor of yours?”

“It was purely a business transaction. I paid him to find my sister, which he did because I remember he seemed to kick your arse, quite spectacularly, in the process.”

He fixed her with a cool look, and she saw the tick in his jaw, that told her he was not as cool, calm, and collected as he tried to make her believe. “I know Michael had information that I require, I just could never locate it, before—or after his death,” he informed her briskly. “Don’t make this any more unpleasant than it already is—I find it most distasteful to put a woman through a long drawn out interrogation.”

Summer stared at him in alarm. Surely, this couldn’t be happening. Her thoughts once more turned to the file and felt her stomach drop in despair. He’d cold bloodedly, sent those Force Recon Marines to their death, without a bat of an eyelid...he was more than capable of torturing the truth out of her.

* * * *

Summer watched the man before her clenching his fists, listening to them crack and pop as he did so. She resisted the urge to warn him that he’d get arthritis if he did that, like the old wives tale she’d grown up hearing. Then on second thought she hoped he would get arthritis. Maybe somewhere in the near future, he’d also develop some hideous injury to his testicles. With any luck they’d then become gangrenous and drop off—just for good measure.

She’d already had a taste of the bulldog looking man’s loyalty to his master, he’d introduced himself earlier with a slap to her face, that was still tingling and she was certain, had left a bright red hand mark.

Tréago, sat back in a recliner, as though settling in for an evening in front of the telly. His eyes glittered with malice, and he seemed to be anticipating some kind of excitement. She added to her wish list of karma,
make that two sets of testicles dropping off.

“So again, where were you heading with the Recon marines?” he asked.

Summer gave a tired sigh, “We were running from your goons, who tried to kill us back on Las Cavernas. They didn’t tell me where we were headed next.”

“You do realize we know that your sister is listed as having entered LAX yesterday afternoon. I have people following her every move, so it might be safer for her, if you just tell me what I need to know,” Tréago informed her, picking his nails clean with a sharp knife, he picked up from beside his chair.

Hearing her sister’s name was only marginally more terrifying than seeing the knife, but Summer tried desperately to think calmly. He was a CIA agent, he’d have contacts and could easily find out information like that, but did he really have someone watching Willow? She doubted it, it was more than likely a ploy to get her to talk, surely, if he knew exactly where Willow was, he’d have had her brought to him. The knife on the other hand, was a lot less easy to rationalize.

He took his time scraping each, already, perfectly manicured nail, clean, then lifted his gaze to hers and smiled…like a shark, his teeth gleamed, but there was nothing friendly about the act at all. This was why some cultures, considered a smile as a threatening gesture, she thought dismally.

“I told you, when Willow went missing, I was given a name to contact for people who could arrange to find her. I don’t know anything about Michael and information he is supposed to have,” she repeated.

“Then you are really are, of no further use to me, are you?” he said, getting to his feet and walking toward the staircase. “It has been a pleasure knowing you, Ms. Sheldon, goodbye,” he said simply, leaving her alone in the room with knuckles and the knife he handed to him on his way past.

* * * *

The guard with the knife, advanced upon her slowly, a small grin tugging at his lips. He had pox marks covering his back-of-a-truck, wide face, and his piggy eyes all but disappeared in the folds of skin around his sockets. It was no wonder he’d turned to a life of violence and crime, probably stemming back to the fact that even his mother hadn’t been able to love a face like that.

It didn’t change, the fact, however, that he held a knife and he was about to enjoy using it...on her.

A movement at the window behind him caught her eye and she gasped in alarm, causing Mister Ugly, to turn and glance over his shoulder. Summer, took advantage of his distraction, kicking him hard between the legs, and watching anxiously, as he grimaced, but didn’t drop to his knees in agony, as she’d so hoped, he would.

Typical, he’d probably had his testicles replaced with steel ones. There went another dream, along with what remained of her hope.

She braced herself for the sting of pain as a blade connected with her throat, but it didn’t come. When she opened her eyes, she saw that he was poised above her, his arm still lifted in mid strike, but a strange, twisted expression covered his face.