SEAL of Honor (17 page)

Chapter Eighteen

The address Gabe had given them was a hideous two-story house shaped like a sideways T with balconies at each of the three ends. Sure, it screamed money, but it also shouted, “no taste.” Quinn was no architect, but even he knew the Greek-like columns out front clashed horribly with the post-modern vibe of the rest of the house.

It sat on a fenced-in property surrounded by foliage. A gated entry to the brick driveway provided some security, but it was mostly for show, because Quinn and the team got through without breaking a sweat. The back yard boasted a BBQ pit and bar on a tiled patio shaded by a wood pergola. A sunroom entirely made of glass opened up to the patio from the back of the house and shielded a Jacuzzi, which was currently in use by a scrawny kid of about sixteen and a very
friendly
older man. The man disappeared under the water and the kid sat back with a look on his face that only came from oral sex.

“That is disgusting,” Marcus whispered beside him.

Laying belly to the ground in the bushes at the edge of the property, he frowned, thinking of Gabe’s brother. “Keep your derogatory comments to yourself, men. I have friends that are gay.”

“Not that.” Marcus sounded completely insulted. “What do you think I am, a far right wingnut? I don’t care they’re gay. More power to ’em. I meant that kid’s not even close to legal. The guy’s what, at least forty?
That
is disgusting.”

Quinn focused his night vision goggles on the hot tub again and winced. Things had progressed past oral and into BDSM territory. Yeah, it was disgusting and disturbing, but with the brutal way the kid acted, he was obviously the dom in the relationship.

And where in hell were the kid’s parents?

“Man,” Marcus muttered. “I can’t sit here and watch this. I’m gonna sneak around front, see what I can see.”

“Careful,” Quinn warned. He couldn’t watch what was happening in the Jacuzzi either, so he scanned over the upper floors of the house. The lights were out and he didn’t see any movement inside. Had to wonder if there was a basement. Gabe sounded very sure when he said Bryson Van Amee might be inside this address.

“Incoming,” Jean-Luc said. Stationed by the front gate as a lookout, he rattled off the details of the approaching vehicle. “Red four-door Mercedes convertible. Bogotá license plate, mike-xray-uniform-two-niner-eight. One occupant.”

“Copy that,” Quinn replied. “Visual on his face?”

“Negative. The top’s up—wait. He’s opening the door. All right. Got visual confirmation. The driver is Jacinto Rivera. Repeat, I have visual confirmation on Jacinto Rivera, and he is armed.”

Excellent.
A thrill chased through Quinn’s blood. Finally, they were getting somewhere. “Hold your positions. Let’s see where he goes.”

…

Jacinto Rivera shoved through the front door of his cousin’s house, cursing. That stupid negotiator Giancarelli was jerking him around by the
cojones
, claiming they needed more time to secure funds. What bullshit. The funds sat right in Bryson Van Amee’s bank account, ripe for the taking. He knew. He’d seen the bank statements.

They also wanted more proof of life or they were calling the whole deal off.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Rorro, the perverted little fuck, had been wandering about the city doing God knows what to God knows who instead of watching Van Amee. Anyone could have strolled right in last night and plucked their golden goose out from under their noses.

Jacinto cursed and stalked through the house. First thing, he crossed to the basement door and flipped on the light. The ripe odors of shit and urine and unwashed man assaulted his nose as he descended three steps. Van Amee sat up from the cot in his tattered, bloody business suit and blinked owlishly at the light. Several days’ worth of beard covered his jaw, and his black and purple left eye had swollen shut. He looked and smelled more like a street bum than the owner of a multi-million dollar empire.

“Water,” he whispered through cracked lips. “
Agua.
Por favor.
”

“What did you want to name your son if he was a girl?” Jacinto asked in Spanish and then again in English.

Van Amee blinked his one good eye. “Please. I need water.”

“Answer the question.”

“I—I—don’t know. Which son?”

“Ashton.”

“I—God, I can’t remember. It was…something Susan. After my mother. Uh, Adelaide. Addie Susan.” He winced. “Please, I need something to drink.”

Jacinto shook his head and went back upstairs to the kitchen. Trusting his cousin to help with this had been a stupid idea from the start, but he couldn’t have asked his brother without getting the EPC involved. The plan was only to make it
look
like the EPC was involved. They took enough people hostage that sliding one more under their belt shouldn’t raise suspicion.

Or so Claudia said.

She said if they made it look like their brother’s doing, nobody would cast them a sideways glance. He wasn’t sure about that, because if Angel found out they were setting up him and the EPC, kin or not, he’d kill them both and lose not a wink of sleep over it. Angel Rivera was one scary
cabron
, and Jacinto wanted nothing more than to be free of him.

Soon. Once they got the ransom money, he could go somewhere Angel would never find him. Hollywood, maybe. He’d live the good life with women and booze and drugs. Maybe act in a movie or two. All he needed was his cut of Van Amee’s ransom.

Jacinto found a bottle of water in the fridge, crossed to the basement door, tossed it down, and heard a scramble of limbs. Like a rat. That’s all Van Amee was. A wealthy, well-dressed rat, who didn’t need even half the money he had. Claudia said so. But even rats had to drink, and it’d do no good if he died of thirst before they got their money.

Jacinto shut and locked the door and, hearing sounds on the back patio, headed that way. He had to talk to Rorro, though he really didn’t care to see the little pervert going at it with his flavor of the day.

And wasn’t it interesting that this flavor was a younger replica of Jacinto’s uncle, Rorro’s not-so-dearly departed father? No wonder the kid was being especially brutal tonight. Jacinto could hear the flesh on flesh action from the kitchen and waited outside the solarium doors until the sounds faded into heavy breathing. Then there was a gasp, a gurgle, and it was over.

Jacinto stepped into the room and tried his hardest to keep his eyes off the battered man hanging limply over the side of the Jacuzzi. Blood dripped from his throat onto the tiled patio. Rorro sat in the bubbling water, smoking a joint and looking very satisfied with himself. The knife he’d used to slit the man’s throat lay near his elbow on the edge of the tub.

Bile rose in Jacinto’s throat. He’d never had the stomach for murder, which was part of the reason he’d called Rorro in the first place. Bryson Van Amee had seen both of their faces, knew at least his name if not Rorro’s, and had to die tomorrow after they got the money.

“What did you do to Van Amee?” he asked, remembering the man’s black eye.

“Had a little fun.”

Jacinto held back his wince. He was always torn between disgust and sorrow when it came to his young cousin. Rorro seemingly had it all: money, intelligence, movie star good looks, privileges and opportunities other children in Colombia would kill for—but all that glamour hid horrible secrets, ones that made Jacinto’s dysfunctional home life look like a fairy tale. Little wonder the kid turned out as
loco
as he was.

“I told you,” Jacinto said as gently as he could manage. “You cannot have him until after we get the money.”

Rorro flopped a hand in the air. “He tried to escape. I had to punish him.”

“
What
?”

“Last night. No, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my fault.”

It most certainly was his fault, but Jacinto wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Did he get far?”

“Only to the patio.”

At least he hadn’t made it off the property, onto the street where anyone could have spotted him.

Jacinto shot a look at the dead man, who was starting to stink with the release of bodily gases and fluids.

“You’re staying in tonight, Rorro. I mean it. We can’t risk him trying to escape again.” And the clubs downtown would be much safer with the little shit tucked away at home. “This will be all over tomorrow.”

Rorro flashed a smile that was all boyish charm, a hint of the kid that Jacinto had once adored like a little brother. “Then we’ll leave here?”

“Yes,” Jacinto said. “We’ll leave.”

He felt only the tiniest prick of regret for lying as he walked inside the house and started upstairs. He had no intention of going anywhere with his psycho cousin. Once this was over, he wanted to be able to sleep soundly at night without the fear of ending up with his throat slit open like that poor bastard stinking up the hot tub.

Jacinto stepped into his bedroom and shot home the deadbolt lock on the door.

…

Gabe passed out on her three times. Twice at the small airfield after he landed the helicopter, and once in the taxi from the airport to the safe house.

The first two times Audrey was able to wake him. This time, he was out cold, and she had no idea how to get his big body from the taxi into the house. She’d hoped to find Quinn and the rest there waiting for them, but no such luck. The place was dark and silent.

C’mon, Gabriel. Wake up again for me.

She tried tugging on his arm, but that only succeeded in making him slouch sideways in the taxi’s backseat. The driver eyed her in the mirror.

“He’s drunk,” she explained in Spanish and then sized up the driver. He was a big guy, more fat than muscle, but moving Gabe would be much easier with his help.

“I’ll pay you extra,” she said when he balked at the suggestion.

Grumbling, the cab driver slid from behind the wheel, and together they managed to half-carry, half-drag Gabe as far as the front entryway.

Ah, the power of the almighty peso.

Audrey didn’t dare turn on any lights, having no idea what the cab driver might see inside the room, so she fished in Gabe’s pants pockets, paid him with every bill left there, and ushered him out as fast as possible. She helped Gabe down to the floor and went to the window to make sure he was gone before hitting the overhead light.

Harvard’s computer hummed on the table in the corner. Marcus’s fedora hung forgotten from a lamp. A box of cold pizza with one measly slice left sat on the table in the center of the room on top of a map, which had a circle around the address Mena had given Gabe.

So they hadn’t abandoned the house. They’d followed Gabe’s orders to check out the address.

Frantic, Audrey searched for Jesse’s medical bag. She’d seen him retrieve it from a bookshelf…

Gone.

Of course the medic wouldn’t leave home without it, but was it too much to ask for him to leave a scrap of gauze behind?

Behind her, Gabe groaned and she spun to find him up on his hands and knees. She’d once teased him about being the Terminator, but, God, he really must be. She hurried to his side and soothed a hand over his head.

“Shh, shh. Lay down, sailor. We’re safe. You got us home. We’re safe now.”

Either he wasn’t fully conscious or he took her words to heart, because he collapsed back to the floor without a word of protest. The too-small coat he’d found on Mena’s helicopter bunched up around his shoulders and she saw that he was bleeding again, blood soaking through the bandages and the side of his dress shirt.

All this time, during the whole four-hour flight from Cartagena to Bogotá, he’d been bleeding when she thought she’d patched up his wound. Duh, of course he’d be the color of flour and as weak as a newborn. He’d lost most of his blood.

She wanted to cry. Hot tears even leaked from her eyes, but a sobbing fit wasn’t going to help him so she dashed them away. Spotting Quinn’s coat on the back of a chair, she figured he wouldn’t mind her ruining it if it saved Gabe’s life and bundled it into a compress. Gabe sucked in a sharp breath when she pressed it to his wounds, which was a good sign. She hoped. She remembered an episode of
Grey’s Anatomy
—or was it
House, M.D.
? Whichever, she remembered them saying that if a patient responded to painful stimuli, they were not in a coma.

So now what?

Audrey had no clue what else to do for him, so she sat on the floor, keeping pressure on the compress with one hand, stroking his hair with the other. And she talked to him.

“You stay with me, Gabriel, you hear me?” She tried to keep her voice strong, commanding, positive, but her tears spilled over in earnest and choked the words. “You need to stay here so you can save my brother and protect the world from the bad guys like Cocodrilo and Mena and Liam and—and you’re going to come to Costa Rica and swim with my dolphins. Your men need you to stick around, too. Quinn… God, he really needs you, you know? He seems like a very sad, lonely man and he…he just needs you. And so do I.”

Gabe didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard her in any way, but she kept talking. “You hear that? You have to stay with me because we all love you.
I
love you, and I’m not ready to lose someone else I love. I’m still grieving for my parents, and I might have to grieve for my brother. Please, please don’t make me grieve for you, too. Please, I—”

A phone vibrated somewhere in the room and Audrey shot to her feet. She hadn’t thought to look for one, figuring everybody had taken their phones along, but hallelujah, someone had forgotten theirs.

She found the source of the
bzz bzz bzz
under the pizza box and a stack of papers and flipped it open. It was Marcus’s phone—she could tell from the internal wallpaper of a surfer catching an enormous wave. She reminded herself to plant a big, fat, wet kiss on him when she saw him again.

Marcus had a text from someone named Giancarelli, but she ignored it and called up Quinn’s number. Dumped straight into voicemail. Next, she tried Jesse and got the same. So she called Harvard’s number, thinking he was the most likely to be somewhere he could answer. Beethoven’s Fifth swelled from the bedroom off the living room. She shut Marcus’s phone and pushed open the bedroom door.