SEAL of Honor (8 page)

“What will you need?” he asked Ian, listening as Gabe’s phone rang and rang and rang and—voicemail. He hung up on the automated voice telling him to leave a message.

“A backpack, pliers, a good length of fuse.” Ian paused, considering. “If we can’t find safety fuse, I could rig it up with visco, but it’s not my first choice. Visco will be easier to find, but it burns with an external flame and can ignite any chemicals in the immediate area, which could cause problems in the warehouse. And someone needs to watch my back so I don’t have to worry about the baddies putting a bullet in my brain while handling the explosives.”

“I’ll go,” Harvard volunteered and stood. “I need to get away from the computer before my eyes cross.”

Quinn considered him—Jesus, did the guy ever see the sun? But he was in good shape, if a little on the wiry side of fit, built like a runner. He had so much potential, like a tadpole just before BUD/S training. Too bad they hadn’t had the time to tap into it before this op.

“No, we need you here, working on intelligence gathering.” He ignored Harvard’s deflated expression and considered his options. Since Harvard had to stay and work the radios and computers, Marcus had no military training, and Jean-Luc’s was rusty, that left Jesse and him for trained operatives.

He turned to Jesse. “What do you think?”

“I agree we need to get rid of that warehouse, but we don’t have enough men,” Jesse said. “Up to you, though.”

Perfect. So it was a judgment call, all on his shoulders. Quinn kept hoping his phone would ring, Gabe calling him back, so that he could pass the ball to him and let him make these decisions.

“All right. Ian, how long will the warehouse job take?”

Ian lifted a shoulder. “Half hour to an hour tops.”

One hour to cripple the baddies’ operation. Christ, he couldn’t turn that kind of opportunity down. Maybe they could even use the explosion as a distraction, giving them the extra time they would need to search the EPC’s other hangouts.

“Jesse, you’ll go with Ian to the warehouse,” Quinn decided. “But before you blow it from the map, make damn sure Van Amee isn’t being held inside somewhere. I want as few casualties as possible.”

He studied his remaining team. Three men. Dammit, he needed another, and wished Gabe hadn’t talked him out of inviting the sniper, Seth Harlan, to join the team.

No choice. Harvard had to go out into the field, after all.

“Jean-Luc, Harvard, take the 4Runner and follow Gabe’s trail to the limo driver’s house, see if he ran into car trouble or worse. Keep in constant contact with me, and if you sense trouble, don’t take any unnecessary risks. We can’t afford to lose more men. In the meantime, Marcus and I will pay a friendly visit to Jacinto Rivera’s current address, see if we can’t find any clues as to Bryson’s whereabouts.” He considered the group for a long moment, then shook his head. “Let’s do Gabe proud and not fuck this up, guys.”

Chapter Nine

They marched for miles, deep into the heart of the jungle, through thick undergrowth to the base of the mountains where the trail started a winding climb. There, the guerillas finally decide to stop for a water break.

Biting back a groan, Gabe settled onto a boulder the size of a coffee table and wiped sweat from his eyes with one arm. His bum foot and leg burned like stepping into a fire pit every time he put weight on it. Never thought he’d see the day he wanted that damn cane—but, Christ, he needed it. And admitting that, even to himself, chaffed.

He wasn’t stupid enough to turn down the water his guards offered him, even though he wanted to reject it on principle. He glugged down half the bottle and kept his eyes fastened on the trailhead, hoping to catch a glimpse of fawn-colored hair or the glint of a turquoise earring.

Where was she?

He had tried to keep Audrey in his sights, knowing the guerillas favored a divide and conquer strategy when it came to taking captives, but she quickly fell behind. The twist of trees and vines swallowed her and her guards and he hadn’t seen them since. Had they taken her somewhere else?

His phone vibrated against his ankle. Damn. Hadn’t he set it on silent mode? He willed it to stop when the spiky-haired guerilla from earlier settled on another boulder nearby. The scrawny kid laid an AK-47 across his lap, then took a buñuelo from his bag and started breaking off pieces to eat. The phone vibrated again. Gabe coughed to hide the sound, pretending his water went down the wrong pipe.

Spiky Hair looked unconvinced. “Do you have a microchip?”

At first, Gabe thought his rusty Spanish skills had led him to misunderstand, but then Spiky Hair repeated the question slowly. Yes, he’d definitely asked if Gabe had a microchip, like one came standard in all Americans. God. A bunch of sci-fi nerds were holding him hostage. Somehow, that made it all worse.

He shook his head.

“Because if you do,” Spiky Hair added, “and I find out your government is tracking you with satellites, I will kill you and take your woman.”

Gabe caught the general idea of the threat and had no doubt the little shit meant what he said. And really, given that the phone in his boot was equipped with GPS, Spiky Hair had cause to be concerned. Gabe hoped whoever just called him—Quinn, probably—remembered the feature.

“My woman, where is she?” he asked. Claiming Audrey as his didn’t scare him as much as it should have, but that might be due to the fact he had ten trigger-happy teenagers threatening them both with death and God knew what else. In the face of that, freaking out about his attraction to Audrey seemed a tad ridiculous. “Where is she?”

Spiky Hair shrugged. “Who knows?”

That succinct answer was easy enough to translate. Well, at least Spiky Hair didn’t say she was dead.

Hah, look at him. Suddenly Mr. Optimistic. Gabe rested his elbows on his knees and dragged both hands through his hair, surprised to find them shaking. Adrenaline afterburn, mixed with the long hike and his mostly empty stomach. It had nothing to do with the terror that clamped hold of his chest every time he thought of Audrey. In the jungle. Alone.

He heard her before he saw her. She emerged from the jungle, her face flushed, her tank top sticking to every dip and curve of her body. Instead of the sandals she’d had on, someone had given her a pair of too-big rubber boots like farmers wear to muck out stalls. She moved awkwardly in them, crashing through the underbrush with a gun to her back and tears streaking her cheeks.

When she spotted him, her chest heaved and relief filled her bloodshot eyes. “Gabe!”

He had the oddest urge to sprint to her, scoop her up in his arms and kiss her until both of them were gasping for air, but as pleasant a thought that was, his foot wouldn’t appreciate the running part. It now throbbed in beat with his heart and he had little doubt it was so swollen he would need to cut his boot off. So instead, he held out a hand to her. She took it in a tight grip as if she was afraid to let go and sat beside him on the boulder.

The guerillas gathered on the other side of the small clearing and watched them with a mix of fear and awe. They were so freakin’ young, all of them dirty and skinny and scarred. Gabe didn’t have to wonder how bad their childhoods must have been to force them into life with the
Ejército del Pueblo de Colombia
. He’d seen it all too often in his SEAL career.

“Something’s wrong,” Audrey whispered.

He had to bite his tongue to suppress the urge to say, “Ya think?” He nodded toward Cocodrilo, who was already chopping at the undergrowth on the switchback leading up the mountainside. “You shouldn’t have told him about your brother.”

Surprise flitted over her features. “You caught that?”

“I do know some Spanish, Aud. I know what
hermano
means.”

She nodded wearily. “Maybe if I hadn’t said anything about Bryson, they’d have let us go with everyone else.”

He doubted that, but said nothing. He offered the rest of his water.

“Oh, God,” she said. “Thank you.”

Gabe watched her drink it down in the same greedy gulps he’d taken. Her neck and chest were pink like her cheeks. A fine sheen of sweat made her skin shine in the waning evening sunlight, captivating him. She started to choke on the water and he drew the bottle away from her lips.

“Easy. Don’t make yourself sick.”

“Sorry.” She coughed once more and dragged the back of her hand over her mouth. “I kept asking them for water, but they just pushed me on and on and on until my throat felt like sand and I couldn’t walk anymore because I kept tripping over my sandals. Then they gave me these instead.”

She curled her legs up to her chest and took off the rubber boots. Blisters covered most of the flesh on both her feet and Gabe’s blood went volcanic with rage. He wanted to kill her guards for that mistreatment, and gave serious consideration to ripping through the group right now with his bare hands. He could snap at least three necks before they realized what was happening, another three or so before they took him down—but that would leave Audrey in a very bad place. No companionship, no protector, just her and the guerillas, who would probably take Gabe’s death as an invitation to do whatever they wanted to her. He couldn’t let that happen and drew a deep breath, forcing his fury down to a simmer.

Audrey grimaced, touched the largest bubble on her left big toe, and lifted her gaze to his, looking like a child not understanding why she had been punished. He wished he could explain it to her, but he didn’t understand it, either.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Y-yes.” The word came out shaky, but then she firmed her lips and nodded. “Yes, I
am
okay. We
will be
okay.”

With a determination that rivaled any he’d seen in BUD/S, she slid the boots back on then turned her full attention on him. Her fingers feathered over his cheek, light as a breeze.

“You’re in pain. Is it your bad foot?”

“I’m fine.” Except that he really, really wanted to lean into her touch.

“Uh-huh. That’s why you’re white as a ghost.” She held up a hand to cut off his protest and took another sip of water. “Yeah, yeah, save it. I know you’re a regular Terminator.”

Gabe smiled. Couldn’t help it. The woman was amazing.

After a moment filled with the sounds of the jungle and the steady swing-chop-swing of Cocodrilo’s machete through the foliage, she sighed. “Those dead men back on the road…”

“What about them?” Gabe prompted when she trailed off.

“Cocodrilo’s afraid of them.”

“They’re not going to do him much harm. You know, considering they’re dead.”

“Gabe.” She pushed out an exasperated breath. “Not them, specifically, but who they worked for. Luis Mena.”

“Shit.” The name brought to mind a round, almost grandfatherly face. A face that had been on the Department of Defense’s watch list for years for suspected drug trafficking activities, kidnapping, extortion, terrorism, and so many murders nobody knew the exact count. The DOD intelligence gatherers claimed Mena’s operation was based out of Cartagena. And hadn’t he seen that city listed on Bryson’s itinerary? Bryson, who was in imports and exports….

Yeah, he’d known this was going to get nasty from the moment he heard the guerillas whispering Mena’s name. He just hadn’t realized that Bryson may also have a hand in that nastiness.

“There’s something else,” Audrey said, then folded her lips together when Cocodrilo snapped,
“¡Silencio!”
over his shoulder.

She moved closer to Gabe’s side, lowered her voice. “I didn’t catch all of it. Spiky Hair was talking too fast and his accent’s…but I got the gist. They found a GPS unit in the car they shot up. It was tracking our Jeep.” She paused, waited until his gaze met hers. “Mena’s men were following
us
.”

…

“I don’t get why Quinn doesn’t want me out in the field.”

Jean-Luc glanced over at Harvard, seated in the passenger seat of the SUV with a mulish expression on his pretty-boy face, before returning his attention to the crappy jungle road.

“You’re a computer guy.”

“I’ve trained…” Harvard winced. “A little.”

“Well, you’re out now, true?” Jean-Luc said.

“On a bullshit assignment.”

Jean-Luc didn’t think it was bullshit. From what little he knew about Gabe Bristow, something was seriously wrong if the man didn’t check in. “Gotta start somewhere.”

Harvard’s shoulders slumped and Jean-Luc couldn’t stand seeing the guy so down in the dumps. “C’mon, give me a smile,
mon ami
. You’re out from behind a computer, the sky’s blue, the air’s hot, and who knows? Maybe we’ll even meet some Colombian cuties and finally rid you of your virginity.”

Harvard sent him an I-am-not-amused glance over the rims of his glasses.

“Uh, how about some music?” Jean-Luc asked after a turbulent moment of silence. He flicked on the radio. “Ah. Do you like cumbia rock?”

The radio station cut in and out, but it was clear enough that he could pick out the song and sing along, tapping his fingers to the beat on the steering wheel. Good song with a good rhythm. It made him want to find a sexy Colombian woman and dance until their feet fell off. Then he’d take her to bed for a little horizontal dancing….

Mid-daydream, Harvard answered, “No,” and switched the music off. The curvy Colombian fantasy disappeared.

Jean-Luc sighed. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“So’s your singing.”

“I’ll have you know, my mama says I’m an excellent singer.”

Harvard rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to say something, but stopped short. “Hey, hey, stop.” He hit Jean-Luc’s arm with the back of his hand and pointed through the windshield as the 4Runner cleared a sharp curve in the road. “Look.”

Up ahead, a Jeep and a sedan sat abandoned in the middle of the road, facing them. Both of the Jeep’s doors hung wide open and bullet holes had turned the sedan into an expensive hunk of Swiss cheese. He counted four bodies, their blood mixing with the dirt road into red mud, and swore softly in Cajun.

Harvard was out the door before Jean-Luc could stop him. He moved smoothly, kept his rifle at the ready, and cleared both vehicles, all quick, efficient, and quiet-like.

Maybe, Jean-Luc thought as he followed, they had all underestimated genius boy’s abilities. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“
Call of Duty.
”

Or maybe not.

“They’re not here,” Harvard said and shouldered his rifle. “But the weapon Gabe gave Audrey before they left is still under the seat. His sunglasses are on the dash and his cane’s in the back. There’s a basket upturned in the passenger seat. Looks like it had food in it.”

“Keys still in the ignition,” Jean-Luc observed and leaned in to try the engine. It fired without so much as a hiccup. “No car problems.”

“Bullet holes in the windshield, but I don’t see any blood on either seat.” Harvard scanned the jungle, then started a sweep of the area, walking in ever-widening circles around the vehicle. “No blood on the ground, either. Don’t think they were hit.”

“Huh.” Jean-Luc fisted his hands on his hips, looked at the Jeep, the sedan, the dead bodies, then the spot he’d parked their 4Runner. “Looks like someone was shooting at the men in the sedan, and Gabe and Audrey got caught in the crossfire.”

“Guerillas?” Harvard asked.

“Most likely.”

“Think they were captured or made a run for it?”

Jean-Luc studied the gnarled twist of jungle choking both sides of the road. Not much place for them to run, but he supposed it was possible. Gabe knew his stuff, so if anyone could get them out of a sticky situation, it would be him.

“Hey, got something.”

Jean-Luc turned to see Harvard kneeling next to a ditch carved out alongside the road by water flowing off the mountains during the rainy season. Now it was dry and overgrown. With the barrel of his rifle, he held aside a huge leaf to reveal a SIG Sauer P226. No way to be sure, but it looked like Gabe’s.

Harvard frowned. “Wherever he is, he’s without a weapon.”

“That kinda puts a kink in the idea that they ran for it.” A man like Gabe wouldn’t run without his gun, no way. And if they had run, and for some reason he had to abandon the gun, seems his first course of action would be to get in contact with the team and order an exfiltration.

“Is his cell phone there?” Jean-Luc asked. He hadn’t seen it in the Jeep, but moved over to take a closer look as Harvard explored the ditch.

“Nope,” Harvard said.

“
Merde
.” Jean-Luc straightened as he heard another car rumbling down the mountainside. He motioned to Harvard. “Grab the gun, take the Jeep, and try to get a hold of Quinn as soon as you have a signal. I’ll meet you at that little gas station we saw ten klicks back.”

He waited until Harvard was on the road before searching for a pen in the 4Runner’s glove box and scribbling the sedan’s license plate number on his hand. He didn’t have time to search the dead men’s pockets for ID—didn’t want to risk being caught at the scene of a crime by whoever was headed this way—so he snapped a picture of each of them with his phone, hoping Harvard could dig up their names from the photos.