Storm Warning (Security Specialists International Book 4) (31 page)

Too close. That was too fricking close.

Finally, she pushed shakily to her hands and knees and crawled over to his motionless body to make sure he was dead. She reached for his thick neck with a trembling, bloody hand and found no pulse. She struggled to her knees and then sat with her butt on her calves and took stock of her condition and the situation.

Bad news: Her dress was a wreck, more off than on. She was covered in Rossi’s blood. The knife she’d taken from Salazar was now lodged in Rossi’s body, and there it would stay. She still hadn’t freed Ace.

Good news: She was alive and not injured as far as she could tell. She still had her gun in its thigh holster. Somehow, her purse had stayed around her neck and her cell was safely inside. The tracking app still registered Ace at the same coordinates. There was one less bad guy between her and her man—and she’d have backup soon.

Steadying herself, ignoring the scent of death, she searched Rossi’s body for weapons. Thank you, Jesus, he had two knives, one which went straight into her thigh scabbard. His handgun was a Glock, and she took it from his holster and tossed it into the underbrush. She didn’t think he’d rise from the dead or become a zombie, but she was spooked enough by the encounter with him, she wasn’t taking any chances. She spotted his AK-47 where he’d dropped it when she’d first shot him with the Taser; the assault rifle she’d take for later use.

The gods of all warriors everywhere must’ve been watching over her, since she hadn’t heard any shouts of alarm or been overrun by bad guys. Either her fight with Rossi had been more quiet than she’d thought, or the other guards weren’t in the area yet. Or, they were as inept as the ones patrolling the hotel. She hoped for the latter, but expected it was a bit of the first two and a lot of luck.

As she weaponed up, Rossi’s blood on her body was already attracting bugs which were not at all dissuaded by her guaranteed waterproof, twelve-hour DEET. She needed to get the blood off her as soon as possible. Mostly because she couldn’t fricking stand it. The coppery smell and the stickiness made her sick to her stomach. An even more important reason was the fresh blood would attract even more dangerous predators such as the jaguars that reined supreme in this area of Belize.

A gurgle of flowing water reached her ears. It sounded several meters away and in the direction of a rock outcropping. It was away from the general direction in which she needed to go, but she also needed to wash the blood off. She walked on steadier legs than she deserved for all she’d been through; the adrenaline in her system was still doing its job.

The burbling stream came from the rock outcropping and had created a small pool or cenote. The whole area was rife with limestone caves and such crystal clear bodies of water.

Ace was somewhere in one of those caves. She still needed to find the entrance and secure it before Dawn and Crocker arrived.

DJ placed the extra knife, her gun, the AK-47, and her purse on a limestone ledge and waded into the shallow edges of the pool still dressed. The water was cool and crisp and felt good on the scrapes and bruises she’d collected so far. She used a fern leaf as a wash cloth and wiped away the sticky blood as best she could. She prayed her bug repellant was as waterproof as advertised, but wouldn’t hold her breath.

After getting out of the pool and wringing the water out of the silk fabric, she tied her bodice together. It was then she began to shake, so hard she sat down with a plop and a splash on a limestone shelf near the edge of the cenote. She hugged herself and rocked in place. Her teeth chattered, not with cold, but from the effects of adrenaline overload and, she wasn’t too proud to admit it, the emotional aftermath of killing two men up-close-and-personal.

Her emotions swept over her like a tornado outbreak, tearing, twisting, and battering her insides. Relief, regret, fear, guilt, and never-ending worry—the same emotions that had swamped her when she’d killed Salazar.

She gave herself a few seconds to breathe and process, then she’d bury the emotions getting in the way of her mission. Once she freed Ace, they’d go home. Later, he’d be there, in their bed, to hold her and help her deal with any lingering emotional aftermath of what she’d done to get him back.

Her erratic emotions finally locked down, she strapped her handgun onto her thigh, checked the knife in the scabbard on the other thigh and then picked up her purse and other weapons from the limestone ledge. She checked her cell and the app to re-orient her position, then set off, all senses alert for more guards.

DJ silently snickered. She could just imagine how she looked. Dolce and Gabanna had probably never imagined their resort wear accessorized with weapons and the enemy’s blood. Her mental laughter smacked of hysteria, and she realized she wasn’t as calm as she’d hoped.

Breathe. Concentrate. Get your ass in gear.

Good advice. Now all she had to do was follow it.

Gradually, the urge to laugh faded away. She relocated the faint path Rossi had been on before leaving it to take a leak. This path looked to be circular and was most likely the path worn down by the perimeter guards.

How long had it taken her to eliminate Rossi and then clean up? Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen?

However long, there could be another guard along soon. DJ couldn’t be too cautious.

From the GPS coordinates, she was currently about twenty-five meters away from the place Ace was being held underground.

A rustling to her right had her hiding under another giant fern. Once again she stilled, barely breathing as she merged with her surroundings.

“Rossi!
Pendejo!
” A rough male voice called out. “
Dónde estás
,
rosquete de mierda
?”

She translated—
Where are you, fucking faggot?
She recognized it as Peruvian Spanish slang.

From what she’d overheard during her short time at the resort, Oraio was an equal opportunity employer; the majority of his hirelings came from all over South and Central America with the few odd Europeans like O’Riley. She’d taken lots of photos while playing dumb blonde tourist. Later, the intelligence community could go nuts identifying them.

The guard hunting Rossi approached, not at all quietly or carefully. Sweet Jesus, Darwinism at its best.

Girding herself for another close and silent kill, DJ deep-breathed to pull as much oxygen into her body as she could; she wanted to take the man down as quickly and decisively as she had Salazar.

“Rossi!” The man continued to walk and yell.

DJ remained where she was. He could come to her. There would then be one less
pendejo
between her and Ace.

He was close and getting closer. She was ready. Her fingers tightened on her knife, but her gut screamed at her to wait … to make sure no other guards were close by.

Rossi’s solitary walk in the jungle might’ve been a one-off instance—a cigar and pee break.

One man was easy to take down. Two would be doable, but necessarily noisy. She was too close to the entrance now to risk being overheard.

Another set of footsteps approached at a run. She slowly exhaled, happy to know her situational awareness was on point.

The second man joined the first guy and rapid Peruvian Spanish ensued. The salient parts she could understand told her the new man had also been looking for Rossi. The two discussed whether to report the missing Rossi or cover for him. It seemed Rossi was known for going MIA when forced to be on guard duty. O’Riley had been pissed at Rossi and this had been his punishment. The first guy was Rossi’s brother-in-law. If the situation hadn’t involved the love of her life being held and possibly abused, she would’ve found the duo’s dilemma amusing.

Now she just found it effin’ inconvenient.

Taking them both out at once without shooting wasn’t feasible. Nor could she overpower two males in complete silence even using the knives she had.

When they decided to cover Rossi’s ass, she let out a silent sigh of relief, especially since the brother-in-law left to continue his patrol around the security perimeter. The second guy moved away to guard what turned out to be the cave entrance behind some bushes.

First, she’d take the entrance guard out and then wait for Rossi’s brother-in-law to circle back around and take him down. The count would be three guards eliminated, giving her and her backup team better odds at a successful extraction.

Steeling her nerves to take yet another man’s life, she slithered through the underbrush and took out the next obstacle on her path to freeing her man.

Hang on, Ace. I’m coming.

****

Tweeter was finally alone. He hadn’t been alone since regaining consciousness from whatever drug O’Riley had injected into his neck. He was still pissed as hell he’d gotten caught off-guard. To give the Irish devil his due, O’Riley had been slicker than shit at subduing and kidnapping a man from a room full of people.

As Tweeter had slipped under the influence of the drug, he’d noticed one person who’d realized what was going down—Olga, the Russian undercover operative. Sitting on the other side of Dawn’s station, she’d seen what was happening, but hadn’t raised a finger to help. He’d remember her and let Ren know she was on SSI’s shit list. Keely would have fun outing the woman on social media and ruining the woman’s career and life.

Since drugging and kidnapping potential employees weren’t positive employment negotiation tactics, it seemed Oraio and his minions could give a shit about a cooperative hacker-employee. As Crocker had discovered from the tail he’d killed, Oraio’s people had planned all along to kidnap and coerce the Phantom to work for Oraio, most likely using the carrot-and-stick method of incentives.

Unfortunately, Tweeter had brought along his own stick. O’Riley had used it, by threatening to turn Rossi loose on DJ.

Tweeter probably shouldn’t have shouted all the Marine insults he knew at the Irishman. How was he to know O’Riley was gay? Marines liberally used the word “faggot” with a bunch of other equally non-PC words to taunt their buddies.

O’Riley, however, had taken offense and beat the crap out of Tweeter—and enjoyed it. The sadistic pervert.

Worried about DJ having to deal with the likes of Rossi and Salazar, Tweeter now worked furiously on the bindings on his wrists. There was a trick to getting out of flex-cuffs, but he’d never gotten the hang of it. He’d pay more attention the next time Loren or Paul tried to teach him.

Right now, his wrists were slick with blood and he couldn’t feel his fingers. He also had bruised ribs and a very sore jaw. On top of those minor injuries, he was still recovering from whatever the Irishman had injected into him and wanted to hack up his guts.

At least, DJ had been absent when the take-down occurred and would have a fighting chance to stay free. Even though O’Riley had gleefully informed Tweeter that Rossi had DJ, he hadn’t really believed it. Yeah, he’d gotten mad, because the idea infuriated him, but the Irishman hadn’t mentioned Dawn. The Interpol agent would’ve lifted more than a finger if someone had tried to make off with DJ. Logic said, both women were free and even now making plans to come get him.

Of course, O’Riley could’ve piped gas into the ladies’ room or shot the women with tranquilizer darts as they exited. Stone cold fear chilled him to the bones, and he went motionless as he fought to beat back the dread.

Jesus H. Christ. Stop making up horror stories. The Irishman was lying.

He growled and pulled at the flex-cuffs with renewed force.

DJ was resourceful and a warrior. She’d have gone on high alert as soon as she realized he was gone. In his heart and mind, he could almost feel her anger and determination to get him out. If she hadn’t already closed in on his position, she was on her way—and she wouldn’t be alone.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, which helped abate the lingering nausea, but not the hammer-and-anvil headache, he managed to get his racing heart rate down as much as the pain and adrenaline in his system would allow.

His vitals back to within acceptable ranges, he looked around to see if there was anything lying around he could use to cut the cuffs off his wrists. The cave walls were smoothed by centuries of water erosion. No jagged edges there, dammit.

His tracker should work up to one hundred feet below sea level. He probably wasn’t that far underground. This rock being a porous limestone and not a more solid rock like granite should allow the signal to reach his rescuers.

But if he could manage to escape before DJ came running to his rescue, he’d feel a lot better about the situation. It would be too easy for O’Riley’s people to trap DJ and the others underground.

“Mr. Slade.” At least his false identity still held, or he might’ve been dead by now.

O’Riley came to stand in front of him. “My employer is looking forward to making your and your lovely fiancée’s acquaintance. Once Dahlia arrives, we’ll be leaving for Oraio’s private island.”

“I told you, I’d work for Oraio voluntarily if Dahlia was released—and I was shown proof she was safely back home. She doesn’t deserve forced servitude, because I made the lousy choice to interview for this fucking job.”

Tweeter relaxed into his bonds in anticipation of being hit again. O’Riley liked to hit people who couldn’t hit back.

“Oh, I put that offer in front of Oraio, but he’s seen a picture of Dahlia and decided he would love to have her as a house guest—for his use.”

Tweeter saw red at the threat to DJ and snarled. “You fucking pecker-headed faggot.”

O’Riley smiled as he punched Tweeter in the gut. Once. Twice. Three times. The Irishman wiggled his fingers. “Your fiancée will be here soon, then we’ll see how cooperative you plan to be. By the way, Oraio’s willing to let you have conjugal visits to keep you happy.”

O’Riley turned and left.

Tweeter growled and re-attacked the flex-cuffs.

A click came over the receiver in her ear. Someone with an SSI headset was approaching. DJ stood up and a crashing wave of relief washed over her when she spotted the shaggy-haired Crocker close on Dawn’s heels. The two of them came loaded for bear, considering the weapons they carried.

Until that moment she hadn’t realized how apprehensive she’d been about heading underground with only Dawn at her side. Yeah, the Interpol agent was cool-headed and competent, but Crocker was big, mean, Marine-trained, and war-tested. When going into an unknown and dangerous situation, a Marine was always welcome.

Crocker glanced at the pile of weapons next to DJ’s feet and then looked her up and down as if checking her over for injuries. His approving smile showed brightly in the darkness. “Little Bit said you were armed with only a knife, a Taser, and your handgun, but it looks like you found yourself an arsenal. Good work.”

DJ shrugged. “Three guards. Three sets of weapons and ammunition.”

Dawn bristled at his side like a pissed off cat. “I keep telling you the name is Dawn,” she snarled, then added, “Crock-of-shit.”

Crocker chuckled. “Honey, I’ve been called worse.” He then gave Dawn a once over that told DJ the man was curious to discover what was under all the Goth camouflage. “I’ll grow on you.”

“Like some disease-ridden fungi,” muttered Dawn as she bent over and picked up one of the assault rifles and checked it over in quick, efficient movements, then slung it over her chest to partner with the rifle she already carried. She adjusted the additional rifle so she could bring it up to firing position quickly. She went back for one of the guards’ Ruger, slightly big for the smaller woman’s hand, but she didn’t seem to mind as she checked it out and set it in the ready position, then stuffed it in one of her big pockets.

“Damn, that’s sexy. Love me a woman who knows her way around a weapon.” Crocker picked up the last assault rifle and the extra ammo and added them to his weapons, leaving one for DJ.

“As interesting as the dynamic is between you two, we have a job to do. I’ll be happy to offer my services as referee later.”

“Not needed,” Dawn replied, “because I’ll never cross this man’s path ever again.”

“Now that hurt, sweetheart.” But Crocker was smart enough to leave it at that.

“Okay.” DJ held up a communication device she took off one of the guards. “Been waiting to hear a call. But so far, nada to or from the underground. This means no one is missing Salazar or the guards I took down … yet.”

Dawn held out a hand. “Maybe I can find another frequency they’re playing on. They probably have agreed upon rotating frequency codes to make it harder for outside parties to come across their chatter.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.” DJ knelt down and stared at the entrance to the underground lair, approximately five meters in front of their current position. “The perimeter guards were really lax. The first guy”—she aimed a look at Dawn—“Rossi … was smoking. I took him out.”

Dawn gasped. “You took down the Albatross? With what?”

“Taser, then knife.” DJ wiped a hand down her tattered dress where Rossi’s blood stained the turquoise silk. It served as a reminder she’d survived, he hadn’t. “The guard on the cave entrance wasn’t paying attention either, and the other guy just walked into my knife. It’s been about ten minutes since I took out the third guy. I haven’t heard a peep out of their com units, and no one has come to check on them or arrived from the resort.”

“Stupid gits. You did the gene pool a favor—” Dawn played with the device and all she got was a bunch of static and then nothing. “They also didn’t bother to recharge their equipment.” She tossed the unit into the undergrowth. “Where did Oraio get these jokers? The security detail at the hotel spent more time trying to get into the maids’ knickers and scrounging food from the kitchen.”

DJ stood and looked over at the entrance. A metal door had been painted to blend with the rocks around it. “The guards’ stupidity gives me hope any other guards inside will be just as careless.”

“O’Riley won’t be,” Crocker said. “I’ve read the CIA file on him. Come across his type before. He cut his eye teeth on guns and learned security protocols at his IRA mother’s knee.” He nudged past DJ. “I’ll go first. I’m wearing body armor.” He looked her up and down, then aimed the same thorough once-over at Dawn. “You two aren’t.”

DJ nodded. Dawn said nothing, merely stared back, an obstinate frown creasing her forehead.

Crocker noticed. He sighed and shook his head. “We’re going in hard, Little Bit. DJ’s proven she can kill, can you?”

Dawn smiled, a really nasty twisting of her lips. “Bloody right I can. We can compare kill lists once we’re out of here. You’re just lucky we’re on the same side, or I’d prove it to you now. So … lead on, MacCrocker.”

DJ had to smile. These two were like cats circling each other, their fur all ruffled and hissing.

“No talking once we’re inside. Sound carries in caves. Use one click for everything’s okay and two clicks for trouble and need backup.” He handed DJ a full headset to replace her ear bud. “Dawn synced it to SSI’s frequency so Conn will be able to hear us and us, him.”

DJ nodded, placed the bud in her ear and then situated the microphone over her ear, aligning it along her jaw. “Testing,” she whispered into the mic, then tapped.

“Gotcha,” Crocker murmured into his headset and tapped back. “You hear me?”

“All green here,” Dawn said.

“Green here also,” DJ confirmed.

Waving them back, Crocker approached the door, his gaze always moving, checking the surroundings, particularly around the entrance. After stopping, he listened for several seconds, then signaled them forward as he opened the door.

The squeak it made sounded loud in the jungle night. All three of them froze and began looking around, listening for any response to the noise.

After about thirty seconds, when nothing jumped out at them shooting, Crocker entered the darkness beyond the gaping hole in the rock wall, signaling “hold” with his hand.

DJ and Dawn waited by the doorway. When the single click came over their receivers, they moved into the relative darkness of a large cave anteroom lit with a few butane-powered lanterns. Dawn shut the door behind them.

Crocker wasn’t there, so they waited. Both of them constantly scanning for trouble of the two-legged kind.

When Crocker reappeared from one of the four tunnels off the main area, he shook his head and then signaled he’d take the larger tunnel and indicated DJ should take a tunnel to the left and Dawn, to the right.

Quickly, it became clear that DJ’s tunnel dead-ended and was used for storage. She took several pictures with her cell phone of the boxes of weapons and ammunition with labels indicating they’d come from several Central American military bases. There were also boxes packed with plastine bags of what looked to be pure cocaine. After documenting her findings, she went back to the main entry cave where she found Dawn emerging from the right-hand cave. The other woman shook her head. DJ clicked once and received an answering click. She and Dawn entered the larger tunnel.

They found Crocker hiding behind a stack of boxes, similar to those she’d found in her tunnel. He either heard or sensed them, because he motioned them forward. DJ settled on one side of him and Dawn, the other.

Their view was of a large, well-lit cave. Two men were occupied, measuring and packing a white powder into packages, exactly like the ones she’d discovered in the left-hand tunnel. Cocaine.

A sibilant hiss of indrawn breath, Dawn rustled on Crocker’s other side. Obviously, this was what Dawn’s assignment had been all about—finding this source of cocaine, connecting it to Oraio, and shutting it down.

Crocker placed a hand on Dawn’s shoulder in warning. She nodded. The product wasn’t going anywhere, and Dawn had both her and Ace’s hard drives to assist in finding evidence connecting this distribution center to Oraio.

Now was all about getting past these men and finding Ace. It had been just under an hour and a half since she’d last seen him—and another minute, even another few seconds, were too long to wait.

DJ tugged on Crocker’s sleeve and showed him the tracker app on her phone. Ace’s location was straight through the cave in which the two men were packing drugs and into a tunnel on the other side. He nodded and gave her a smile that could only be described as unholy. They were on the same page.

Slit two throats. Move through the tunnel. Take out anyone who wasn’t Ace.

Crocker tugged on Dawn’s sleeve. He pointed at DJ and himself, then at the two men who had no idea how close to meeting their maker they were. He sliced his finger across his neck. He signaled Dawn to stay put.

The Interpol agent’s lips thinned, probably pissed at being left out of the action, but she nodded, then pulled her knife with one hand as she held the Ruger in her other. She’d back them up.

It was the right call. DJ had no doubt Dawn could kill, but she was short. Silencing two average-height men while holding them to slit their throats took leverage the smaller woman didn’t have.

Knives in hand, DJ and Crocker prepared to move out from cover.

Dawn clicked twice.

DJ and Crocker turned to look at her. She pointed to where the cave walls met the cavern’s ceiling. There were cameras disguised to blend in with the rocks. They blinked every few seconds.

Shit. Live video-feed.

O’Riley might have lax guards, but he made sure to have security cameras focused on the drug operations.

Dawn held up a finger, asking for a second. She pulled a device from one of the many pockets on her baggy pants and aimed it at one of the cameras. She smiled and punched in a few things on the small box. The blinking lights went out. She was jamming the signal.

DJ prayed glitches were routine in the damp cave, or that the people watching the monitors were asleep at the switch. If not, there’d be more than throat-slitting going on.

Using the boxes stacked along the perimeter of the large cave, she and Crocker moved until they were behind the two men. The cameras were still dark, so the jammer was doing its job. It was now or never.

DJ angled her head and indicated she’d take out the slightly shorter, skinnier guy on the left. Crocker gave her a thumbs up.

In full synchronization, they moved as if they’d practiced the maneuver together hundreds of time. Before the men even realized they were under attack, she and Crocker had their hands on the men’s mouths and their heads tilted back. The struggle was a non-event, because she didn’t hesitate to slit the throat of her man. Crocker was right there with her on his.

The smell of death surrounded her. She dropped her victim and stepped away. In the closed space, the hot coppery smell of blood and the smell of their bowels evacuating made her gag.

Grabbing a bottle of water off the work table, Crocker thrust it at her. She took several gulps and managed not to hurl. She nodded her thanks and grabbed a roll of paper towels, tore some off before handing the roll to Crocker.

Focusing on getting to Ace, she shoved the death of yet another man to the back of her mind as she wet the towels and then wiped her knife and then her arms. Most of her victim’s blood had spurted forward, but there’d been no way to avoid the hot mess on her hands and arms.

Crocker tapped her shoulder. She turned. His face was expressionless, but his eyes held respect. He used a moistened towel to wipe some spatter off her face. The care and thoughtfulness of the gesture touched her.

He angled his head at the tunnel and mouthed “you ready?”

She nodded. His kindness, his steadiness, helped center her. Whatever he’d done in the past in the name of his undercover work, she’d just become Crocker’s—no, Sam’s—biggest supporter.

Dawn had already moved to take up a position guarding the entrance into the drug operations cave. She looked over her shoulder and muttered in her headset, “Get moving.” She settled behind some boxes and had her assault rifle up and ready to defend them.

DJ and Crocker hurried toward the tunnel leading to Ace’s tracker coordinates. Her assault rifle slung across her back, DJ shoved her knife in its scabbard and pulled her Beretta. Close up work didn’t call for assault rifles. Crocker held a Desert Eagle; the big gun looked small in his large and very capable-looking hand.

Again, Crocker insisted on taking the lead and entered the tunnel which, unlike the others, was man-made and lit by low-level lighting strips along the floor. DJ followed on his heels.

They came to a spot where the tunnel curved obliquely. Light shone around the bend in the tunnel, indicating a larger and well-lit space was near.

Crocker signaled a halt with his hand, then slithered along the wall like a two-legged snake to take a look. He retraced his steps and urged her back down the tunnel, almost to the drug operations cave where they had little chance of being overheard.

He muttered into the headset. “Walsh is there. Middle of cave. Conscious. Beat up. Flex-cuffs, hands and ankles. O’Riley and another. Shoot to kill?”

Anger tasted like acid in her mouth, felt like a raging fire in her veins. She wanted to rush in there and tear O’Riley limb-from-limb for hurting Ace.

But on the heels of the fierce flood of protective anger came a frigid wash of reality. Ace was alive and would be freed soon. So, she needed to calm down and take a look at the bigger picture—at what would be best for SSI and the world-at-large.

Syd MacLean a.k.a. Oraio was smart, slippery, and had had years to plan multiple exit strategies. Oraio had merely been MacLean’s first choice. Whatever they did here today would force MacLean to react.

Best bet? He’d go underground in order to save his ass and protect his ill-gotten gains and take on another identity. Finding him again would take a lot of hard work plus another freakish bit of luck. Until he was located once more, he’d continue to operate his criminal enterprises.

Conclusion?—“We need O’Riley. For intel purposes. MacLean could be in the wind after this.”

Crocker stared at her for a second, then nodded. “Take out the minion … hard. Care for your man. I’ve got O’Riley.”