The Betrayed Series: Ultimate Omnibus Collection With EXCLUSIVE Post-Shiva Short Story (2 page)

“I don’t think he can get up,” a dark–haired man said, wincing as blood dripped down from his cut eye. He must have been Kirkland, one of the CIA field operatives. The other one kneeling by the downed man must have been Pollov.

Lopez knelt by the Latino on the ground. When the corporal turned over the CIA’s informant, Brandt was shocked at how young was. Not more than a few years older than the boy soldiers outside. His skin was marred by black, blue, purple, green and even yellow bruises. Someone had been tuning the kid up for days.

Anger welled. It was one thing to think about the cartel’s cruelty. It was quite another to see it firsthand. He wanted anyone Stateside who did cocaine at a party to see what their “recreational” use did in the country of origin. How many boys like this one and the ones out in the jungle had paid the price for someone’s high?

“I’ve got him,” Lopez whispered as he slung the young man over his shoulder. The teen tried to protest, but wasn’t exactly in any shape to argue.

“Brandt?” a familiar voice said, seeming almost as surprised as Brandt himself. He turned to find a mop of sandy blond hair and a crooked smile.

“Vanderwalt?” he asked, though he knew it was the British MI–5 officer. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Vacation, would you believe it?” his old friend said, then coughed. It wasn’t until then that Brandt noticed the blood on Vanderwalt’s shirt. “Just a few broken ribs,” the Brit tried to reassure him.

It looked like more than that, but they didn’t have time to assess his injuries. They could do that on the extraction helicopter, which was
not
going to wait for pleasantries. He draped Vanderwalt’s arm over his shoulder.

Svengurd cracked the door open. Apparently it looked clear, as he opened it more fully. Before he stepped through, gunfire sounded…from all around. Brandt slammed Vanderwalt down, covering him with his body. Lopez and Svengurd did the same to the other hostages.

Over the gunfire, Pollov said, “This is what happened to us. They use hostages as bait.”

Of course they did.

Brandt indicated to Svengurd. “Luckily, we came slightly more prepared.”

The tall point man pulled out the detonator. Inch by inch, the stoic Swede’s lips turned up into a rare grin. “I’d stay down,” he advised.

Brandt saw how much C4 Svengurd had packed in, so he believed him.

As bullets punched through the thin wood walls, the point man brought his thumb down on the red detonator button. An explosion ripped the shack to the south to shreds. Then another explosion sounded to the north. Lastly, the back wall of their shack blew out.

Funny how the shooting stopped. It was replaced by angry shouts.

“Move out!” Brandt ordered.

Svengurd, his gun already in position, climbed over the shattered wall and into the forest. Lopez, hauling the kid, went next. Brandt encouraged the CIA operatives to keep in tight formation as he helped keep Vanderwalt steady.

“Sorry, mate,” the Brit said. “You should leave me behind.”

Making his way out of the shack, Brandt shook his head. “And then who would buy me bangers and mash?”

Vanderwalt probably meant to flash a smile, but it ended up a grimace. No matter—they needed to haul ass before their window closed. Which seemed to be closing rapidly as the enemy regrouped. The Los Zetas weren’t the fastest growing cartel for nothing.

However, the cartel was at a disadvantage. Springing a trap was a delicate business. You had to know where your target was going to be. You had to know when they were going to be there. And, most of all, you needed to have your men in place in time.

For scouting, they knew that the Zetas had the bulk of their forces to the north, guarding against the narrow forest road. Brandt’s team had approached from the west, the most lightly guarded direction. Conventional wisdom would have them exit the same route.

Fortunately, Brandt wasn’t all that much into conventional wisdom. Instead, they headed straight for the north, meeting very little resistance. No matter if it was run by a successful cartel, every mission had a finite set of resources that got shuffled around the combat theater. Kind of like playing football, only with automatic weapons.

Just as Lopez had suspected, the Zetas had pulled their men from the north to fortify the west and south, leaving them a nice escape corridor. Svengurd guided them, as quickly as they could move, toward their rally point.

It was going great, right by the book. The cartel was heading after them, but through the thick underbrush, the Zetas couldn’t use any form of motorized vehicle, so they had to follow on foot. And, given the fact that they weren’t expecting this escape route, they were falling further and further behind.

Before the cartel could get their chopper in the air, Brandt’s team should be to their vehicle, and get the hell out of the vicinity, meeting their extraction.

If their luck held out, they should be safe within the half hour.

Too bad their luck never held out, as Svengurd pulled them to a sliding stop.

Was it the cartel? Had they placed an outer perimeter?

Then he heard the snarling. Tilting his head around the group, Brandt realized what was holding them up.

A jaguar.

* * *

Svengurd stood motionless as the large cat bared its fangs. The jaguar’s golden coat, punctuated by black rosettes, glistened in the filtered light. The beast’s broad head held jaws that could crush a man’s skull without really trying. A low growl grumbled in its chest as it stood over its prey, which looked like a tapir, given its stocky body and long nose.

Brandt came up alongside. “It’s alright,” he coaxed. “We do not want your kill.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lopez said. “Grilled tapir? Delicious.” He put his fingertips to his lips and kissed them.

Brandt glared at the corporal.

“Sarge?” Svengurd asked. This situation wasn’t exactly in the reg book.

The cartel was in pursuit, but they weren’t hot on their tail. If they fired at the jaguar, the guards would be able to pinpoint their exact location. Their slim lead would be cut to nothing. Brandt nodded for him to try a work around.

Slowly, Svengurd moved to the left, but the jaguar swiped at him, bunching its hindquarters. He’d never faced off against a big cat before, but Svengurd was pretty sure that was a prelude to an all–out attack.

Then he realized the real reason the jaguar was being so aggressive. Three pairs of little eyes shone from the underbrush. Babies—she was protecting her young.

Svengurd spoke in his great–grandparents’ language, reassuring her that his people had long believed in the sanctity of the forest. He spoke to her of the Valkyries. Not the angel–like creatures of modern cinema. No, he spoke to the jaguar of the Valkyries of old. “The choosers of the slain.” It was the Valkyries who decided if a hero lived or died.

Slowly, as Svengurd murmured in Old Norse, he moved to the right. He knew that she did not understand the words, but as a warrior herself, an apex predator, she seemed to understand his intent. She did not wish to attack any more than he wished to kill her. To launch at him would endanger her cubs. And neither wanted that.

Guiding the group around the kill, Svengurd told her the poem of the
Njals.
Once they were far enough away, the jaguar grunted once and the tiny eyes disappeared into the underbrush. That was their signal to book it.

Waving the others on, Svengurd watched as the jaguar sunk her fangs into the neck of the tapir and dragged the carcass back. Now that her cubs were safe, she needed to secure their dinner. In an amazing feat of strength, she pulled the tapir up and into the tree.

Once the team was at a safe distance, Svengurd bowed his head. “
Tuck sa mycket.”
Thank you so very much.

Catching up with the group, he went to move into the point position, but as he passed Brandt, the British operative patted Svengurd’s shoulder. “Nice work, mate.”

Svengurd gave a sharp nod and moved on. He wasn’t going to take any praise until they were on that helicopter.

* * *

Okay, Brandt thought, so they had avoided death by jaguar, but they weren’t out of the woods yet. Literally. Why did they call them plans when they never actually went as planned? Vanderwalt was getting heavy, and even Lopez stumbled over a vine.

They were way off course, going in nearly the opposite direction as the Jeep, and correcting course would take them directly into the path of the cartel’s main force.

“Stop,” Brandt whispered harshly. “Time to regroup.”

Vanderwalt pushed himself off of Brandt, leaning against a tree trunk. Lopez lowered the boy to the ground.

“I’ve got to get the Jeep,” the corporal stated.

“Agreed.”

There was just no way they were going to haul this motley crew out of the jungle on foot. Lopez took in several quick breaths, pumping himself up. “Meet you at the secondary rally point.”

Luckily, they knew that their plans rarely worked out, so they had a backup.

“Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” Brandt urged, knowing it was useless. Lopez’s middle name was “reckless.”

The corporal didn’t even bother lying as he charged into the forest. Alone, unburdened, Lopez at the least had a chance of threading the needle through the enemy forces to reach the hidden Jeep.

“Svengurd,” Brandt ordered, expecting the point man to move them out. But Svengurd knelt to pick up the boy. “No.” Brandt said. “I’ll get him.”

A blond eyebrow shot up. “Would you like me to carry you both, then?”

Right. Brandt clocked in at two ten, yet if there was anyone who would actually attempt to lift both the boy and Brandt, it would be Svengurd.

“All right,” Brandt conceded. Svengurd was the most logical choice to carry the boy. “Vanderwalt. It’s you and me again.”

The Brit groaned as he leaned into Brandt’s shoulder. “Not sure how much further I can hoof it, mate.”

“It’s not far,” Brandt reassured the MI–5 operative. Of course that was a lie, but a necessary one. Not just for Vanderwalt, but for the two CIA operatives as well. They swayed on their feet. Injured, dehydrated, scared. They all needed to believe that relief was in sight.

Even carrying the teen, Svengurd set a brisk pace. They moved as quietly as they could through the forest. How Brandt wished they had some kind of satellite feed of the area. Unfortunately, getting a live feed of this area meant going through the Mexican government, which basically meant they would be giving the cartel a feed of the area, as well. Corruption in this part of the world was just how life worked.

Still, it would be nice to know where the hell the cartel’s men were. His team was making good time, though, and not being shot at. Always a bonus.

Then they came upon a wall. An eight–foot wall. The stones of the ancient wall towered above them.

“Part of the plan, Brandt?” Vanderwalt asked knowing the answer already.

Brandt ripped the Velcro off his pocket and pulled out a map of the area. Crap, they’d hit Becán already. Their altered route had brought them to the base of the ancient Mayan ruin complex. He scanned the gray stone wall that ran in a curved pattern as far as the eye could see. And, unlike the forest behind them, the tall stone wall didn’t have a single patch of ivy or vines on it.

The tourism bureau must have recently cleared it. They were trying to encourage visitors to the sprawling Becán ruins, one of the largest intact Mayan complexes in Mexico, but having the Zetas in their backyard was not helping their tourism cause. Nor Brandt’s.

If they tried to get around the ancient barrier, their backs would be against the wall. They would be trapped, with very little maneuverability. There was no other option. They were going to have to go over it.

Damn it.

Svengurd must have figured that out on his own, and he tied the boy’s wrists together, then slung the barely conscious kid like a cape over his shoulders. The boy’s feet dangled barely past Svengurd’s rear.

The point man was tall, but could he really scale the stone wall with the added weight?

Guess they were going to find out.

* * *

Svengurd tested his finger hold between two stones. The rock was cool to the touch, and smooth. Almost too smooth, but his fingers felt solid. Next, he braced his feet against the base of the wall. With more effort than he had hoped, Svengurd scaled the first row of rocks.

The boy’s weight tugged him down, but Svengurd fought gravity, finding another good spot for his foot. Another heave and they were a good four feet up the wall. Only another four to go.

Beneath him, Brandt got the two CIA operatives climbing, as well. Their hands slick with sweat, they struggled to even get off the ground. Brandt lent his shoulder to the effort, making sure the two were on their way. Vanderwalt, however, backed away from Brandt, shaking his head.

Svengurd couldn’t linger to watch the argument unfold. His best course of action was to scale the wall, get the boy secured on the other side, and then come back to help Brandt get the injured Brit up.

The boy stirred.

“Stay still,” Svengurd encouraged, making it up another foot. The higher they climbed, the more difficult the ascent became. His muscles protested against the straight vertical rock face.

He ignored the tension in his quads. Not much further.

A bullet pinged against the stone, gouging out a mark. He looked over his shoulder to find two guards bursting from the trees, shooting away. Brandt returned fire, forcing the men to retreat a few steps, but anyone climbing was vulnerable, as even the wild shots sent chunks of stone flying.

Svengurd encouraged his muscles to hurry the climb, but a stray bullet hit the wall next to his foot, dislodging the tiny ledge he had been perched upon. His feet flailed against the stone as he tried to find a purchase. Hanging on by his fingertips, there was no way to swing his gun around in time. The worst was that he would not be shot in the back… it would be the boy. The child would pay the price for Svengurd’s lacking.

He could see the ledge. Just another foot and he would be there. But with sweat dripping down his arms, slicking his already precarious hold, the ledge might was as well be the
Skanderna
.