THE GUARD’S HOLLOW EYES stared at K as she pushed him off her body. Breathing hard, she leaned over his body and vomited. She’d never killed anyone or even dreamed it would ever be something she’d have to do.
Samantha came around the corner. “Mommy?” She looked at the dead man lying on the floor. K tried to cover her innocent child’s eyes, but Sam pointed at the body. “Bad man.”
K sighed and reached for her daughter. “Yeah, honey, he’s a bad man. But he won’t hurt us anymore.”
Holding Sam close, she tried to think. It would be dark in a few hours. They could make a run for the gate or maybe try to get on one of the delivery trucks that came in through the gates in the evenings.
“I’m hungry.”
“I know, hon. I’m hungry, too.” She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had anything to eat.
They both jumped when the radio on the dead guard’s belt squawked. The language was German or Russian. K couldn’t tell. But the voice sounded urgent, and she had a feeling what that could mean.
They would be coming to find their missing guard.
* * *
MARK OPENED HIS EYES and tried to see the broken landscape out the window, but all he saw was K’s face. They’d made it to Puerto Rico early that morning. After a long ride in a beat-up, old Jeep Cherokee, then a switch to a station wagon for the final trip through the interior of the island, they were almost to their checkpoint. They would arrive before dark.
The Taxi had put them on a part of the island farthest from where they wanted to be, but it was still faster than taking a plane and a lot less headache. Guns were frowned upon on airplanes, anyway.
Isis punched him on the arm and smiled. “How you holding up?”
“Okay, considering. Any news?”
“No, just that our FBI informant cracked and told us who else he had working for him.”
“That’s good news. Anyone I know?”
“Nope, just a CSI agent. He ended up dead along with his wife. That Geoff character is a hired hit man connected with the Russian Mafia as well as the FBI.”
Mark remembered the picture of the man. He must have been good to have been able to fool Detective Weston. Judging from his file, Weston was a sharp guy and had solved more cases in the DPD than any other detective on the force. No one cared about his success rate though, due to his nonconformist personality.
“One thing I don’t get,” Mark said. “Why did they take my family? I’m not connected with them in any way. Do you think they know about my involvement in the WJA?”
“Not sure. That confuses me, too.” Isis looked up from her tablet. “We just need to get Sam and K out of there. We’ll sort through the whys later.”
Mark nodded and watched as they passed run-down houses and fields filled with workers picking what he assumed were coffee beans. It looked like a tedious job, and from the looks on the natives’ faces, he was right.
An hour later, they reached a small building made from old lumber and tin roofing material. A big, dark-skinned Puerto Rican man smiled and waved as they drove up. He looked like he could be Big B’s brother.
“Welcome to the island, my friends. You have a good ride, yes?”
They all nodded as they stretched, trying to work out their cramped muscles before they stepped inside.
The interior of the shack wasn’t much better than the outside. The floor was dirt, and Mark could see through the holes in the walls. A large wooden crate sat on the floor in the center of the room. He walked over to it and read the label on the top. Bananas.
“Yes. It’s our equipment, the good stuff!” Big B smiled and tore into the crate. The bananas were, in fact, M249s, Squad automatic weapons, and one M2 50cal. sniper rifle. Big B tossed the sniper rifle to Mark, along with a scope and a few clips of ammo.
After the contents of the box were emptied, Big B loaded his backpack with Claymore mines, hand grenades, and a few biological bombs. Isis had a machine gun and a belt loaded with throwing darts dipped with a tranquilizer.
Jamison, wearing thermal glasses, threw each person a small earpiece that linked them all together. Jamison’s call sign was lookout. He was in charge of clearing the way and being their eyes and ears.
Big B was groundkeeper, charged with ensuring they had whatever diversion needed and that their butts were covered in case of a problem.
Isis and Mark would go in hot. Mark had a long-range rifle. Isis had short-range charges and the knockout power. Mark inspected his weapon. His rifle folded in two parts. In the full lockout position, it was loaded with a plastic bullet filled with a chemical called Liquid Metal.
Similar to mixing concrete powder with water, Liquid Metal would hit the blood stream and mix with incredible speed. In a matter of seconds, the victim would lose all motor skills and vision. The blood would carry it through the body, which would harden head to toe in less than ten seconds, leaving the victim stiff and dead.
The best part was that the victim could not scream or cry for help, making it the perfect weapon for this type of mission.
Mark also carried a sidearm, a fifty-round air gun that could shoot semi-automatic or full auto. The tiny darts were filled with liquid explosives that would penetrate the skin and explode within half a second. The only sound was a puff of air, then a faint pop as the mini-bomb scrambled the victim’s insides.
Johnny Jamison went over the plan one more time as they assembled their gear. As anxious as they all were, they had to wait one more hour until it was completely dark. Mark tried to hide his fear. What if his team was too late? He couldn’t bear to think he might fail K and Sam again.
* * *
KIRK COULD FEEL HIS head swim and the glass dig into his knees and hands as he crawled down the hall, trying to make it to an empty cell.
All he hoped was that the other cells weren’t covered with glass, too. He made it to the last door, reached up, and turned the doorknob.
It was open.
He rolled inside and gritted his teeth as bits of metal and glass, already embedded into his back, dug in deeper. He felt around and discovered the new room was free of shards. He lay on his back, trying to get a second wind. He’d left a blood trail. It wouldn’t take a genius to find him.
Let them come.
He was in the mood to tangle with a guard or two. Pain will either break or make a man, and it was making him madder by the minute.
After he worked the glass from his hands and knees, he found an old pillowcase on the mattress in the corner of the room. He tore it into pieces and wrapped his feet to stop the bleeding. Besides his feet, the busted ribs and miscellaneous cuts and bruises, he could tell he had a broken nose. He limped toward the door and looked out into the hall.
He needed a weapon. Something—anything. He scanned the floor. Most of the glass was broken into little pieces, but some of the metal chunks were just the right size for a makeshift knife.
He picked up two long, sharp, four-inch pieces and wrapped them on one end with the last bits of the pillowcase. He made his way through the door at the end of the hall and could hear voices coming from a door off to the left. It was back the way he had come, over the glass-lined floor. Finding the same crate he had hidden behind earlier, Kirk shook his head. Déjà-vu all over again.
He spotted an air-duct cover in the ceiling that looked like a return, which meant it would be open to the dead space above. Though the pain was incredible, he crawled onto the crate, stood upright in all his naked glory and reached for the grill. He could barely get a handhold, but with some effort, he pulled himself into the open hole, scraping his bare back. He replaced the grill and peered down.
He heard footsteps. Two bearded men stopped to talk just a few feet from the vent. They were talking in Russian or some variation of it. One rolled his ski mask to the crown of his head, lit a cigar and moved on, puffing at the stogie as if it was his last meal.
The other sat on the crate, pulled a flask from his pocket, lifted his mask and unscrewed the top. Kirk saw the man’s boots and coveted them, as well as the gun hanging from a strap on his shoulder. But the shoes had more appeal than the gun at this point.
He quietly removed the grill and placed it to one side and studied the guard. The big, hairy man outweighed him by a good twenty pounds, but if he surprised him, he might be able to overpower him. He leaned forward. This is going to hurt.
Jumping from his hiding place naked and bloody, he landed on top of the unsuspecting guard. The guard flopped to the ground without a sound. Kirk rolled to his knees and looked at the shard of glass protruding from his victim’s neck. It worked. The guy was dead. Apparently he’d hit an artery.
Grabbing the huge man by the collar, he dragged his body into an open cell and closed the door. He quickly undressed him, slipped on the clothing and shoes, though they were two sizes too big. At least they weren’t two sizes too small. He hitched the belt tight, pulled the black ski mask over his head and stepped out of the cell. After checking the machine gun to make sure it was loaded, he trotted down the hall toward the exit.
* * *
A CROSSHAIR LINED UP with the head of an unknowing Russian guard making his rounds on the main site. Mark tracked him as he walked behind a small outbuilding, then dropped him with a single round.
The man hit the ground. Mark could see him stiffen as the fluids in his body turned as hard as steel. Mark scoped out his next target. He was patient—he had to be. The attack had to be done with the utmost care in order not to alert the others or further endanger his wife and daughter.
Isis lay next to him under the heavy camouflaged netting they shared. They blended into the brush and would be unseen, even if the enemy was right on top of them. She whispered in his earpiece that another guard was taking a leak in the bushes to the left. With a quick swing of his rifle, Mark took him out.
Big B made his way down to the main yard, through the double fence, and past the dogs. He placed charges under a Jeep and on the side of a fuel tank balanced on tall wooden stilts. Mark made sure he was covered. The computer screen inside the small hut was linked to a thermal imaging camera that could see through almost any material. It was like a big X-ray device, but live and very nice to have on an operation like this. Jamison announced that he spotted someone kill a guard and take his clothes.
“He’s on the main floor, making his way in our direction. Don’t shoot. I think it’s Weston.” Jamison laughed. “He’s limping, but appears as determined as the file says he is.”
“Any sign of K and Sam?” Mark tried to sound professional.
“Not yet, but I’m looking. Only one other prisoner that I can see—and he looks male.”
Mark sighed and motioned for Isis to follow him. “Okay, we’re going in.”
* * *
K DECIDED TO MAKE a dash for a truck or some kind of vehicle. One of them had to leave sometime to go for a coffee run or supplies. They would try to hide inside a truck, and maybe, just maybe, escape.
Cracking the door open just enough to look out, she jerked back when she saw a guard standing a few feet away. Beyond him, she could see open grass, dirt, and a big truck.
She turned to Sam. “Okay, honey, you do like we talked about. We’re going to play hide and seek. We’re hiding from the bad, bad men. You follow Mommy and be very quiet, okay?”
Sam nodded as if she understood this was more than a simple game.
Gun in one hand, K grabbed Sam’s hand with the other and pulled her along as they dashed for a bush behind the guard.
“Stop or I shoot. Stop!”
K froze as a guard, who must have been standing behind the small pump house, shone a flashlight on them. Before she could even think, a half dozen guards were pointing guns at them. She dropped her weapon and wrapped her arms around Sam.
But a guard grabbed her by the shoulders as another ripped Sam from her grasp.
“Mommy!” Sam screamed.
K fought the men, clawing her way toward Sam. Panic clouded her vision, until a rifle butt was slammed into her head, followed by blackness.