Chapter 1
Two Years Ago – near Framlingham, England
Chelsea was late.
Twelve seconds late.
The kind of late that could cost a life.
Josh Robertson forced his grip to relax before he
crushed the crystal glass of thirty–year–old
scotch. It wasn't as though she'd hit traffic making the
fifteen–kilometer drive from Framlingham. Maybe
dodge a sheep or two in the road, just part of the country
ambience this far north of London.
He expected Chelsea to strut across the polished oak
floor of this eighteenth century mansion any minute, chin
cocked up as if she owned the place. She could do it, too.
Pull off pretending she was one step from British royalty
and not a bastard child who made her living as a liaison
for touchy deals between dangerous people.
A bastard just like him. One of those little things
they'd had in common from day one. Another was an obsessive
penchant for being on time.
Always. And she demanded it as a nonnegotiable term for
her liaison services.
The second hand on his watch marched on with no regard
for his sanity. Something had gone wrong.
Service staff in crisp black tuxedos moved through the
elegant party carrying silver platters. One of the staff
paused next to Josh. "Would you care for something, sir?"
Yeah. I'd kill for a cellular signal for about ten
seconds. Just long enough to check his phone for text
messages.
"No, thanks." Without a magic wand, even the best staff
couldn't make that happen.
He strolled past floral decorations a foot taller than
he was. At six feet, two inches, Josh could see over most
of the crowd. He visually swept the partygoers peppered
around the enormous ballroom, looking for Chelsea and
Mendelson, the German guy Josh was here to meet.
Still no vivacious beauty with a head of black hair and
eyes green as spring leaves.
Ninety–nine seconds.
Frustration burrowed into the center of his skull. He
hated stuffy parties, but Mendelson had dictated the
location and arranged for the gilded invitation. If Josh
closed his eyes, he could be back in the states at the
charity ball his adoptive parents hosted for five hundred
guests every spring. Same mind–numbing
conversations. Same
put–me–in–a–catatonic–state
Baroque music played by a string ensemble like the ones his
mother hired.
Mom claimed the peaceful music kept people calm.
Not doing a damn thing for him right now. His heart
hammered like Charlie Watts cutting loose on a drum solo at
a Rolling Stones concert.
Come on, Chelsea.
She'd never missed a meeting. She was always on time,
even for the occasional casual rendezvous with Josh to
scratch an itch.
Hell, there'd never been anything casual about the hot
sex they shared. They'd burn hard and fast, like a flash
fire. Then go their separate ways afterward. No drama.
The perfect arrangement to keep loneliness at bay.
Not a relationship. At least not in the true sense of
the word, but he did care for her. Needed to know she was
safe. He'd never had a more dependable informant or
go–between. So where was she?
Had Mendelson changed the plans?
Had Chelsea backed out?
No. Not with a man's life on the line.
She had just as much investment in extracting a captured
CIA agent tonight as Josh did. The CIA asset had
information on a terrorist cell planning to detonate bombs
in Los Angeles and Dublin.
In two days.
Chelsea's grandmother lived in Dublin in a nursing home,
too ill to be moved without paramedics and a cardiac
support ambulance.
Josh's gut snarled at him to get out of this place,
disappear before he ended up in the same fix as Chelsea,
who might be imprisoned with the CIA agent right now.
Good advice.
That he couldn't follow. His gut didn't get a say this
time.
Josh lifted his drink slowly, his eyes trained on the
second hand of his watch.
She'd blister his ears for staying. He'd let her if
she'd just walk through those beveled glass doors at the
entrance.
If the muscles across his shoulders got any tighter he'd
split the seams on this tux the next time he stretched.
Relax a little. Think. She could handle herself just as
proficiently with a weapon—or in
hand–to–hand combat—as he could.
Another commonality between them. She wasn't trained as
an operative, but she'd gained survival skills on the
streets in Liverpool, where failure meant a short life.
His hard–times training had been back in New York
as a street rat, but it was nothing like the professional
training he'd received.
He and Chelsea had one major difference.
His team of hired mercs was loyal to the US.
Chelsea pledged her allegiance to the almighty dollar
and the highest offer. Strictly business with her.
Or it had been until this op, when she discovered her
grandmother was at risk. Her grandmother's nursing home
was near the Dublin airport, high on the list of terrorist
targets.
Had cool–as–ice Chelsea allowed emotions to
rule her actions this once and made a mistake?
If she had and couldn't contact him, there was no way
for him to know what kind of trouble she was in, or for him
to help her. He should follow SOP at this point and
disappear.
Especially after the cryptic warning in her last text.
She'd typed that damned XOXO at the end.
When they'd first slept together, she'd told him two
things to never forget. She didn't do late, so if she ever
failed to show on time, he should not wait for her. And if
she sent XOXO in a message it meant she might have to
vanish.
Might.
A word that would haunt him forever if he left now.
The sound of a familiar footstep tapping across wood
floors reached his ears. He honed in on it, listening as he
turned to scan the crowd. There it was, moving toward
him. A confident click, click, click that lifted just
above polite conversation.
Black hair flashed into view.
Halle–damn–lujah. Chelsea headed toward him
with her signature smooth gait on a pair of five–inch
black heels.
He caught himself before his face revealed the punch of
relief slamming his solar plexus. Showtime. He shoved
cold disregard into his eyes.
What had been the delay?
Shiny hair fell past her shoulders, a long strand
dipping to touch the enticing hint of breasts he'd spent
hours appreciating on their stolen encounters. She'd
showcased them nicely tonight, in a strapless, black
sequined dress that sparkled under the crystal
chandeliers. Sexy–as–hell body, but that
hadn't been what he'd noticed about her when they'd first
met. It was the note of Irish in her husky voice that had
turned his head.
She wasn't the love of his life.
He couldn't have one.
Neither could she, with their career choices. But even
though they sometimes went months without a word from each
other, he'd realized tonight that she'd carved a spot in
his world he didn't want vacated.
She played her role, too, chilly expression in eyes he'd
seen laughing only a day ago. She ignored the admiring
gazes snapping in her direction as she moved toward him.
Ludwig Mendelson followed a half step behind Chelsea,
shoulders back, body square and thick like a wrestler's.
His hair was short and too silver for a man only in his
forties. Pale skin stretched across a pudgy face punctuated
by two unforgiving, ice–chip blue eyes. An inch or so
shy of six feet tall, he strode as if the world should drop
at his feet and pay homage.
If that were true he wouldn't need the two bodyguards
following close behind, both stuffed into tuxedos tailored
for the Hulk.
Mendelson had a reputation for being unpredictable.
He'd chosen this party, but could've just as easily
demanded a meeting at a location that required mountain
climbing gear. Josh had the German's file memorized and
had come to England prepared to do pretty much anything
required to finalize this exchange on Mendelson's terms.
He knew more than he wanted to know about a man with a
preference for over–the–top, perverted styles
of interrogation.
Just seeing Mendelson walk so close to Chelsea twisted a
fist inside Josh's gut, but she'd built one hell of a
reputation in the international crime community for
arranging meetings like this one, and for swift retaliation
against anyone who tried to harm her.
Still, something was amiss or she'd have been on time.
When she reached Josh, she waited until Mendelson
stepped up next to her before speaking first to Josh. "Mr.
Taylor, meet my associate, Herr Mendelson."
Offering neither his hand nor any verbal acknowledgment,
Josh announced, "You're late."
Mendelson moved his chunky shoulders in a slight shrug
then glanced over at Chelsea who didn't bat an eyelash. His
German accent matched his blunt face. "Beauty is not a
rushed process. Men have always waited on women."
Had she really been the reason for the delay?
If so, had she done it as some kind of signal to Josh?
Cognizant of Mendelson's close scrutiny, Josh swirled
his scotch and took a sip. He tinged his words with just
enough irritation to hide the concern that brewed in his
gut over Chelsea. "I came here to retrieve my client's
asset and deliver your payment." He targeted Chelsea with
his next verbal shot. "You were chosen as liaison because
of your reliability and your reputation for being
punctual." Tell me what's going on. Any sign.
"You could ha' been on your way if waitin' was a
burden," Chelsea warned with just enough venom in her Irish
lilt to sell the deadly glint in her eyes.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Had she wanted him to leave?
She pressed on. "We've all an investment in tonight's
meetin'. The sooner we stop natterin' on, the sooner we'll
each be enjoyin' the spoils."
Josh leveled Mendelson with a
let's–get–to–the–bottom–line
look. "Satisfied that I'm here alone?"
"If I were not, you would no longer be standing here."
Meaning Josh would be dead already. Mendelson believed
Josh had a transport of weapons waiting nearby to exchange
for the CIA agent, so he pointed out, "I can't keep someone
mobile in this area for long without drawing attention."
Mendelson smiled, his eyes eager. "Then I suggest we
proceed with haste and complete our transaction."
"Lead on." Josh lifted his glass in a subtle gesture
that said get on with it, you're wasting my time. He knew
the exchange wouldn't go down here.
Mendelson didn't disappoint. "My car is waiting."
Sucked to be right sometimes.
Following the Mendelson entourage, Josh held his blank
mask in place, but unease clawed at the back of his neck.
In spite of the XOXO message, Chelsea hadn't vanished, but
neither could they discuss anything now that the game was
on.
He was just glad to know she'd be close enough for him
to snatch along with the CIA captive tonight, because he
wasn't leaving this country without both of them.
If she needed to disappear, he could make that happen
and keep her safe at the same time. His body might take a
beating if she didn't see it his way, but he didn't think
she'd purposely kill him.
He'd heal and she'd be alive.
All other details could be worked out after that.
Outside the lavish home, attendants rushed through the
crisp fall air, opening car doors for late arrivals and
retrieving vehicles for early departures. Josh had driven
here in a rented Mercedes, but Chelsea wouldn't be riding
with him. That meant no chance to talk before they reached
the location where Mendelson held the CIA agent, Len Rikker.
It had taken five days of intense negotiations to
convince Mendelson that Josh represented black market
weapons dealer Puno de Hierro, known as Iron Fist, who
operated out of Nicaragua.
And that Len Rikker was no international spook but one
of Puno de Hierro's assets.
Among Mendelson's multi–faceted enterprises, he
brokered resources for terrorist operations. Josh's team
had tracked the German for twelve days and finally gotten a
break when the weapons shipment Mendelson needed as
currency for another deal had gone missing.
Thanks to Josh's team who'd stolen it.
That team now waited to move in.
No government would admit to employing mercenary
soldiers like his team, but most countries tapped similar
off–the–record elite operatives for missions
that couldn't be run through the usual channels, or
couldn't be acknowledged under any circumstances. The CIA
would normally turn to one of its own elite military units
to extract a captured agent, but they wanted this sterile.
A hands–off operation with none of their assets
involved.
Sabrina Slye, who headed up Josh's team, had questioned
the "why" behind the agency's decision to send in her
people, but the powers–that–be weren't in the
habit of answering to anyone.
Much less a merc. She'd turned down the mission until
someone way up the CIA food chain had asked her personally
to bring home their agent.
And to do it soon, before Mendelson disappeared again.
The German often moved his high–value assets
daily.
Sabrina had freedom to execute her operations with full
autonomy since her people were considered expendable
resources that no government agency would admit hiring and
sure as hell wouldn't lift a finger to save.
A young man rushed up to Josh and pointed as a Mercedes
rental rolled up to the curb. "Your car, sir."
Right behind Mendelson's sleek black limousine.
Josh continued toward the end of the walkway lit by
landscape beacons. The bodyguards took position on each
side of the limo's open passenger door where Chelsea paused.
Mendelson's lips tilted with amusement. A pit viper's
smile. "I have arranged a driver for you."
A driver who matched Mendelson's bodyguards in
size—and grim expression—sat behind the wheel
of Josh's Mercedes.
As expected.
If he refused the driver, the deal would fall
apart. Everyone involved knew that. But this was all about
power plays so Josh spun the tables with one of his own. He
made a show of looking at his watch. "Your window of time
to complete our meeting is running out."
In other words, the weapons shipment Josh was supposed
to be handing Mendelson in trade would not remain in the
area indefinitely.
Mendelson's gaze turned black as his soul. He ignored
Josh and waved Chelsea into the car.
Chelsea glanced back with what Josh could only describe
as regret in her gaze and gave a tiny shake of her head
that no one could have seen but him.
She was definitely leaving, and saying goodbye.
Didn't she know by now that he could help her with
whatever was wrong? He had until he closed the deal with
Mendelson to stop her from leaving. Josh would be paying
half her fee. She wouldn't normally walk away without her
money after coming this far. But something was definitely
off tonight.
One of Mendelson's men opened the back door of the
Mercedes and Josh climbed in. Now that he'd been given an
unwanted driver, calling his team on the satellite phone
hidden in the driver's door panel of his car was out.
Always have a backup plan.
He'd learned that as a child, when he'd been given
professional instruction in defensive maneuvers. His
parents had lost their only birth child to a kidnapping
that had ended badly. They took stronger measures to
protect Josh, even though he'd been nothing more than
someone else's refuse at age seven when they'd adopted him.
With a subtle movement, he twisted the platinum cufflink
at his right wrist, which functioned as a tracking device.
His backup plan. That single twist sent a signal that he
was mobile, but not alone. Activating his left cufflink in
a similar way alerted the team to move in.
Their five–member team had been together for six
years, but Josh, Sabrina and Dingo Paddock went back to
Josh's days as a kid in a New York City group home, another
name for an orphanage.
Once the limo with Mendelson and Chelsea moved off,
Josh's Mercedes pulled out behind them.
His driver said not a word during the forty–five
minute ride, with his Mercedes boxed in between the limo
and a silver Hummer. A moonless night wrapped the windows,
blacking out the view he'd seen earlier of the rolling
countryside covered in autumn's golden wash. Colors just as
vibrant as a year ago, when Josh and Chelsea had spent a
weekend in a renovated crofter's cottage an hour from
here. They'd made love under a beech tree while leaves
floated down around them.
Sabrina had warned him and Dingo to never get attached,
and Josh hadn't before now. Too many years spent alone,
watching for death around every corner, had left him numb
inside. Or so he'd believed until the first time Chelsea
had laughed.
Then she'd made him laugh, a genuine,
from–the–chest laugh he hadn't experienced
since he was a kid.
And now she intended to disappear.
Then he'd spend every day wondering if she'd survived.
That was classic Chelsea. She'd never ask for help if it
meant putting someone else at risk.
Too bad. Josh refused to let her face a threat, whatever
it was, alone.
His driver slowed as the Mercedes passed guards at the
entrance to a property. The stone entryway suggested a
residence somewhere beyond the short reach of headlights
piercing the night.
Mendelson's limo, Josh's Mercedes and the Hummer
continued along a curved drive until a two–story
stone structure took shape. Temporary lights had been set
up, illuminating the yard. Ivy climbed the attractive
farmhouse, probably built in the 1700s.
As soon as Josh exited the Mercedes, one of Mendelson's
bodyguards from the Hummer met him at his car door. "Lift
your arms."
Of course. The pat down.
Josh lifted his hands. When the guard finished, Josh
emptied his pockets, showing he had no weapon or phone,
nothing that could be used for communicating or killing.
The guard ordered, "Follow me."
Josh's neck twitched with more unease. Chelsea and
Mendelson hadn't gotten out of the limo yet.
Trailing behind the guard, Josh assessed what security
personnel he could locate outside the lighted area. Smoke
trickled from a fireplace at one end of the house, the
smell of burning hardwood riding on a light breeze. Two
men with rifles were posted on the roof. More were
positioned around the perimeter, some barely visible in the
shadows.
Ten, so far, counting the limo driver, who had to be
armed.
But another five to ten could be hidden.
And not just hired muscle, but deadly operatives.
Josh recognized at least two from the Russian mafia.
Mendelson had spared no expense, but was it to insure the
safety of his prisoner, or that this weapons shipment did
not get waylaid?
Sabrina and her three–person team could handle
inserting past fifteen, maybe twenty guards, depending on
how the security was spread around the farmhouse.
At the entrance to the house, another
guard—visible guard number eleven—opened a
heavy wooden door that swung on black, wrought–iron
hinges. The glass lamp on a hall table supplied enough
light to see the quaint foyer and a stairway against one
wall.
Dried flowers and other potpourri piled in a glass bowl
might have freshened the air, but it couldn't combat the
stale odor of recently fried fish. Probably cooked by
Mendelson's men.
Were the owners away from the property?
Or dead?
The guard by the door nodded at the bodyguard who led
Josh up the stairs and down a hall. They entered a narrow
room with tall ceilings and old–world character.
Dark bookcases were laden with rows of leather–bound
books. Two mahogany chairs with tufted green upholstery
sat sedately on a Turkish rug, and the scent of pipe
tobacco lingered.
A homey picture, which did nothing to loosen the tight
muscles in Josh's neck. He ordered the bodyguard, "Tell
Mendelson he has five minutes."
Heavy footsteps approached and Mendelson entered the
room. "I am here, Mr. Taylor."
Without Chelsea. Shit.
Josh's shoulders constricted further, but he'd stay on
task until he had reason to change course. "I'm here.
You're here. But my client's asset is not. We doing this
tonight?" Tell me you're waiting on Chelsea again.
"The asset is being brought up for validation." With
that partial answer to Josh's question, Mendelson went to a
small marble–top table. A flask of liquor and two
short–stemmed glasses had been placed on a tray of
inlaid wood as though in anticipation of a gentleman's
meeting.
There should be a reality show on the eccentric
behaviors of insane international criminals.
Mendelson poured two glasses of the amber liquid. "I
prefer a good cognac, but when in Rome..." He shrugged and
offered the second glass to Josh. "Brandy?"
Josh would rather drink the devil's piss than share
anything with this bastard. "Sure."
Moving to one of the chairs that faced the doorway,
Mendelson took a seat. "Sit."
"I'm not interested in playing chit–chat,
Mendelson."
Mendelson snapped his fingers and one of the bodyguards
entered, sans tuxedo jacket and sporting an HK MP7
submachine gun held loosely on a sling over one shoulder,
but ready to use.
Josh got the message. He rolled his eyes as though the
whole thing merely annoyed him, but sat in the other chair.
Where was Chelsea?
He clicked through possibilities. Maybe Mendelson had
paid his fee and Josh's, and sent Chelsea away? But why
would he?
The sound of multiple footsteps pounding up the stairs
reached the library, along with something being dragged.
Two guards entered, turning sideways to carry the CIA
agent, Len Rikker, between them, each gripping an arm.
Gaunt from five weeks in Mendelson's
not–so–tender care, and bloody in too many
places to count, Rikker's head hung forward.
Josh stood and took a step toward the prisoner who had a
distinctive scar at the hairline. One confirmation of the
CIA agent's ID. "Lift his head."
A guard grabbed Rikker's mop of scraggly brown hair and
jerked his head back, raising Rikker's swollen face into
view. Josh studied the eyes and jaw line long enough to
give the impression he would walk away if they tried to
pawn off the wrong man on him.
Mendelson said, "Satisfied?"
"Yes."
While Mendelson ordered the prisoner returned to his
locked room in the basement, Josh used the distraction to
twist his left cufflink twice, sending a message to move
in.
With the prisoner out of the room, Mendelson put his
glass down. "You may have your man as soon as you deliver
my missiles. You have thirty minutes, as agreed."
Sabrina and the team required twelve minutes to insert
into the secured area undetected and get in position to
infiltrate the building to find Rikker. Josh pushed an
impatient look at Mendelson. "Need GPS coordinates and a
sat phone to call in my transport truck." His nonexistent
truck.
"Give the phone number to my man—" Mendelson
angled his head at his guard. "He will call with
coordinates."
The guard unclipped a satellite phone from his belt and
eyed Josh who rattled off the number. Sabrina had someone
sitting at a predetermined location two hours away with a
disposable phone, and ready to leave the minute the call
terminated.
When the guard ended the call, he told his boss, "Done."
A grin spread across Mendelson's face, one that sent
worry skidding along Josh's spine. That extra sense
operatives develop in order to survive told him that
something had changed, even if everything seemed to be on
schedule. He lifted his drink, killed the balance and set
the glass back down, determined to find Chelsea. "Let's
get this done. Where's Chelsea?"
"She will be along soon." Mendelson took a sip of his
drink. "She is quite unusual. I could find a place in my
organization for her. Maybe a personal assistant who could
attend to more than negotiations for me." There was the
sinister smile again when Mendelson slid a taunting look at
Josh.
What was Mendelson up to with this bullshit?
Did he suspect a relationship between Chelsea and Josh?
Or was he just testing with age–old bait to provoke a
jealous reaction? But that would mean Mendelson knew Josh
and Chelsea had been acquainted for much longer than this
negotiation had taken.
No way. Josh tested right back. "What are you waiting
for?"
Mendelson's gaze turned curious, as if he weighed Josh's
reaction. "Then you would not mind?"
That hit too close to be fishing. Josh could count on
two fingers the number of people who knew about his
non–business relationship with Chelsea. Him and her.
Period. "Me? Why would I give a shit?"
"Perhaps I was wrong to believe you placed a high value
on her. Either way, I will miss her, perhaps almost as
much as you will, but for different reasons."
Noises in the hallway, like someone banging into the
walls, turned Josh around.
The second bodyguard stepped into the room with Chelsea
in his grasp. Blood ran down her arm and she struggled
against a man who outweighed her by a hundred pounds.
She'd gotten in her fair share of licks, based on the
guard's broken nose, bleeding temple and torn clothes.
Josh didn't know how it had happened, but they'd both
been made.
Chapter 2
Screw this. Nothing to lose now. Josh lunged for the
bodyguard with a stranglehold around Chelsea's neck.
Mendelson's other guard standing by swung the butt of
his weapon and cracked the side of Josh's head with the
sharp metal stock.
Stars scattered through his vision. Stumbling sideways,
Josh spun around and kicked the guard's chin, crushing
jawbone with a satisfying crunch, and knocking him out
cold. He snatched the MP7 away before the bodyguard hit the
floor, whipping the sling off of the man's limp arm.
As Josh gained control of the weapon, Mendelson sighed
loudly. "Put the weapon down, Mr. Taylor, or I'll order
her death."
Chelsea shouted at Josh. "Kill them!"
The brute shoved the muzzle of his Ruger P90
semi–auto pistol against her throat. "Shut up."
Chelsea's gaze met Josh's, holding long enough for him
to see the doubt that they'd walk out of here alive. But
she didn't know he had a team coming. She only knew what
he'd told her to make this exchange happen.
"Go ahead and shoot or put the weapon down," Mendelson
suggested. "Either way, we have a bit of a wait."
Lunging against the guard's tight hold, Chelsea shook
her head at Josh to not give up the weapon, but he dropped
it on the rug and turned to Mendelson. He warned in a cold
voice, "You don't want to double cross me."
"Under different circumstances, I might agree, but I
feel it necessary to inform you that a cellular jammer has
now been activated for this area."
The change in topic cut through the haze of fury
threatening to steal the last of Josh's control. "And why
would that matter?"
"You will not be able to reach your team even if you
could get your hands on a phone."
Mendelson knew about Josh's team?
Not possible. Only a select group of individuals were
aware that Sabrina's team even existed and those were the
ones with whom she contracted missions. National security
for the United States and similar departments in countries
aligned with the US.
International alphabet spook groups.
Chelsea couldn't have burned him and wouldn't have, even
if nothing personal existed between them. She had no
motive, and knew Josh would use his resources to protect
her grandmother. He had a team on site right now, moving
the elderly woman out of Dublin, to a quiet country house
with round–the–clock care. He just hadn't had
a chance to tell Chelsea.
Had Sabrina and the team been burned, too?
How much did Mendelson know?
None of those answers will get us out of here right
now.
His number one priority? Warn Sabrina that the mission
was an ambush.
"Might as well make yourself comfortable, Mr. Taylor,"
Mendelson said in a congenial tone.
A new guard ducked his head and stepped inside the
already–crowded space.
Huge didn't begin to describe this behemoth.
Nothing about his dark eyes, black unkempt beard and
oily brown hair appeared German. Maybe South African, and
the MP7 he carried looked like a toy in his hands. Clearly,
Mendelson supplied his expensive help with equally pricey
weaponry.
Josh shoved everything aside while he focused on first
sending a message to his team before they inserted and,
next, getting himself and Chelsea out of here. But his
mind seemed determined to plague him with more questions.
Why hadn't Mendelson killed both of them yet? Why hadn't
Mendelson waited on the weapons before showing his hand?
Josh needed more information. "You trade humans for
commodities. How can I be of more value than by making a
trade for your captive?"
"Oh, but I did trade for Mr. Rikker."
He knows Rikker's real name. Not good. How could Josh
use that to his advantage? He feigned surprise. "Rikker?
That's not the name I was given. I think we've both been
played. If that's the case, I'll make a deal for the
weapons between the two of us, but the transport won't
arrive until I call a second time."
Mendelson's eyes creased with humor. "Let's end this
charade, Joshua Carrington. There is no transport and no
weapons. You and your Slye team are what I received in
trade for Rikker. He is being delivered to the higher
bidder as we speak." Mendelson smiled with genuine
pleasure.
The last trace of Josh's hope sucked away faster than
water down a bottomless hole when he heard Mendelson use
Carrington, Josh's legal name. How had Mendelson gotten
that? Terror ripped through him at the level of betrayal it
took for this to be happening. Something about Mendelson's
calm demeanor poked its way into his thoughts. "Why aren't
you upset about losing the weapons?"
"Because I don't need them. I allowed my first shipment
of weapons to be taken and they are being replaced. I made
a more advantageous deal for the CIA agent."
What the fuck?
Mendelson continued, "As for a truly valuable trade,
Sabrina Slye is wanted by many people."
Who had screwed Sabrina? Josh forced himself to sound
detached. "Well, hell, as long as I'm dead, at least tell
me who sold me out."
"You're of no use to me dead. I will get much
information from you and your team before I put each of you
on the auction block. As to the person who set this
up—I will only share that it was CIA."
Mendelson was wrong on one point.
Josh would likely die and very soon, because he would
not stand by and let this unfold without a fight. He
chuckled with dark humor, as if he'd always expected to be
betrayed at some point, and muttered, "Should have expected
that out of those bastards."
That drew a gloating smile from Mendelson so Josh
asked, "Mind if I get comfortable while we wait?"
"By all means."
Taking off his jacket, Josh kept an eye on Chelsea in
his peripheral vision. She'd stopped struggling, her eyes
tracking every move he made, listening intently to how
they'd both been screwed by his people. Not my people
anymore. He jerked his bowtie loose and unfastened the
first two buttons of his shirt. When he removed the
cufflinks that only his team knew about, he put both metal
clips in one hand and rolled them around together as though
he played with a pair of dice.
Doing that for longer than ten seconds caused the signal
to screech in Dingo's receiver, and deactivated the
tracking unit embedded in the cufflinks.
Breaking the connection was code for FUBAR, or get the
hell out of here now.
He walked over to the tall bookshelf and leaned against
it, ticking off seconds in his mind, hoping ten minutes
would pass with no sound.
But eight minutes later the first explosion rocked the
house, not surprising him in the least. His team was here.
Josh, Sabrina and Dingo had never left each other as
kids and wouldn't now, but he'd tried his best to warn them
off.
Mendelson shoved to his feet. Surprise burst across his
face. Gunfire rattled outside the house. Windows shattered
downstairs.
One of the guards snatched his radio and spoke in rapid
German, but Josh easily translated the demand to know what
was happening.
And the terse reply that they were under attack.
Mendelson roared, "How did four people get past
twenty–seven armed guards?"
Josh knew the answer to that, but not how Sabrina and
company was going to exit past the rest of them now that
every remaining guard knew his target was inside the
perimeter.
While Mendelson shouted orders at his people, Josh
looked at Chelsea, whose gaze shifted into the quiet calm
he'd seen whenever she was about to kick someone's butt.
He gave her an imperceptible nod.
Her guard's attention was locked on Mendelson.
Chelsea sagged as though she'd fainted, forcing the
guard to move his weapon to hold onto her dead weight.
Josh lunged at Mendelson, shoving him into the behemoth
guard holding the MP7.
Mendelson shouted. His guard stumbled back but recovered
quickly, knocking Mendelson aside out of instinct to free
his weapon hand. The giant shoved a little too hard.
Mendelson's head smacked the doorframe and he tumbled to
the floor.
The guard got off a shot that ripped through Josh's side
right before Josh grabbed the submachine gun and shoved it
to the left. He held onto the foregrip with one hand while
he battered steel punches to the guard's head, trying for a
kill punch to the throat.
Not hurting the mountain of muscle one bit.
Behind the guard, Josh saw Chelsea head butt her captor,
who lost his grip on her. She reached between his legs and
twisted a fistful of his gonads. He screamed.
She grabbed for the Ruger, but missed it as the weapon
fell from his hands and skidded behind him.
Josh fought the guard still gripping the MP7 with one
hand. He battled to keep the weapon's muzzle pointed
toward the ceiling––away from him and Chelsea.
A bear–sized fist slammed Josh hard in the ribs. At
least one cracked, but he hoped the flood of adrenaline
firing through him would mask the pain of the
rib––and the bullet wound at least until he
could get them out of here..
The guard used his extra four inches of reach to grab
Josh by the throat. He squeezed, cutting off Josh's air.
Pinpricks of light shot through his gaze. He bashed the
guard's elbow joint with his free hand. Nothing gave in the
hard–muscled arm.
Mendelson was sprawled on his side, still unconscious,
with blood running down his face from his head wound. His
body impeded any fancy maneuvering in the close quarters.
Josh finally got both hands on the
tug–of–war gun. Before he gave it his all he
had to break the giant's hold. Lifting his boot, he slammed
the guard's kneecap.
Bone snapped. The guard screamed.
Finally, a vulnerable body part on the hulking bastard.
Josh yanked the gun free.
The guard's grip on Josh loosened. Josh sucked air
through his raw throat and swung the metal rail of the
MP7's fore–end into the guard's head, busting open a
bleeding geyser.
Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Chelsea break all
the way free from her guard, the one she'd tried to neuter.
She kicked him backward. He hit the floor hard.
She spun around and drove one of her spiked heels
through his throat.
Just as effective as a double tap.
The guard Josh fought yelled and reached for him again
in a haze of pain and rage. Fighting this bastard was like
trying to take down a Mack truck using his fists.
Coughing from a bruised windpipe, Josh swung the MP7
around and released a fast burst into the guard's
chest. "Game over." Or that's what he would've said, if
something more than a croak had come through his bruised
throat. He drew a hard breath, ears ringing from the
gunfire in the small space. Choking, unable to speak, he
turned to wave Chelsea out of the room.
She took one look at Josh and started toward him.
A movement on the floor caught his eye.
Mendelson had been playing possum, lying on his side,
his upper body out of Chelsea's line of sight.
The world slowed to seconds that stretched from one loud
heartbeat to the next.
Mendelson lifted the Ruger from beside him.
Josh swung up his own weapon, yelling at the same
moment, but only a croaked sound came out.
Chelsea stared, confused for a split–second too
long before she realized what was happening and tried to
move.
Both shots exploded at the same moment.
Josh's hit Mendelson in the head. A hair too late.
He caught Chelsea as she folded to her knees.
Mendelson's bullet had passed through her chest. Had it hit
her heart? Not if she was still moving. Blood spilled
out the gaping exit wound. She covered it with her hands,
eyes glassy with shock.
He scooped her into his arms, ignoring the screaming
pain in his ribs and side. "Hold on," he ground out of his
raw throat.
Frightened green eyes stared up at
him. "Tried...to...warn you...not to come."
"I know, baby," he rasped. "Couldn't leave you."
He made it to the stairs and looked down to find two
armed guards on the main floor with their weapons pointed
out broken windows.
He started to lower Chelsea to the ground to free his
hands to shoot.
The front window and door exploded into the house.
Both guards flew backwards, knocked off their feet.
Josh's back hit the wall, but he remained upright with
Chelsea gripped tightly in his arms. The sharp smell of
burned electronics, smoke and charred wood flooded the air
from the plastique his team had used to blow the door.
Sabrina Slye burst through the smoke–filled
opening like an avenging angel, and took out both of the
inside guards with quick double taps from her weapon.
Black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her dark
molle vest was covered in pouches holding enough ammo to
take down a small city.
Spiked blonde hair totally out–of–context
with his olive skin color, Dingo rushed in right behind her
and looked up to where Josh stood. "We got burned, eh,
mate?"
Josh had never been so happy to hear that Aussie accent
in his life. He raced down the stairs to the main floor,
gritting against the pain cutting through his adrenaline
rush. "Yeah," he croaked. Trying to yell was painful as
hell. "The package is gone. Tell you everything later.
Where's Singleton? Chelsea needs a medic."
From the way his side burned and the lightheaded feeling
threatening to knock his feet out from under him, he did,
too.
Dingo produced a second monocular from the vest he wore
and slipped the headband over Josh's head. As soon as he
pulled the single night vision lens down into place,
Sabrina shot out the lamp on the front table, veiling the
interior with darkness. Dingo slipped a compact headset
with a boom mic over Josh's ears and clipped the small
radio to the waistband of the tuxedo pants. No time to
deal with the high–tech commo gear the rest of the
team wore.
As Dingo did all of that, he explained, his words coming
through Josh's headset now. "Changed the plan when we lost
contact with your tracker. Singleton's waiting to cover our
exit through the woods."
Josh snarled a curse. The team had walked into an
ambush and now medical care was out of reach, but he
wouldn't put his teammates at more risk. He told
Sabrina, "You four stick with the plan."
Sabrina took one look at Chelsea's wound and realized
what he was saying, that he wasn't going with them. "She
won't make it to a doctor."
Chelsea coughed and blood trickled from her lips. Her
voice was reed thin. "She's right."
"No, she's not." He gripped Chelsea closer as if he
could force her to live by sheer will alone, and growled at
Sabrina. "Get the team out of here and I'll meet you
later."
"How in the hell do you plan to do that dragging her
around?" Sabrina said in a low voice tight with anger.
"I'll take the Hummer."
Sabrina clenched her weapon with white knuckles and
snapped out, "I told you never to do this."
Josh had no comeback. She was right and he'd sworn he
wouldn't get involved, but he couldn't change what was and
he wouldn't abandon Chelsea to make a run through the
woods. "Just go and let me handle this."
Another explosion somewhere nearby shook the building.
Had to be Tanner Bodine's handiwork, the only team
member Josh couldn't account for at the moment.
Fury rolled off Sabrina's bunched shoulders. She
started issuing orders, no different than back when she'd
run their half–pint gang in Queens. Glaring at Josh,
she snapped, "Are you hurt or can you run?"
With so much of Chelsea's blood covering his shirt,
Sabrina's question was routine and not because she had any
idea he'd taken a bullet.
"I can run." If he didn't pass out from blood loss. Any
mention of being wounded would start a new wave of conflict.
She turned to Dingo. "We need a path out the front
gate. I'll call the other two with the change of plans."
Josh shook his head. "No, Sabrina."
"Shut up and get ready to make a dash to the Hummer or
I'll shoot you myself. Stop at the limo then wait for my
cover fire."
Dingo had already vanished into the night like the
shadow he could be when he wanted.
Josh knew better than to waste breath he didn't have
arguing with Sabrina when she had her mind made
up. "Thanks."
She ground out a derogatory sound in her throat that he
translated as why did men have to get stupid over women.
Casting another look at Chelsea, Sabrina muttered, "Save
your thanks. You're not out of here alive and she's
bleeding like a stuck pig."
Blood poured through the fingers Chelsea had clamped
over the wound. Her breath came in gasps. "Don't be
stupid...leave me..." Her eyelashes fluttered closed.
Josh shook her gently. "Come on, baby. Stay with me."
When her eyes blinked again, he stepped over to the side
of the door opening that had been widened with that blast.
Gunfire chattered back and forth outside. Bullets pinged
everywhere.
Sabrina moved to the opposite side of the opening and
took up the position she needed to lay down cover fire to
the vehicles. Raising her HK 416 to her shoulder, she
said, "Move!" and raked the area outside with rapid bursts
of fire.
Josh said, "Moving," and raced out into the pitch black
where every light had been shot out. Now the world came to
him in shades of grayish–green through the night
vision monocular. He hoped he was moving fast. His legs
felt like lead. Zigzagging the best he could, he reached
the limo and ducked behind it, catching his breath.
His vision swirled. He shook off the dizziness.
A spray of bullets peppered the car and Josh ducked
lower, clutching Chelsea to his chest as he waited for
Sabrina to reload.
He twisted, watching the doorway for her muzzle flash.
The minute she released another burst, he took off for the
Hummer. He passed the Mercedes that had been turned into
Swiss cheese.
Stars sparked through his vision. Sound withdrew and a
black fog rushed at him. He thrashed at it mentally and
pushed harder to reach the Hummer. He couldn't lose
consciousness now.
Sabrina rushed up beside him, still laying cover fire as
she moved. She yelled, "Get in the damned Hummer."
The shout boomed through his headset, rattling his
brain. He growled and drove his legs harder.
She opened the rear door just as he reached the truck.
Josh hit the seat with Chelsea still draped over his arms.
The door slammed shut.
Sabrina jumped in the driver's seat, all the time
talking to her team through her commo. "We're in the
Hummer. Load up!"
Starting the engine, she threw the truck into gear and
made a rock–slinging sweep around the yard. Shots
battered the windows and exterior of the truck, not getting
through.
Bulletproof truck. Thanks, Mendelson, you rat bastard.
Josh pressed his hand over Chelsea's, putting more
pressure on her wound. She moved a finger to touch his
hand, and wheezed "My grandmother...please..."
"She's safe. I swear it. You'll see her again."
Her pale lips curved and she drew a breath that
gurgled. "Thank you...for...us."
He kissed her forehead. "Shh. Save your energy."
Tanner Bodine yanked the front passenger door open,
running with the truck then throwing his super–sized
cowboy body inside.
Sabrina wheeled around hard, heading out of the
property. She took one look at Tanner. "How bad?"
"Bullshit bullet in the thigh. You?"
"I'll live."
Josh heard them as if they were far away. He lifted his
head. Everything spun again. Had Sabrina been
hurt? "Where're you hit, Sabrina?"
"Not hit. Knife wound. Arm. I'm good."
Where was Singleton?
Sabrina slowed the truck just long enough for the rear
passenger door across from Josh to open and Singleton to
dive in. He scrambled to right himself and tug the door
shut at the same time. Right before bullets splattered his
side of the Hummer.
Josh said, "Need an IV. Gotta stop the bleeding in this
one."
Singleton shrugged out of his Medic's pack and lowered
his monocular to look at Chelsea in the dark then raised
his gaze to Josh. If not for Josh's night vision monocular,
he wouldn't have been able to see the grim concern on
Singleton's coffee–brown face. The soft–spoken
doctor wielded a knife with unmatched skill whether he
wanted to save a life or take one. "I can't, Josh."
"Why not?"
Tanner asked, "Where's Dingo?"
Explosions erupted on each side of the road ahead.
Sabrina shouted, "Clearing the way."
A loud thump landed on top of the Hummer then a fist
pounded twice.
Sabrina floored the SUV. "Dingo's onboard." She
punched the button to open the sunroof, and Dingo's arm
appeared, snaking inside for a handhold.
Josh swallowed, so damned glad that the whole team had
made it so far, but especially the two people he considered
a sister and brother. Now if he could just patch up
Chelsea. He ordered Singleton, "Do something, now!"
The Hummer slid right and left as Sabrina muscled the
truck out onto the road. She yelled at Singleton, "Get an
IV into her and Tanner. We'll be at the helo in nine
minutes."
That got through Josh's muddled brain. "No. Helo's not
safe. CIA burned us."
Stunned silence blanketed the truck. Sabrina found her
voice first. "You're sure?"
"Mendelson said CIA traded us...for Len Rikker. He knew
your name. Knew it was your team. Knew my name. We were
the currency."
Curses blistered the air.
Pain stabbed Josh's side and he shouted, unsure if it
was the wound or the broken rib. He swung around to find
Singleton poking at him. "Leave it, dammit."
A figure appeared in the headlights, standing in front
of the truck. He fired straight at the windshield.
Sabrina plowed into the idiot. He hit with a hard thump.
His body flew up in the air and out of the way. The man
obviously hadn't realized the windshield was bulletproof.
Sabrina demanded, "What's wrong, Josh?"
"Nothing."
Singleton answered, "Two things. Josh took a bullet in
his abdomen and we don't have IVs."
"Why not?"
"My pack took a hit. Pack saved my ass, but IV kits were
shredded."
"Do what you can for Josh," Sabrina ordered. Her fierce
gaze lit up the rearview mirror, accusing Josh of lying to
her by omission. "You'll need more than an IV soon. Just
hold on for me."
That last part came out weary.
Josh looked over at their medic and saw multiple faces.
Singleton pulled a wad of gauze out of his pack and
shoved it up against Josh who gritted his teeth and ground
out, "Told you I'm fine. Chelsea needs help."
"You're not fine," Sabrina said quietly. "I won't lose
you."
Josh had never pleaded for anything, but he was the only
one who believed Chelsea could survive. "Shingleton." His
chin drooped. He shook his head and worked his lips,
trying to stop the slurring. "You got some...give
her...jush buy time?"
No one spoke for a moment then Sabrina said, "Tanner."
Tanner shifted around in his seat and looked back at
Chelsea. "Ah, hell."
"Tell him, Singleton," Sabrina ordered.
Josh struggled to pull his thoughts together and fight
off the fog sucking him into a dark vortex. "Tell me
what?"
Singleton had latched his fingers around Josh's wrist at
some point, checking his pulse. He should be checking
Chelsea's. "Dammit...do somesing."
Singleton spoke in his calm doctor voice, the one he
used to talk patients through a disaster. He pulled off
Josh's monocular and tossed it away then lifted a small LED
light and shined it down on Chelsea's abdomen. "Josh,
she...uh."
Josh's chin hit his chest. His eyes followed the light
that moved from his blood–covered hand on Chelsea's
chest to her pretty neck, then up to her face, and ...
Two beautiful green eyes locked open. No, no, no ...
Pain reached into his chest and clutched his heart with
steel fingers, squeezing and twisting.
Voices ran together in a blur.
Josh lost the battle to keep his eyes open. He still saw
Chelsea's dead gaze staring at him. She'd never laugh
again or spend another night with him, saving him from a
lonely existence. His mind wandered. Sounds dulled and
faded away.
Someone had betrayed them. Had killed Chelsea. Josh
would find the bastard who had done this and ... he'd ...
Singleton shouted, "We're losing Josh!"
An explosion blasted against the truck, throwing it up
onto two wheels.
Josh hugged Chelsea. He was flung against the truck door
and the world crashed in on him.