Certain Jeopardy (26 page)

THE PAIN HAD BROUGHT
Caraway back to consciousness, and J.J. wishedwith all his might it hadn’t.

“I repeat: How many in your unit?”

Perspiration poured from Caraway’s face, a face that had turned as white as a lily. “Six thousand,” Caraway muttered. “Or maybe seventy thousand. I’m not good with numbers.”

The doctor-interrogator lost his temper and landed a hard fist to Caraway’s gut. J.J. could hear the air leave the man’s lungs. Caraway coughed, and J.J. saw blood come from his mouth. J.J. strained against the duct tape, but it refused to budge. Although it was Caraway being tortured, J.J. could feel every blow as if it had been delivered to him.

“I can do this all night,” the doctor said. “You can save yourself a great deal of pain by cooper—” A cell phone chimed. One of the other men handed the device to the doctor.

“Yes.” His face blanched. “Where? We’re on our way.” He said something in Farsi. J.J. didn’t understand the words, but he knew the look. Something had gone wrong.

“What is happening?” one of the men asked in English. This one had a Spanish accent.

“We are needed. Everyone into the van.”

“What about them?” the Hispanic asked.

“Where are they going to go? I need every man.”

They exited through the office door. J.J. heard someone lock the door and rattle the handle.

“Go get ’em, Boss.” Caraway’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Caraway, you still with me?”

“Where would … I go?” He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.”

“Just hang in there.”

He shook his head. “Fading fast. You pray … pray that God kills me.”

“I won’t do that, man. We’re not finished yet.”

“My fault. I shouldn’t have hesitated when …”

“It’s not your fault. Save your strength.”

Caraway moved his lips, but no words came out.

J.J. struggled against his restraints. It was hopeless.

Caraway lifted his head but was too weak to hold it up. His head lolled back. “Pray … the pain … pray for me, Colt. Pray for my soul.”

“Hang in there, pal. Just hang in there.”

“I’m serious. Pray for my soul.”

“I will. I will.”

Caraway’s head dipped forward.

* * *

THE MOMENT MOYER’S FOOT
touched pavement he raised his M4 and sent a burst of rounds toward the light. Just before he pulled the trigger he heard the loud rumble of machine-gun fire. The chopper was shooting at him.

Moyer’s bullets found their mark first, the spotlight. He dove to the side as a stream of .30-caliber rounds punctured holes in the asphalt, sending bits of debris flying. Moyer landed on his side, rolled to his back, and instinctively switched the weapon to full-auto mode. He pulled the trigger hard and bullets flew into the air at nine hundred rounds a minute. He heard his ammo hit the metal skin of the craft. The problem with firing on the A109 was, like many military helicopters, the A109 had armored seats, protective shielding over key areas, and redundant systems. Nonetheless, Moyer emptied his clip, aiming at the rotor system in hopes of doing enough damage that the pilot would have trouble controlling the craft.

He would need to get lucky. Real lucky.

The helicopter pulled away, circled, and began a new approach, nose pointed at Moyer. Moyer scrambled to his feet and bolted for the panel truck. The metal sides of the truck would provide no protection. The helo’s machine gun could cut through the siding as if the truck were an aluminum can.

The
pop-pop-pop
of handheld weapons worked their way through the truck’s siding. Moyer bolted from the truck, two clips in his hand. In a move practiced more times than he could remember, Moyer released the spent cartridge holder and slammed a new magazine in its place.

The helo realigned but further away this time. More gunfire. Moyer glanced to his side and saw Shaq and Junior moving his way, each firing round after round of 9mm bullets at the craft. Each ejected a clip and replaced it with fresh ammo. They carried only two magazines, one in the weapon and one back-up. They would soon be out of ammo.

Moyer raised his M4 to his shoulder, sighted, and squeezed the trigger, again aiming at the rotor assembly in the slim hope he could cripple the craft. He saw the muzzle flash of airborne weaponry, but Moyer stood his ground. Just as the weapon began to dry fire, starved of ammunition, a strong hand grabbed his arm and jerked. A hot stream of machine-gun rounds skipped past him just inches from his body.

“Thanks, Shaq.”

“Look.” The big man pointed to the helo. The craft was spinning on its axis. “Looks like we took out its tail rotor.” The helo began to spin faster.

The helicopter pilot fought to keep control, but it was clear he was going down. Moyer didn’t wait to watch the crash or try to determine which industrial building was going to have an A109 sticking out of its roof.

Moyer jogged around the panel truck and made for the van. The side door had been opened and two men had managed to crawl out. One held a gun to the head of the other. Moyer recognized Cenobio from the photo sent to him from stateside. Blood had dried below his nose from a split lip—his hosts had been unkind. The other man wore a determined look. Moyer raised his sidearm, as did Rich and Pete.

“One move and I kill Cenobio,” the man said.

“You do and you will die before he hits the ground,” Moyer said. “Let him go. There’s no way out.”

The man motioned upward to another helicopter. “There is always a way.” Moyer didn’t turn to look. He could hear the aircraft in the distance.

Pete did turn. “Bell 400 series. Doesn’t look militarized.”

“Keep an eye on it, Junior.”

The Hispanic man with a gun pressed against Cenobio’s temple raised an eyebrow. “Americans. Figures.”

“Let the man go,” Moyer ordered.

“Stay where you are. I
will
kill him. What will you tell your masters when you tell them you let Dr. Cenobio die?”

“We don’t have masters, just higher-ranking officers.”

“Still, you go home empty-handed.” He pushed the muzzle the deeper into Cenobio’s flesh. The scientist’s face twisted in pain.

“What makes you think we’ve come to save him?” He paused a second. “Shaq?”

“Got it.”

Moyer nodded. “Take the shot.”

The sound of Shaq’s 9mm discharging echoed down the dark street.

* * *

THE PAIN FROM COSTA’
S
twisting the business end of his handgun into Hector’s head hurt more than the backhand he had received earlier, but the pain disappeared when he heard the oldest of the three men say, “What makes you think we’ve come to save him?”

How much worse could things get? Held at gunpoint by one of his abductors, he now faced three assassins. As if to punctuate the observation, the large black man fired his weapon. The noise engulfed him and he flinched, waiting for the bullet to pierce his chest. Instead, he felt something wet against the side of his head. The gun that had been pressed against his temple was no longer there.

There was a pain in his chest. His heart had stopped beating for a moment then restarted, sending a sharp thrust through his sternum. Hector took a stuttering breath and touched the center of his chest. He forced himself to look: His hands were clean. Slowly, Hector turned to see Costa on the ground with an angry red hole above the bridge of his nose.

The older man stepped forward and took Hector by the arm. “Are you all right?”

“Considering everything, I guess so.”

“Good. We don’t have much time.”

“Who are you?”

“Let’s just say we’re friends and leave it at that.”

Hector nodded. “My family. They have—”

“We know and we’re working on that. Right now, you have to trust us.” He turned. “Shaq, Junior.”

“The helo’s approaching, Boss.”

“I’ve had my fill of helicopters,” the man called Boss said. He turned, raised his automatic weapon, and unleashed a torrent of bullets. The helo banked away.

“I see smoke,” Junior said. “Nice shooting.”

“It’s easier when they don’t have strategic armor. Check the van.”

The younger two approached the overturned vehicle slowly, peering in through the windshield. “Driver looks dead. I don’t see anyone else,” the larger man reported.

The Boss nodded. “Okay, listen up …”

* * *

J.J. LEANED FORWARD THEN
sat back hard in hopes of breaking the chair. Maybe he could free a hand and start working on the tape that bound him, but he couldn’t create enough force to fracture the oak. Despair began to set in. Then something occurred to him.

“Mrs. Cenobio … Julia … can you hear me?” Nothing.

Pushing with his feet J.J. scooted the chair closer to the bathroom door. “Mrs. Cenobio, my name is J.J. I’m here to help you … actually, I need
your
help. Can you hear me?”

A muted sound pressed through the door. “Yes … yes, I can hear you. Who are you?”

“I’m part of a team here to free you and your husband, but I need your help.”

“The guards.”

“They’re gone for now, but they might come back. We have to act quickly. Can you come out here?”

“I’m locked in.”

J.J. examined the doorknob. It was a cheap, simple affair with a twist latch. If he had one hand free he could easily twist the lock into the open position, but even that was beyond him. He contemplated turning the lock with his mouth but doubted he could do it.

“Are they really gone?” she asked.

“Yes, for now. I think they went after my friends.”

“Okay … okay. Wait.” She said something else J.J. couldn’t hear. He assumed she was speaking to the children.

J.J. started to speak when he heard an explosive bang and the bathroom door shook in its frame. A second later it happened again, then again. A little above and to the right of the lock a splinter-laced hole appeared. Several more times the door shook, and with each impact the hole grew larger. J.J. had no idea what she was using as a battering ram but it was working. A moment later a white, flat, hard object punched through the hollow-core door. J.J. recognized it immediately. The woman was knocking a hole in the door with the lid to a toilet tank.

He heard grunting and more of the hard porcelain lid appeared. The tank top disappeared back into the bathroom, and a delicate hand replaced it and fumbled with the outer lock. Two seconds later the door opened slowly, and the tear-smudged face of Julia Cenobio appeared. Before opening the door all the way, she glanced around the room.

“Stay with me, children.” She stepped out and her children followed her. They looked frail and frightened beyond words. Julia stepped to J.J. She held something in her hand.

“Is that what I think it is? Is that a flush arm from a toilet?”

“Yes.”

J.J. shook his head. “Lady, no matter how many times I tell this story, no one is going to believe me.”

“You sound American.”

“I am. Can you free me?”

Julia studied the duct tape. Then she looked around the room.

“I’m afraid they took everything from us.”

Julia nodded, lifted the metal bar she had sharpened on the concrete floor, and cut one of J.J.’s hands free. She started onthe other arm. “Is he dead, Mamá?” the boy pointed at Caraway. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Try not to look.”

J.J. understood. Caraway looked as if he had been run over by a tractor. Blood pooled beneath his injured leg. Once his hands were free, he took the makeshift knife from Julia and cut away the rest of his bonds. It took five minutes for him to free Caraway, who continued to draw breath, although J.J. didn’t know how.

JOSE DUCKED BEHI
ND A
stack of cardboard boxes when the battered van came speeding down the street. It rode heavy, as if weighed down with equipment or a full load of passengers. Even in the dark, Jose could tell it was the same van they had spotted after setting up the video recon systems. Once he was certain he was out of sight of the van, Jose pulled the encrypted cell phone from his vest and dialed Moyer. No answer. He then tried Rich, who answered on the fourth ring.

“Doc, that you?”

“Shaq, I can’t reach Boss.”

“He’s here. We have the package but have to beat feet.”

“I’m near the building we had under surveillance. A van just tore down the street. I’m sure it’s the same one that brought the woman and her kids.”

“Did you see who was in it?”

“No. Too far away. But I’d assume hostiles are inbound to your location.”

“Roger that. Boss is headed your way. He’s in a 1958 Chevy pickup.”

“Say again.”

“Boss is coming in. Look for an old pickup.”

“Understood … I think.”

“Any word on Colt and Billy?”

“Negative. Will report soon.”

Jose ended the call and wondered what he had missed.

* * *

SANTI SCREAMED AT HIS
pilot, “What are you doing? Turn back. Wecan’t lose them.”

“I can’t do that, Minister. We’re losing oil pressure.”

“You said we were too far away for them to do any real damage.”

The pilot shook his head and struggled with the controls. “Maybe it was a lucky shot. I don’t know. I do know that we’re losing oil, and if I don’t get us on the ground soon the engine will seize and we will drop like a stone.”

“Can’t you hold our position just a little while longer?”

“We must maintain forward motion. If the engine stops, I can use autorotation for a controlled crash. If we are hovering when the engine stalls, we will fall with no hope of survival. I’m going to find a place to set down.”

It took all of Santi’s willpower not to scream at the top of his lungs. Three men had killed six of his people and snatched Cenobio. He had watched his most faithful mercenary collapse to the ground after being shot in the head. It was all falling apart.

He snapped up his cell phone again and placed a call to the man he had ordered to the scene a few minutes before. “My helicopter is damaged. You must get Cenobio back. Do you hear? Get him back!” He slammed the phone on the seat next to him. The helicopter descended. “Let me talk to your commander.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m a little busy now.”

“I want to talk to your commander.”

The pilot did something Santi couldn’t see. “Go ahead.”

Santi began talking before the commander could speak. “I want another helicopter in the air. Now.”

* * *

“YOU AMAZE ME, JUNIOR.”
Moyer buttoned his vest and began stocking the cab of the classic truck with loaded weaponry.

“I wasn’t always the fine, upstanding soldier I am today, Boss. I learned a few things back in high school.”

“They taught you how to hot-wire an old truck in high school?”

“It was one of the lesser-known classes. You can drive a stick, can’t you?”

“Ain’t nothin’ I can’t drive, Junior.” He slipped into the cab.

Shaq approached. “There has to be a better way.”

“Just follow the plan and get Cenobio out of here.”

“I think you’re taking an unnecessary risk.”

“You can file a complaint with Colonel MacGregor when we get back. Besides, you were the one that wanted to go back for Colt and Billy.”

“I know what I said—”

Moyer snapped his head around. “Shaq … Rich, you have your orders. Carry them out.” Shaq’s ebony face darkened all the more. “Understood?”

“Oorah, Boss.” His expression softened. “Don’t get dead.”

Moyer held out his hand and Rich shook it. Then Moyer dropped the old truck in first gear and slipped the clutch. As he pulled away, he saw Rich put Cenobio in the back of the sedan. The car had sustained damage but was still operational. Pete had checked for leaking fluids and cut away the deployed air bags. The car started up and headed in the opposite direction, and Moyer shifted into second.

* * *

JOSE’S PROBLEM WA
S A
lack of knowledge. He had no idea if J.J. and Caraway were in the building he approached; if they had been carted off in the van; if their bodies were lying in some alley; or if heavily armed gunmen waited for him. He just didn’t know, and there was only one way to find out.

According to the book he should wait for Moyer to arrive, but the amount of blood Jose had seen behind the work table barricade likely meant that one of his team was well on his way to dead.

Staying in the shadows, Jose reconnoitered the perimeter of the building and saw no guards. That didn’t mean a half dozen men didn’t wait for him inside. He did notice that the front gate lay wide open, which fit with the speed of the van. Perhaps the bad guys had all hightailed it out.

The sound of a vehicle on the street sent Jose sprinting to the other side of the street, where he hid in the narrow space between two buildings and raised his M4. The vehicle, an older-looking truck, stopped a block down. A man exited and moved stealthily across the street then started toward Jose. Through the night-vision goggles, Jose recognized Moyer’s gait. A moment later, his cell phone vibrated.

“Whatcha got?” Moyer asked.

“No sign of hostiles. Front gate is open. Doors are all closed. I was just getting ready to check the windows.”

“Meet me at the southwest corner of the fence. We’ll go in together.”

“You come alone?”

“Shaq and Junior are busy.”

Jose didn’t bother to ask. If he lived he could hear the whole report later. All he had to do now was rescue J.J. and Caraway, escape Caracas, find a way home, and a dozen other small matters.

* * *

“DO YOU THINK TH
IS
will work?” Pete asked.

Rich glanced at him then tilted his rearview mirror to better see Hector Cenobio stretched out on the backseat as he had ordered him to. “Not a chance.”

“Yet we’re going to try.”

“Boss said to do it, we do it. Besides, the last part of the plan couldn’t work either, but it did. Maybe it’s our lucky day.”

“Do you feel lucky?”

“Luck or no, we’re committed.” Shaq fought with the steering wheel. “Man, this thing is a bear to drive. The alignment is all out of whack.”

“Ramming other cars can do that.” Pete leaned over and looked at the gauges. “At least it’s not overheating. You know, the rental agency is going to charge you more for scratching the paint.”

“I figured as much. I’ll gladly pay it if—” Shaq tilted the rearview mirror up. “We got company.”

Pete turned. “I don’t know about you, Shaq, but I’m getting real sick of these guys.”

“On the floor, Cenobio.”

“I’m already lying down on the seat—”

“ON THE FLOOR!”

The rear window exploded. Shaq pressed himself down in the seat. Pete popped his seat belt, turned, and lifted his M4.

The front window shattered, sending a million spider-web cracks through the whole glass surface, the safety laminate holding the shards of glass together.

“I can’t see,” Rich barked.

Pete lifted his weapon and smashed the butt of the stock into the window repeatedly until he created a hole. Rich stuck his head out the window. Pete lowered his weapon and started pulling the windshield out of its track.

“That’ll do it,” Rich said. “I can see enough. How about returning the favor?”

Pete turned in the seat again, aimed the automatic weapon out the back window, and pulled the trigger. Spent cartridges flew from the chamber and hit Rich in the head. He didn’t complain.

“Talk to me.”

“Looks like a single vehicle—a van I think. Hard to see because of the headlights. Shooter is—” Pete fired a burst, “
was
hanging out the window.”

“You know how to fix the lights.”

The sound of several bullets hitting the trunk of the car made Shaq crank the steering wheel left then right.

“I need two seconds without the evasive maneuvers,” Pete said. He spoke calmly as if all this were a video game.

“Ready?” Shaq asked.

“Ready.”

Rich straightened the car and Pete released three quick bursts. Rich looked in his mirror. One headlight disappeared. The van veered right, then left.

“I saw steam,” Shaq said.

“I hope so. I was hoping to take out the radiator while I was at it.”

Shaq zigged then zagged as the sound of gunfire erupted from behind. “Hang on, we’re coming up on our turn.”

“Hanging—”

The car turned sideways as Rich pressed the accelerator even harder and jerked the wheel to the left. Pete grunted as he hit the passenger side door. As the car straightened, Pete released three more bursts out the back window. In the mirror Rich saw the van overshoot the intersection. Steam passed in front of the remaining headlight. Rich had shot up the radiator and maybe hit an oil line.

“Caught the tail end of the van. He’s moving fast.”

“Hang on,” Rich said again as he made a sharp turn on a side road, backtracking their previous direction. At the next street he turned right. “Anything?”

“No. I heard brakes. If they want us, they’re going to have to search for us.”

“Stay sharp. They can’t be more than a block or two away.”

* * *

HECTOR LAY OVER TH
E
driveshaft hump in the backseat, covering his head to protect himself from the hot cartridges regurgitated by the automatic weapon. The noise was deafening, the smell of burnt gunpowder gagging, and the fear almost overwhelming. “I should have been a meteorologist,” he said to himself, then returned to praying for his family.