Defender (21 page)

Jimmy cupped the BlackBerry in a death grip and scrolled through Nunez’s message, blinked to be certain he’d read it correctly.

Gage, your undercover work paid off. We were able to break Kutros. We know where they’re keeping Chuck Tanaka.

Why couldn’t a woman locate a decent knife when she needed one?

Marta yanked open another kitchenette drawer and shoved the spoons and spatulas from side to side. An idiot must have outfitted this efficiency apartment attached to the barn-turned-holding-cell. How many ladles did a person need? When she found out which one of her employees set this place up, she would toss him or her into the same deep pit where she planned to bury airman Chuck.

Today was day seven, the end of the extra week she’d allowed for prying information from him. Apparently she’d taken a few hours too long, given what happened with Kutros. She should have aborted this mess earlier.

Hopefully Kutros would bleed out in surgery before he could unload everything he knew in exchange for a deal. That inept idiot had been sucked in by an undercover agent, a tidbit she’d learned thanks to the bug she’d planted on Kutros, a bug now in some hospital laundry bin. To make matters worse, that traitorous bitch Anya had been lusting after the very same agent.

Marta hip-slammed the drawer closed and slumped back against the counter, nothing but four dull dinner knives to show for her search. Hardly worth the effort. Not that she needed a blade.

She rubbed her thighs together against the cool efficiency of the tiny pistol strapped high on the inside of her leg. However, shooting offered a certain detachment, and she preferred contact with her victim. Tonight she needed the rush of power brought by an up close and personal kill.

She also needed to clean up here fast and go to ground. Except hiding cost money. Her organization was stretched thin financially with her expansion into Turkey. Given how the agent had planted a military member in her club, authorities were onto her scheme of kidnapping service people. She definitely needed to do something about that “fake hostage” and the woman he cared about, the one who’d been taken as well.

No one escaped from her, damn it. She built her reputation on that. People feared and respected her as a result.

She would simply have to tap into an alternate means of generating the funds she needed to lay low and regroup. She could sell other brands of information.

Marta snatched her keys from the table to unlock the door to the holding cell. The cool metal of Uncle Radko’s cigar clippers comforted her, reminding her of her own strength even early on. She would survive this. She always survived.

Marta turned the snipper over and over in her hand, then stared at the thick wooden door, inspiration smoking through her until she rubbed her legs together to ease an unexpected ache. Removing Chuck’s fingerprints would be a wise move, not that she expected anyone to find him. But just in case.

She could leave the actual shooting and disposal of the body to Erol. Or perhaps Erol could just break Chuck’s thick, strong neck. Regardless, she needed to turn her attention to the business of freeing up cash quickly.

What a shame she no longer had time for a bidding war on the tracking device and USO leak. Damn Kutros, Anya and those blasted “escapees” for all they’d cost her. She would have to take the bird in the hand offer already on the table from a local terrorist cell, the group responsible for the recent suicide bomber attacks.

Selling them her information on the USO’s weak link in security would generate enough capital to relocate and lay low. Given Kutros’s screwup with the kidnapping attempt, she really should dump her information about the USO immediately, before the police had time to delve deeper. She would also need to rein in Anya. Marta had indulged the girl’s rebellion long enough.

But first. Marta unlocked the door and swung it wide, the kitchen light slanting over Chuck curled unconscious in a corner.

Time to say good-bye to a worthy opponent.

TWENTY-ONE

An hour after takeoff, Jimmy stared at the airspeed indication as if he could somehow squeeze more velocity from the already maxed-out CV-22. They’d gone from alert to airborne in twenty-one minutes, every second critical, since their intel could go cold in a snap. None of them knew if Chuck was dead, only that he’d been alive last night, according to Kutros, who’d been all too happy to trade information for a deal.

The tilt-rotor aircraft bounced around at 300 AGL—above ground level. Nasty squalls on the edge of a weather system prohibited the lower approach Jimmy would have preferred. Hadn’t the clouds emptied themselves out enough last night? Every thirty seconds or so the aircraft lost twenty or thirty feet of altitude in an unpredictable roller-coaster ride as mind-scrambling as sex with Chloe.

An encounter he definitely needed to put out of his mind if he expected to stay focused.

A collective swell of determination filled the metal confines. The crew, the half-dozen CIA paramilitary, Nunez—they wouldn’t go home without Chuck this time.

Vapor flew beside Jimmy in the other pilot’s seat. “The weather is total crap.”

Lieutenant Colonel Scanlon manned the surveillance equipment wired in back. “At least we have the sky to ourselves.”

With a little luck, the weather would help mask their approach and reduce the risk of taking ground fire. If the CV-22 didn’t smack the earth first.

Jimmy pushed a button on his multifunctional display and keyed up his mic, “Smooth, how are the spooks doing back there? All this bouncing around must be wreaking havoc with their last meal. They probably think we’re screwing with them on purpose.”

“They seem unfazed,” the flight engineer answered. “Beauty. We need some steely eyed motherfuckers tonight.”

The aircraft hummed, engines at max revolution, beyond what the tech orders noted as safe, but then as testers, they made their bread and butter from pushing standards off the chart. If ever a flight warranted it, this one fit the bill.

“Ten minutes to go, Smooth,” Jimmy updated, training-honed instincts overriding emotions. If only he could stay this detached around a certain pianist with a mermaid body and a will to survive that damn near humbled him. “Give them a heads up.”

“Wilco.” Will comply.

From the copilot’s seat, Jimmy peered out into the darkness. “I haven’t seen a ground light in a half hour.”

Good thing this baby had terrain-following radar. If they’d been stuck eyeballing the flight, they would have been roadkill by now.

Vapor stared at the radar display that automatically guided their aircraft through the weather and over craggy terrain. “Tower coming up, slight climb.”

Jimmy scanned to the right more out of a good aviator habit pattern than because he thought he might see something through the sheeting rain. “Clear right, for what that’s worth. Come right to heading zero-five-zero now.”

“Zero-five-zero, copy.” Vapor tipped the stick. “Coming right.”

Jimmy cycled through the navigation screens, tapping into more of that calm gained from training hard. “Five minutes, boys and girls. Get up and ready in the back.”

“Wilco,” Smooth responded.

Vapor looked over at Jimmy and gestured toward the front window. “Eyeballs out for a visual on the landing zone.”

Adrenaline buzzing, Jimmy punched up a screen. “Right five degrees for wind correction. LZ is four miles ahead, begin transition.”

The aircraft angled right in a smooth sweep, all things considered. Jimmy strained his eyes for a glimpse of the treetops and outcropping of rocks that marked the drop-off point for the operatives in the cargo hold. Wait for it . . . Wait for it . . . Bingo.

Jimmy glanced fast at the control panel, sweat sealing his helmet to his head. “Two miles out, Vapor.”

“Copy, slowing.”

The engines transitioned from a blades forward airplane to the blades upward helicopter mode, slowing, engines
whump, whump, whumping
louder now that they were overhead as they landed. The back ramp groaned open, wind gusting in through the ass end of the craft.

Narrowing his focus to the moment, not what waited a distracting few yards ahead, Jimmy monitored the MFD again. “Fifteen seconds. Slow to fifteen knots.”

Vapor moved the engines to the final helicopter setting and continued decreasing speed. So far, so good. No sign of bad guy bubbas in the woods waiting to plug a hole in the engines.

“LZ in sight.” Jimmy pointed left of the windscreen, the landing zone landscape murky from rain and the cloud-eclipsed moon.

Vapor followed the finger to a clearing in the trees. “Tally-ho, bringing it in for a landing. Little help, please, Smooth.”

“Clear back here on the load ramp. About thirty feet to go.”

Vapor brought the aircraft to a hover and began to settle it down. “How’re we doing, Hotwire?”

“Twenty feet. Good rate of descent. Keep her steady,” Jimmy monitored. Smacking terra firma sucked on a good day. Crippling the craft tonight was beyond considering. “Ten feet, five feet, come to a hover.”

Vapor stopped just above the ground. “Thumbs-up, Smooth. Roll them out.”

Jimmy had pulled his fair share of time in the cargo hold, learning about all crew positions as part of his test training. He could envision every step of the movement behind him: CIA agents and Nunez pounding down the ramp, jumping to the ground, and disappearing into the mist. Smooth backing inside and raising the ramp.

“All clear, sir.
Go go go!
” the flight engineer shouted.

Vapor put the aircraft into a climb and began transitioning the engines to aircraft mode. “Colonel? I’m not seeing anything on the infrared camera. Is your equipment picking up any warm bodies hidden in a bunker looking to pop us out of the sky?”

“Hold,” Lieutenant Colonel Scanlon answered low. “So far I’m not seeing anything other than small night critters. Scanning over for a view inside the barn.”

Exhaling hard, Vapor flexed his fingers inside his flight glove, switched his hold on the stick, and worked the other hand. Jimmy cycled through screens on his MFD until the communication page glowed. He tapped through the keys. “Red team comm check.”

Agent Nunez’s voice came over in a whisper. “Red team loud and clear. In place about two mikes out.”

Jimmy double-clicked his own talk button to acknowledge the call.

The colonel tapped his mic, “Red team, display shows two warm bodies in the barn, belowground.”

“Roger that.”

A surge of triumph swelled in Jimmy’s gut, which he quickly hammered back down. This looked right, felt right, but no jinxing the mission with premature hopes.

Three minutes passed in a roar of engines and rain, and totally quiet airwaves, before Agent Nunez’s voice broke the quiet. “Breaching.”

One shot, then a second popped through his headset, followed by a grunt from Nunez. Tension buzzed through the plane. Jimmy’s hand hovered just over the controls for the nose gun, ready for any surprises.

“One guard down,” Nunez updated softly. “Looking for the second warm soul.”

Chuck? Or another bad guy, because God, they had every reason to believe Chuck could already be dead inside that building. Jimmy’s gut twisted harder than some newbie pilot on his first rescue. All their work and planning would play out in a matter of minutes as Nunez and his men now slipped around inside the barn.

Vapor powered full speed toward the wooden building, putting them in place to assist and for immediate pickup if things went to shit. The silence stretched.

Finally, Nunez’s voice piped though, “Red team secure. Package secure, ready for extract.”

“Package condition?”

“Cannot determine.”

What the hell did that mean? Either Chuck was the second warm body, or there was another guard out there lurking. “Copy all, two mikes out. Can you give us a beacon?”

“You bet, beacon on now. Make it quick.”

A flashing light blinked dead ahead.

“Got the beacon on visual. Coming in fast,” Jimmy called to Nunez before shifting back to Vapor. “Take a little jog to the left.”

Vapor maneuvered the aircraft left and lined up on the glimmer through the darkness, his arm straining as he held the stick firm against the battering winds. “In transition.”

The aircraft began to slow into a glide path toward the faint light. Jimmy scanned the area with the infrared camera and found the team crouched beside the farmhouse. “Area clear of bogeys. The team’s right next to the building. Heads up, Smooth. On the ground in just a sec.”

“Copy, sir, manning the gun for cover.”

The test-modified CV-22 they flew had a nose gun for the copilot and one mounted on the back ramp for the flight engineer to use in defensive fire. Jimmy eyed the gun controls in front of him, his hands itching.

Vapor settled the aircraft into the pasture beside the wooden building, the back ramp open and gusting in the scent of muddy rain. The team of agents peeled away from the side of the barn and plowed through the muck toward the aircraft. One of the agents carried a man in a fireman’s hold over his shoulder.

The team sprinted out of Jimmy’s line of sight, and he turned toward the rear. The agents jogged by Smooth and into the aft cabin, collapsing onto the red seats.

Smooth’s voice echoed through the headset as he counted each agent boarding. “And that makes seven, plus package. All onboard. Ready to clear out of here, Vapor.”

“I don’t need to be told twice.” Vapor guided the aircraft straight up into haze and began transition to forward flight, the CV-22 twice as fast as the helicopters it replaced.

No one asked the burning question about Chuck. Jimmy stole another quick look behind him into the steel belly of the aircraft.

Two dripping-wet agents were securing Chuck to a stretcher. He looked like shit, barely recognizable. Thank God he was strapped in his seat, or he would have fallen to his knees, puking his guts out anyway. No wonder they couldn’t discern if Chuck was unconscious or dead. Where would they even start feeling for a pulse in a guy swollen all over?

He did know one thing for certain. Whoever had held Chuck was a monster.

Chuck fought against consciousness, trying like hell to will himself back into the place where he didn’t have to worry about what he might slip and say. Damn that witch Marta for poking at his arm again with a needle. He had to fortify his defenses against her drugs.

He thrashed. Or intended to. A twitch was about all he could muster.

“Hold still, Captain Tanaka,” a distinctly male voice instructed. “I’m a certified medic, and I’m here to take care of you until we transport you to a hospital.”

Captain Tanaka? They knew his name now? But wait, that was an American accent. He grappled through the layers of fog, slowly assimilating the smells and sounds around him.

The musty scent of hydraulic fluid and wet gear.

A low
whump, whump, whump
of aircraft rotors.

All the knowledge he’d repressed for the past two weeks offloaded back into his brain. He even knew what kind of rotors. He recognized the distinctive sound of the new CV-22 Osprey, an aircraft he’d helped field-test. His eyes burned with air tears, his body too dehydrated to pony up even a drop of moisture despite the need to weep like a newborn.

They hadn’t left him behind.

Tension seeped from his muscles until he damn near melted into the stretcher, while he let the smells and sounds of home wash over him. The medic finished inserting the needle but didn’t pull it back out. An IV?

Coolness seeped into his veins almost as fast as gratitude and mind-numbing relief.

“Nunez, what happened back there?” The voice was distorted by drugs, but the edge of impatience was all too recognizable.

Jimmy Gage. Of course Jimmy was here, just as he would have done anything to be on the rescue flight if the roles were reversed. Chuck might be known as the most bullheaded in the squadron, but Jimmy was known as the toughest.

Chuck tried to move his head toward his friend, but they’d put him in some kind of collar lock. He settled back and listened while the medic continued checking him over with efficient but careful hands.

“We made it just in time. We caught a guard standing over him with a gun pointed at his head.”

“I heard two shots through the headset—” Gage hesitated with a low hiss. “Holy crap, Nunez, how’s your arm?”

“This little scratch? It was worth deflecting the guard’s attention, since it gave one of my guys the opportunity to pop the bastard.” The man called Nunez moved closer, his broadcaster-like accentless voice growing louder. “I just wish we could have taken that guard alive for questioning.”

“Things shook down pretty fast. You didn’t see anybody else except that one guard?”

“The place was deserted. Eerily so.”

Chuck tried to push Marta’s name past his cracked lips, but he could only manage an inarticulate groan over his swollen vocal chords. Fuck. He couldn’t even write a note with his hands such a swollen mess—if he even had the energy to lift his arms. He wanted her to pay. He needed to make sure she didn’t do this to anyone else.

And he burned to let his friends know he hadn’t betrayed them.

“Captain Tanaka,” the medic said, the IV pole clanking from the bumpy flight. “I’m administering fluids, and I’m also going to give you something for the pain.”

He didn’t want more drugs. He didn’t want to . . . lose control. Miss a minute of living, if his injuries were too severe.

Another groan slipped free, louder this time.

“Dude . . .” Jimmy Gage’s voice penetrated the pain.

Chuck pried his eyes open enough for a narrow view. He couldn’t speak, but he tried to translate his feelings with a look and prayed his friend understood.
I didn’t talk.

But Jimmy was staring at the shot being added to the IV before glancing back up at Chuck’s face. “You had to know we would find you.” Jimmy looked up and down the stretcher, his eyes telegraphing loud and clear his pity for the pulverized mess in front of him. “I’m just damn sorry it took so long.”