Never Surrender (Task Force Eagle) (16 page)

They fanned out around the Vinson buildings so none of
the suspects could escape. A Coast Guard boat waited in the harbor.

Donovan and Wescott went with Rick. The SIG held in a
two-handed grip, he ran to the office entrance. No sign of anyone. The offices
remained dark and quiet.

Thumps resounded from the long metal boat building to
their left. He gestured at the other two to follow him. Low and quiet, they
edged along the building to its open bay door.

Donovan stayed with him, behind a pile of rope.
Wescott ducked around a forklift. When ready, he waved to Rick.

Before Rick could move, a man walked from the
structure’s open bay. Almost as tall as he, but heavier and darker. Rick knew
the son of a bitch’s face as well as his own—El Águila’s number one henchman,
Carlos Olívas.

*****

Juliana forced down panic at Vinson’s insinuation of a
cruise. From which she and Jordan would not return.

They had no time to waste. They had to get free. “What
did they tie us with?”

“Sisal rope here, but Vinson used duct tape on you.”

She blinked at the silvery band around her ankles.
Turning her head gingerly, she gauged whether she could reach her backpack.
Beside it sat the roll of tape.

Lying back, she nearly giggled. “He used the duct tape
from my own bag.”

“Yup. You still carry everything in the world?”

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking, Jordan? If I can
manage to root around in that bag, we might get out of here yet. Then you can
turn that picture over to the cops, the DEA, and whatever other authorities are
in on this.”

“Um, there
is
no picture. I said that to save
my neck.”

Figured. She fought back the urge to warn him about
his penchant for acting on impulse. If they managed to live, just maybe he’d
remember that little lesson.

At the first attempt at scooting, pain ripped through
her neck and head, and nausea crept up her throat. Black spots swam again, and
she forced herself not to hyperventilate.

Dammit, she wouldn’t let the bastards win. She could
do this.

Inch by agonizing inch, she slid over to her pack.
Vinson had left it open. No catch to deal with. She plunged her hands through
the contents—day planner, brush, wallet, calculator, ibuprofen,
lipsticks—multi-blade knife.

Clutching the knife, she struggled to sit. At first
the room swam before her eyes.
Come on, come on.
Slowly she forced away
the queasiness and focused on what she had to do.

“Hurry, Jules. I don’t know how long they’ll leave us
here.” His strained voice sounded so young.

She plucked open the special serrated blade. It
slipped, but she caught it, slicing the tip of her left index finger. She
clamped her lips against the sting. She scraped the blade at the tape’s edge. “Jordan,
talk to me. Tell me about the
Sea Worthy
. Tell me how you and Finny
switched places.”

The process was slow. Her fingers and wrists cramped,
but she kept going in rhythm with her brother’s narrative and the throbbing in
her head.

“They needed someone on the
Sea Worthy
. Finny
wanted to go ice fishing at his uncle’s camp at Moosehead Lake. The captain and
crew didn’t know either one of us.”

Twice more she cut herself. Blood trickled, warm and
slick over the tape and her fingers. Her hands were slippery with sweat and
blood, and the handle kept oozing from her grip. She gritted her teeth and
sawed. “And you needed a place to hide.”

“I was safe enough aboard. I like being at sea. But
how did you find out about the drugs, Jules?”

Pausing to catch her breath, she closed her eyes in
pain. “I’ve been trying to find you ever since you called. Both the Mexicans
and the DEA involved me whether I liked it or not.”

“The drug gang? Why the hell did
they
bother
you
?”

“Use your brain, little brother. Even you should be
able to add this one up.” She hated the bitterness in her voice, but energy was
flagging, and her head contained the devil’s steel band live in concert.

Dawning comprehension raised his sandy brows. “Oh. To
get to me. To get the picture.” He slumped lower against the wall.

“No harm done to me, at least up to now.” She’d tell
him about Finny later. “I have myself to blame for this particular sorry state
of affairs. I was snooping where I shouldn’t have been. At least we’re
together.” She struggled again with the tiny knife.

No harm done, except to my heart.
Not El Águila’s
men, but Ricardo Cruz had provided the highest drama of her whole life. He didn’t
want her any more. He didn’t trust her. If she lived through this, life without
him would be as dark and empty as a black hole.

To distract from the wounds inside her she sawed
harder at the gooey tape.

“I don’t get why they bugged you. You didn’t know
where I was.” His voice sounded petulant, typical of his self-absorption, his
callow perception.

“Jeez, they didn’t believe that. The DEA had to
protect me for weeks. And what did you plan to do once the boat returned? Didn’t
you know they’d be waiting for you?”

He lifted one shoulder in a sheepish shrug. “I didn’t
think about it. Figured I’d be safe aboard. No one knew me as anything but
Finny. Dammit, why did he tell them where I was?”

That stopped her. “They put him in the hospital. He’s
lucky to be alive.”

With a groan, he sank lower on the dirty floor. “I
really screwed up this time.”

She didn’t deny it or try to comfort him. The knife
severed the last strings of tape. She peeled it away from her wrists and eased
her arms stiffly forward to massage her hands and arms. Then she freed her
ankles, an easier and less bloody task. She shivered at the cold and damp
seeping into her bones. Her headache was slowly ebbing. Enough that she could
stand, though her knees had post-marathon wobble.

Jordan slumped while she struggled with his bonds. The
coarse rope took longer than the tape, but eventually she freed him.

“We have to figure out how to get out of this shed or
warehouse or whatever it is.” She hooked an arm under his shoulder. “Let me
help you stand. You have to get off that cement.”

Jordan didn’t budge, made no effort to rise. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“They broke my leg. When they kidnapped me in
Portsmouth, the fuckers didn’t have anything to tie me up with, so they slammed
the damn van door on me. I can’t walk. I can’t even stand.”

Chapter 15

“Hands in the air, Olívas.” Rick aimed the SIG. “Don’t
move.”

“You got nothing on me, Cruz,” the Mexican said in
Spanish. But he obeyed, fists clenched, body tensed.

“Speak English, you bastard. We got more than you
think.” Rick didn’t see a weapon, but hesitated to move forward and frisk the
guy. Who else was in that metal building? “Now walk toward me—slowly.”

El Águila’s man walked closer, but kept shifting his
glance toward the boat building’s open door. When he came within a few feet, he
dove headfirst at Rick’s midsection.

Rick sidestepped, then aimed a kick. His foot grazed
the man’s temple.

Olívas grabbed for the gun. Rick hung on and tripped
him. The two men fell to the asphalt in a welter of tangled limbs. A small
automatic fell from the smuggler’s waistband and clanked on the pavement. Rick
kicked it away.

Olívas landed a few good blows to Rick’s belly and one
to his jaw, but Rick held onto his weapon. His middle-aged opponent was strong
and tough. A dirty fighter and desperate, but untrained.

Fury fueled Rick’s strength, fury at all this gang had
done to his brother, to Juliana’s brother, to countless others. He delivered a
solid chop to the other man’s throat, and he collapsed like a tent.

“Well done, Cruz.” Donovan’s voice came from above
him. He handed Rick a pair of zip-tie handcuffs.

“What took you so long? I could have used some fucking
help.” He pushed the coughing Olívas over onto his face and fastened the
plastic bands around his wrists. Then he stripped his captive of an ankle
sheath knife.

“We thought you needed to throw a few punches at
someone.” The cowboy shot a pointed glance toward his left. “Besides, we were a
little busy ourselves.”

Two more Hispanic men lay prone like their boss.

“Where’d you find them?”

“In the big building there.” Wescott nodded toward its
entrance. “Wait until you see what else is inside. Looks like we were right
about the source of the heroin problem in Maine. Long wooden boxes that
probably held some of the stolen M-16s and XM-8s.” A beaming smile spread
across his countenance as if he’d won the lottery.

“Carlos, you’ve been a busy boy.” Rick yanked his
captive to his feet. “Seems we have plenty on you after all.”

“You got no fuckin’ case.” The man sneered. “If you
foun’ drugs, they belon’ to this Vinson, not me. My lawyer will free me before
you can do paperwork.”

Rick smiled. “You’re caught with the goods this time.
I wouldn’t count on your esteemed
líder
on this one. After this, you may
prefer prison to what he arranges for you.”

“Rick,” Wescott said, “no sign of Juliana. Or Vinson.”

“El Águila want me dead? I don’ believe you.” Dread
and doubt lurked in the depths of the man’s dark eyes, marking him a decade
older than middle age.

“No skin off my nose. Besides, rumor has it El Águila
has gone into hiding, with the Federales in pursuit.” Rick curled his fist in
the slimeball’s shirt and tugged, hoping he trapped chest hairs. “Now tell me
where the woman is, or we’ll stop playing nice.”

All pretense of bravado gone, Olívas whined, “I don’
know. Vinson said he’d take care of her and her brother. Somethin’ about a
one-way boat trip.”

*****

Juliana helped Jordan slide closer to the door.
Hefting her backpack, she wished she had her binoculars. Oh God, the bag had to
be heavy enough to do its job.

A moment later, a clunk of the padlock announced their
captor’s return.

Jordan angled his arms behind him as if still bound.

Pulse roaring in her ears like storm surf, Juliana
waited behind the door.

The door swung inward, and Vinson stalked in, his gun
in one hand. In his other he carried an open gasoline can. “No time for a
cruise,” he announced with a grimace that transformed his features from benign
to sinister. “This’ll look like some snoops got caught in their own fire.”

Juliana stepped around the door’s edge. With all her
might, she swung the backpack at Vinson’s belly.

Jordan grabbed the man’s ankles and yanked.

Wes Vinson executed a perfect banana-peel flip. With a
whale spout of exhalation, he landed on his back. The pistol blasted a
deafening shot into the metal roof.

Gasoline splashed from the dropped can in a small
fountain and spread across the floor.

The pungent odor stung Juliana’s nostrils and snapped
her from the shock of what had just happened. She righted the can, then plucked
the pistol from her victim’s hand.

Shaking like a flag in a March wind, she held it in
two hands as she’d seen Rick do.

“Jules, he’s out cold.” Jordan peered at Vinson, lying
on his back. “He must have cracked his skull on the cement.”

“Serves him right for beaning me, but I’m not taking
the gun off him yet. We have to get out of here and call for help. Drag
yourself away from this gasoline.”

She waited while he edged past the other man’s still
form. Dragging his injured leg, her brother crawled out the door. Sweat beaded
his forehead. In spite of his adolescent mistakes, his bravery made tears well
in her eyes.

Damn you, Vinson, damn you to hell
. How did she
ever think of him as pleasant and charming? Lying there, he looked harmless,
but he’d been about to kill them both. To burn them alive. Hot tears stung and
nausea burned. She slumped, lowering the gun.

Vinson surged up. “Bitch!” He plowed a fist into her
shoulder. “You won’t stop me.”

Pain detonated through her arm. She folded to the
gasoline-soaked floor. The gun skittered away with a metallic shriek.

“Juliana!” Jordan yelled, but his voice came from far,
far away, as if through padded walls.

Her brain did a slow, sickening spiral. The black
spots returned, buzzing in her head and before her eyes.

*****

“A shot.” Rick spun toward the report.
Juliana.
If
Vinson hurt her, he’d— “Where did it come from?”

“Over there.” Wescott started running. “Behind the
offices.”

Rick issued terse orders into his radio as he sprinted
in that direction.

A dozen DEA agents and cops converged on the metal
shed behind the Vinson office building. At the tableau ahead, Rick froze, gun
cocked. He held up a hand to halt the others.

Outside the shed a sweat-shirt-clad guy dragged
himself toward a nine-millimeter Glock.
Jordan Paris.

Two struggling figures on the ground blocked the
doorway.
Vinson and Juliana
.

It should have been a very lopsided fight, but it wasn’t.
On his back, Vinson levered himself against the door frame in an effort to
reach the pistol. Juliana strangled his legs with one arm. She was whacking him
in the nuts with her backpack. Against her weight, the son of a bitch couldn’t
move forward or make it to his feet.

Juliana’s tenacity was incredible. Rick dashed forward
and scooped up the Glock.

Wescott and Donovan pulled Jordan Paris out of the
way.

Snarling in frustration, Vinson heaved back a fist. “Bitch.”

Rick blocked his arm, jammed the SIG under his jaw. “Don’t
even think about it, dirtbag. I don’t fucking need an excuse.”