The Echo of Violence (22 page)

To make his point, the helicopter door opened. The engine sound magnified. It blocked out everything. And a rush of air pummeled his body. Sayed screamed and pushed back. His body grew rigid with terror. When a man spun his chair toward the opening, Sayed felt a warmth in his pants. He had wet himself.

And next to him, Ghazi cried out, a muffled scream. They had done the same to him.

“We will start with you, Sayed,” the Englishman said. “Tell us the name of your handler and where he is located. It’s a simple thing, really. One name. One location.”

Sayed shook his head, too scared to refuse aloud.

“And we want to know what you have planned. We have proof you are staging a terrorist attack on foreign soil. We want details, my friend.”

“No, I cannot.” Sayed yelled this time. And spittle ran down his chin. “I’m not a traitor.”

“Then you admire loyalty, is that right?” Before Sayed could answer him, the Englishman added, “If
you wish to save the life of your loyal friend, Jamal Ghazi, you will tell me what I want to know. If you don’t, I will shove him from this craft into the ocean. The decision is yours.”

Sayed heard Ghazi scream again. He had no idea what was happening. The hood cast him in darkness, as dark as the Atlantic below. The thought of drowning terrified him. He couldn’t swim. And bound in duct tape, he wouldn’t have a chance.

“What’s your answer, Sayed?” the man demanded.

He shook his head, but this time, it wasn’t good enough. “Speak up, Sayed. Let Jamal know your answer, you gutless wonder.”

“No, I won’t do it. And if Jamal were in my shoes—given such a choice—he would do the same. I am not a coward.”

He held his breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Surely these men would not do such a thing.

He got his answer soon enough. Sayed heard a scuffle and someone was shoved against him. Before he could ask what was happening, he heard the paralyzing scream of Ghazi. The man’s muffled cry echoed within the aircraft, then died away as he was thrust from the moving craft. They’d thrown Ghazi from the helicopter.

“No! What did you do?” Sayed heard the fear in his own voice. His throat was parched with it. “Please. Don’t do this.”

“It’s already done. Your friend is gone. And you are next,” the Englishman said. Sayed was moved closer to the open door as the man continued, “If you do not
tell us what we want to know, you are worthless to us. Talking will save your miserable life.”

Sayed had run out of options. His body trembled, and tears drained down his cheeks. No one else would speak for him or save him from what was about to happen unless he did it himself. But before he could speak, from nowhere he felt a sharp pain in his leg, a gut wrenching agony. He cried out, unable to hold back. Someone had stabbed him. The burn of the gash traveled up his body. When he doubled over, he smelled a coppery sweet odor and felt warm blood drain down his leg.

“Why? Why do you do this?” He struggled for his English. In pain, he wanted to cry out in his own language, but he knew the man who tortured him wouldn’t understand.

“Your blood will draw the sharks,” the man yelled into his ear. “You won’t know they are there until you feel the first tug at your body.”

Sayed sobbed now. He couldn’t hold back.

“What does it say in the Qur’an about the Day of Judgment?” the Englishman asked. “The body and soul are reunited, is that right? After sharks tear you apart, there won’t be much left, I’m afraid. Now last chance…what’s your answer?”

The image of sharks ripping into his flesh in a feeding frenzy started Sayed talking. Everything he knew or thought he knew came spewing from his mouth, the voice of a stranger. He spared nothing. By the time he got done, he was exhausted.

Sayed had lost all sense of time. His body felt weak
and depleted of strength. To curl up and sleep was all he wanted. He was so exhausted, when he felt a second needle in his neck, he didn’t cry out or move. The world became as black as the ocean’s depths.

And as far as he knew, he died—a drowning man.

As he stared down at the unconscious terrorist—slumped in his passenger seat, bound hand and foot—the Deacon yelled an order to Raul Soto, the inside man who had served him well within Jamal Ghazi’s organization.

“Pull him up.”

Using a wench, Raul hoisted Jamal Ghazi back into the helicopter. When the terrified arms dealer got shoved back into his seat with his hood yanked off, his eyes bulged from his head. And after the gag of duct tape was ripped from his mouth, he screamed and ranted in broken English with sweat and spittle streaming off his face.

The man smelled of urine and far worse.

“Now it’s your turn, Jamal,” the Deacon yelled loud enough for the man to hear above the engine noise. “Sayed came to you for help, and you gave it, yet he betrayed you. He didn’t think twice about saving your life. I wouldn’t stand for that if I were you. Tell us what you know. We’ll see that he pays for his treachery. And you’ll be the one to live.”

Pumped full of liquid fear, Jamal Ghazi didn’t need the added motivation of revenge against Sayed. The man was more than willing to talk now. The arms dealer knew the reality of being thrown from a heli
copter. The sudden jerk of the tether that kept him alive had served its purpose. It was a reminder of what could still happen if he refused to cooperate. The intel acquired from Ghazi would be gravy. The Deacon had only intended to question Sayed. Anything Ghazi gave them now was an added bonus.

And with Sayed wearing a hood over his head, the terrorist never saw the tether harness attached to Ghazi and never knew the arms dealer had his mouth gagged with duct tape. The Deacon didn’t want Ghazi to tip off Sayed.

His deception had worked. The terrorist had shared plenty for now. Contact names, locations, means of communication, money transfers, and bank accounts. More interrogations were planned on solid ground. His makeshift plan had gone off without a hitch, thanks to the diversion of the Americans and their rescue mission.

“We have a stop to make before we drop off our cargo, Raul. I hope you’ll indulge me.”

Being a man of few words, Raul Soto simply nodded as he took care of their prisoners. The Deacon rather liked that about the man. It certainly allowed him more than enough opportunity to dominate the conversation. And as his pilot, Mrs. Torres, changed course, the Deacon made peace with his God and put in a good word for the American.

It was the least he could do.

Hours later

Back at the harbor in Baracoa, Alexa waited for a call from Garrett. He’d promised word on the tracking-beacon location. She imagined a moving target in a helicopter had made his job tougher, so she had to remain patient—a skill she hadn’t acquired.

In the few hours before dawn, her men used their two boats as a place to care for their wounded. They had first aid and bunks on board to get sack time while they waited. Kate got patched up, and after a quick shower belowdecks, she’d changed into clean clothes that she’d borrowed from Jessie, who was about her size.

Too anxious to sleep, Alexa sat alone in the wheelhouse with the SAT phone close at hand. She stared at the moonlight reflected off the water. And with the undulating motion of the boat, she was lulled into an overload of thoughts centered on Jackson Kinkaid. Her mind flashed back through dozens of memories she didn’t want to forget, yet the man still remained a mystery.

Why did it take losing him to realize how much she…?

“Do you mind company?” A gentle voice intruded on her misery. When she turned, she saw Kate in the cabin doorway.

“No…please, come in.” She waved a welcome.

“Any word on Jackson?” the nun asked.

Alexa shook her head.

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” Kate admitted. “He’s in here…and here.” The nun touched her head and placed a hand over her heart.

“Yeah, I know what you mean, Sister.” Alexa forced a smile. She wasn’t in the mood to talk, but having Kate with her felt as if she had a connection to Kinkaid. “Once he gets under your skin, he’s a hard man to shake. Damn near impossible.”

“Yes. Very true.” The nun sighed. “He’s such a good man. He deserves to be happy.”

Kate had opened the door for her to ask about Kinkaid’s past. Alexa could have tricked the nun into revealing how they’d met by using a ruse she employed in interrogations, where she pretended to know more than she did. But she had too much respect for Kinkaid and Kate to do that. And no matter how much she wanted to know why Kinkaid had been in a mental hospital, she knew that should come from him.

He was a deeply private man. And knowing he had secrets, Alexa had to be careful, too. She didn’t want to reveal too much of his covert life or tell Kate of her suspicions about where he got his money. Even though the nun was a good enough friend for him to
risk his life for, Kinkaid wouldn’t have let Kate know everything.

But one question had plagued her from the start. She decided to begin there.

“What happened to him, Sister? He’s not the same man I knew years ago.”

Kate avoided her gaze and stared onto the water, adrift in the past. Alexa got the feeling the nun was considering how to answer her question without violating her confidence with Kinkaid.

“Something broke inside him a long time ago,” the nun began. “And a light simply switched off. You can see a void in his eyes even now. I’ve prayed for him, but his salvation must come from inside him. He’s got to want it for himself. And he’s got to feel like he deserves joy in his life again.”

“This whole hostage ordeal started at your missionary-school fund-raiser, where he was your guest of honor?” Alexa posed her remark more like a question and smiled at the thought of Kinkaid on display at a charitable affair.

“Oh, he hated that part.” The nun chuckled. “But he loves the children. He donates quite a bit of money to my school. And he’s very generous with many others, too. I’ve seen it. His Lost Angel Foundation does God’s work on earth.”

“He’s got a foundation?” Alexa asked.

A drug cartel mercenary with his own charitable foundation? And donating to children’s causes?

Alexa wondered if Kinkaid appeased his guilt over what he did for a living by donating to charity. And
maybe
he
was the lost one.
Kate’s lost dark angel.
More secrets from the man with many faces. And she had no doubt he’d kept the source of his funds from his good friend Kate.

Before she could ask more, the SAT phone signaled a call coming in, and she picked it up.

“I’m here. Talk to me.”

“We’ve traced Waldo,” Garrett told her.

This time, they had deliberately avoided using Alexa’s handle of Martini One and relied on voice recognition. She was concerned Father Ignatius and his Echelon program might key off that name, triggering unwanted attention on the transmission. Their communication would still be searched by Echelon for keywords, but using different coded phrases would buy them time and stall outside interference. Garrett informed her they’d traced the tracking beacon to a local residence in Baracoa. As he gave her the address and a general description of the area, Alexa envisioned another compound similar to Jamal Ghazi’s place.

How could Sayed escape in a helicopter, only to be tracked back in town hours later? She didn’t like it, but she had to check it out.

“I’ll update you when I can.” When Alexa ended the call, she fixed her gaze on Kate, who looked miserable with worry. “We’ve got a fix on Jackson. Keep praying, Sister. We could use the help.”

Alexa rounded up Hank, Jessie, and others who volunteered to go. They loaded an SUV with weapons and gear. She expected another firefight like they’d encountered at the estate of the arms dealer, but in her gut she
feared the worst. For the signal to be coming from a local residence made no sense, not when she’d seen Kinkaid taken away in a helicopter by a crazed terrorist.

If he’d been separated from his tracking beacon, Alexa had a bad feeling they’d never find him. And she had no idea how she’d live with that.

Dawn

A dark silhouette of rolling hills masked the edge of sunrise, and fire tinged a bank of clouds with a hint of the world awakening. The early-morning hour would work in Alexa’s favor, but only marginally. Dressed in camo with full assault gear, her team would have to execute their breach quietly and without a shot fired. If they failed and drew attention to their raid, the local cops might shoot first and ask questions later.

Alexa hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Unlike Jamal Ghazi’s estate, the residence where they’d traced Kinkaid’s signal was more of a ranch on the edge of town, without armed guards patrolling the grounds. A dirt road led through an open stone archway and up to a hacienda surrounded by barbed wire and pastures with cattle. Two cars were parked in front. The picturesque setting left her even more confused as to why Kinkaid’s signal would be coming from there.

Using scrub brush for cover, they crouched low and moved along the fence line, making their way closer to the main house. She had a scout and a flanker working ahead of her team. When she got close to the residence,
she used hand signals to communicate her order to stop as Manny and Booker returned.

“One man in the kitchen. He’s making coffee,” Manny whispered. “And there’s an open window in back. A man and a woman are sleeping, but I heard a strange beep…like some kind of machine. I never saw it.”

“Could the beep come from a security system?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. I’ve never seen security work like that.”

“What else?”

“There’s a back porch with entry into the house and windows off this side.” Manny motioned with his hand. “We’ll have to watch those. Someone could slip through. No upstairs and no lower level.”

“What’s your read?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“This looks like a private home, and there’s one guy awake,” her scout said. “Closest neighbor won’t be a problem unless there’s gunplay. I say we hit ’em hard and fast in front with a ‘bang and clear.’ Another team sneaks in the back. No explosives. No weapons unless we have no choice.” Manny’s flanker, Adam Booker, nodded in agreement.

Alexa gave her order to split up. Hank led his men toward the rear of the main house. Manny and Booker got positioned to maintain surveillance on the side windows, leaving Alexa and Jessie and two others to hit the front door. Walker would execute the breach, and Winslow would be first through the door.

Alexa crept toward the front, careful not to cast a
shadow across a window. She stood with her back near the doorjamb and gripped her weapon. Jessie scrambled to the other side of the door with her assault rifle ready and her eyes fixed on Alexa.

Walker hustled toward Jessie, holding a tactical Ram breaching tool in both hands. He swung the heavy black cylinder backward, then shoved it hard against the door lock. On impact, wood splintered with a loud crack. When the door blasted open, Winslow rushed through it with weapon drawn. In a bang-and-clear operation, the team followed in stacked formation and swept through the front half of the private residence. They cleared rooms and looked to subdue anyone inside the house.

The man her scout had seen in the kitchen would have heard their entry. Alexa knew he’d be their priority. With the kitchen dead ahead, she noticed there were two ways into the room. She signaled for her team to split up.

Expecting trouble, Alexa entered the room with her assault rifle aimed. Walker was close behind her. When she saw a man at the kitchen table, drinking his coffee, she narrowed her eyes but didn’t lower her weapon.

“Good morning,” he said, and raised his coffee cup.

Jessie and Winslow eased into the room, not saying a word. They waited for Alexa to confront the man. But before she could, Hank joined them. He had a man and a woman with him. His prisoners were dressed in pajamas and looked as if he’d rousted them from bed.

“The rest of the house is clear. Found these two in a rear bedroom,” Hank told her as his men herded their captives toward the living room. “But you gotta see this.”

When she cocked her head in question, Hank insisted, “Come on.”

“Put him with the rest,” she ordered, and nudged her head toward the man drinking coffee in the kitchen. Alexa lowered her weapon and followed Hank down a hallway toward the back of the house.

When she got to the end of the hall, Hank swung open a door and she looked inside. A lump wedged in her throat, and fear gripped her belly.

Jackson Kinkaid lay unconscious on a bed, surrounded by hospital equipment. He was hooked to a heart monitor—the beeping sound Manny had heard earlier—and had an IV in his arm. A bag of clear liquid hung by his bed. And a fresh bandage covered his wound.

He looked as pale as the gauze wrap. She’d never seen him so sick.

“We can still search the grounds, looking for evidence Sayed was here, but I doubt we’ll find anything. That bastard never would have left him like this,” Hank said in a hushed tone. After a moment of awkward silence, he added, “You want a minute?”

“Yeah, I do. Thanks, Hank.”

“Sure.” He left her alone with Kinkaid.

Alexa stepped into the bedroom that had been turned into a makeshift hospital. She stood by his bed and laid a hand on his bare chest, watching and feeling him breathe. He didn’t wake.

His breathing was rapid and shallow. And his skin was hot from the fever he hadn’t shaken. Someone had cleaned him up, but perspiration beaded on his forehead and chest.

“Jackson?” she whispered his name, but he didn’t move. “Oh, God. What’s happening?”

He had a bruise on his stomach where Ghazi had struck him with his rifle. And she saw stitches on his forehead. She had no idea how he’d gotten those, but she had a good notion that Sayed had something to do with it. For all he’d been through, he was finally getting the care he needed.

As he slept, she saw the child he must have been. Despite the fever, his face was at peace, and his inherent sadness had vanished. Gone was the stern-faced man with the defiant green eyes who had become adept at hoarding his secrets.

Lying here, he was vulnerable.

Lying here, he could die.

She brushed a strand of his dark hair off his forehead and stroked his cheek, taking advantage of the fact he wasn’t aware she was doing it. Kinkaid wasn’t the kind of guy who appreciated coddling, but in the past there were many times she’d resisted the urge to show the tenderness she felt for him.

“You better not die on me, Jackson.”

He was battling the infection now. And whatever damage had poisoned his system, it could spread to other organs and do more harm. He had known the risks and took a chance anyway—to save Kate’s life. But she found it hard in hindsight to accept his choice now, especially if it meant she might lose him.

Alexa gritted her teeth and funneled all her frustration into getting answers. It pained her to leave Kinkaid alone, but she had questions, and the residents of this
house held the key. When she got back to the living room, Hank had their prisoners sitting on a sofa and chair. The two dressed in pajamas were nervous. The woman held the hand of the man sitting next to her, probably her spouse.

But the odd man out—dressed in dark slacks and a Cuban Guayabera shirt—didn’t look anxious at all.

“The two having a pajama party own the place. This is Eduardo Gomez and his wife, Marisa.” Hank made the introductions. “Eduardo is a doctor.”

Alexa nodded, and asked, “How is he, Doc?” She hoped the man understood her.

“His body is fighting off a severe infection,” Dr. Gomez replied in perfect English. “I’ve got him on strong antibiotics, trying to get him stabilized. He’s not out of the woods yet. And if he survives, he still might have permanent damage from the infection. It’s too soon to tell.”

She considered what Gomez told her. If she hadn’t seen the doctor’s care firsthand, she might have doubted that he was telling her the truth. But no one would have gone to so much trouble to harm Kinkaid—not now and not like this.

“And that man says you know him,” Hank said.

“Yeah, I do. And I haven’t figured out if that’s a good thing.” Alexa glared at the gray-haired man sitting in a chair across the living room. He had a cup and saucer in his hands. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Father Ignatius. Start talking.”

“Certainly, my dear. But can I get you some fresh coffee?” He raised his cup and smiled. “I brewed it
myself. I used to prefer tea, but Cuban coffee is an acquired taste.”

Alexa rolled her eyes and sighed. The priest had his own clock and wouldn’t be rushed. She had to focus on what he’d tell her about Sayed and Kinkaid. She had a job to do, and her team needed a hasty clean departure from Cuba, under the radar of the local law. And the clock was ticking.