Under Fire (23 page)

“You go back to room,” he said in heavily accented English. She stood motionless. He wasn’t Latino. The accent was Russian, eastern European.
Fuck.
Silva wasn’t only dealing with South Americans, but with Russian or maybe even Afghani gangs. But why would he bring in drugs from so far away? There was something else here.

Terrorists.
She had misjudged and underestimated the enemy. A huge error on her part. The odds of her getting out of this went down,
big time.
The thud of the chopper making contact and the man forcing her toward the passageway brought her back from her thoughts.

“Get your hands off me.” She crashed her shoulder against his chest. She was not going back to that room. She wanted to get to Silva. The guard spun her around and she landed a sucker punch to his cheek that snapped his head back.

Recovering quickly he rammed the rifle’s stock at her midsection, connecting with her hip forcefully enough to knock her to the floor. She balled up in a fetal position waiting for the kick she knew was coming. It didn’t come. Instead he yanked her upright and slapped her open handed hard enough to blur her vision, cause ringing in her ears and draw blood.

“Not so tough now. Go! Room.”

She didn’t fight back.

He shoved her into the cabin and locked the door. She spit on the door smearing the blood and pounding hard enough to rattle the hardware. “Bring me ice for my face.”

Silence. She kicked twice. “Did you hear me, you bastard? I want ice!” Nothing.

She went to the bathroom, soaked a towel and held it to her cheek. She stormed back to the door and gave it another solid kick. “Are you all so stupid you don’t understand?”

She didn’t give a damn about ice, but this was a good way to vent her frustration. She whipped around and headed for the small balcony to yell at anyone she could see on the other decks. Before she reached it, the cabin door was thrown open. Two men cautiously entered. The guard who’d roughed her up pointed a rifle in her direction, while the other man put a container of ice on a table. They retreated. The lock snicked.

The cabin phone rang. Olivia made no move to answer. It quit then began again. She snatched it off the receiver and held it to her ear, but said nothing.

“Olivia?” Her skin crawled at the sound of Silva’s voice. She remained silent.

“I know you are there. In an hour you will be joining me for dinner. My man will come to get you. Clean up. I have other guests.”

She pushed her free hand high, extended her middle finger and hung up the phone.

In the bathroom Olivia examined her face. Her cheek was red, but not swollen, at least not yet. The cut was on the inside of her mouth. What was Silva up to? Why wasn’t she dead? Not that she was complaining. But what was his plan?

She sat on the sofa to ponder her situation. The ice soothed the sting on her face but not the sting in her heart. She couldn’t shake the thought Rico was dead because of her. Her questions. Her search for Danny’s killers. Rico had warned her. She slumped onto the cushions. She’d hurt him in so many ways.

That last night together on the roof he’d shown and told her who he was. He had been interviewing to be her lover. She knew it and had been too much a coward to respond. She’d take that scene to bed with her every night for the rest of her life. However long that was to be.

Olivia heard them coming for her. When the door opened and she saw Baker’s bandaged face, it took all her willpower to remain motionless. An armed man stepped inside, but Baker, the chicken-shit, remained in the passageway.

“You were told to get cleaned up,” he said in a nasal rasp. His short, almost snorting intakes of breath made her smile.

“I’m ready,” was her only response.

She allowed the guard to manhandle her to the main salon. Silva and the man she’d seen on the helicopter stood as she entered the room. The muscles in the man’s face tightened and he shot a glance at Silva.

“I told you I didn’t want her marked up.”

“She has been more difficult than expected,” Silva answered matter-of-factly. “Olivia, may I introduce Major Whitaker, a business partner.”

Major? In what?

“We are ready to eat, come and sit.” He gestured to a chair at the dining table.

Olivia didn’t move and Baker gave her a shove. She rounded on him, stopping only because the big guard was there to defend the bastard. She got some satisfaction from the way Baker flinched and stumbled back.

Olivia sat where instructed, with the guard standing directly behind. Plates of grilled seafood and vegetables were placed on the table. Baker dug into his immediately. She didn’t move. The major sat, not taking his gaze from her. She returned it with a perturbed, what-are-you-looking-at stare.

“You told me she was blonde,” he blurted.

She detected a slight British or maybe South African accent.

Silva sighed. “I told you she was fair. Hair color can be changed.” He waved his hand dismissively. “We can discuss this later.”

“Those bruises will take days to go away. My customers don’t want damaged goods,” the major retorted.

Silva slammed a hand on the table. “I said no more discussion of this. If the deal is not satisfactory we will go back to the original arrangements. I will keep her for myself.”

Like a slow motion explosion, understanding took hold in her brain. Silva was offering her as part of a deal for…for what?

“What arrangements?” The words dripped like venom from her mouth.

Baker laughed. “You got the price knocked down on a gun and missile deal.”

“You say one more word and I will have you shot.” Silva’s tone left no doubt he meant what he said.

Baker’s disgusting smile disappeared and he returned his attention to the food. Tendrils of shock creeping through Olivia turned to fury. She was up and scrambling across the table at Silva, dishes and glasses scattering, breaking. The fork in her hand found its way into the back of his, and he howled.

Baker pushed away with enough force to send his chair crashing to the floor, with him still on it. She struggled to get her knees under her, but the tablecloth slipped, preventing any traction. The guard grappled with her bicycling legs, and in her peripheral vision she saw the major standing, waving his napkin, yelling, “Don’t mark her up.”

She had the front of Silva’s shirt in a death grip with one hand and swung the fork at his face with the other. This time he would die.

“Get her off me,” Silva cried out, doing his best to fend off the hand holding the fork.

The guard found his grip and yanked. Silva’s shirt gave way and she was wrenched off the table. Twisting midair, she landed on her back with the table cloth, dishes and food crashing over her.

Kicking out with her free leg she missed the man’s knee cap connecting with his shin. He grunted with pain and relaxed his grip enough to allow her to disentangle herself and squirm under the table after Silva. She saw Baker still on the floor holding a 9mm pointed at her head. She flung a dish at the fucker and rolled.

He fired and the bullet kissed her cheek before splintering the table. She rolled again and saw Silva’s foot, covered in an expensive Italian leather shoe, connect with Baker’s chest. Hands, more than one man, had her legs, hauling her from under the table. She held on to the pedestal and dragged the table with her, until her hands were struck with a rifle butt. Two, maybe three men, pulled her, and they were strong. She did the only thing left to do, growl and cuss.

Arms wrapped around her legs, and the fork was pried from her fist. Hands shoved her shoulders against the floor. Hands attached to arms too close to her mouth. A good enough place to leave teeth marks. She clamped down on the hairy skin and was rewarded with the taste of blood, a yell and a hard punch to the jaw that stunned her. The blood she tasted now was hers and she saw double. Hefted off the floor and set on her feet, her legs went loose and she sank. Arms circled her waist holding her upright.

“Get her out of my sight,” Silva yelled, standing with his back to the wall, a napkin wrapped around his fork wound.

“Fuck you,” she spit out, and jerked her head back into the burly guard’s face. He tossed her against the wall, and a man she’d never seen before pinned her with his hands around her throat. She slammed a palm into his Adam’s apple. He gagged and stumbled backward. The older guard grunted something in Russian and slammed his shoulder into her like a defensive lineman taking out his opponent.

The breath left her in an explosive cough. She was hoisted into a fireman’s carry and taken down the passageway. Hanging over the man’s shoulder, she saw a cell phone clipped to his belt. A cell phone just like hers.

She went into overdrive, twisting and kicking his torso to cover her attempt to get the cell. Screaming, she yanked out his shirt tail and clawed his skin with one hand while jerking the phone free with the other. He grunted and kept moving. She bit his back, clamping down and holding on until he slammed her head against the wall.

At her cabin door, he dropped her to her feet and shoved hard enough to send her crashing on her butt. She heard the lock catch and smiled down at the cell in her hand. Yelling and cussing, she dug the SIM card from her pocket. She sat, back against the door, and peeled away the leather case. Opening the tiny compartment hiding the chip was not as easy. She used her nails to pry back the cover.

Finally it was off. She screamed a laundry list of obscenities.

“Shut up, whore,” came a loud response followed by a thud on the door.

Olivia switched the phone’s SIM card with her own and replaced the back. She threw herself against the door. “Let me out!” The leather case slipped from her hand, bouncing across the floor.
Damn it!
She chased after it and was fitting the phone in its case when she heard the lock. She scrambled away from the door as the man she’d taken the cell from burst into the cabin. Her guard stood behind him, his weapon trained on her while his partner searched the room. He spotted the cell where she’d tossed it. Grunting, he retrieved it and left.

She picked up a heavy crystal obelisk and heaved it in the direction of the door with all she had. It struck the wall, springing open a small cabinet. An orange emergency rescue beacon teetered then fell out. For a moment all she could do was stare at the EPIRB as it rolled across the floor. She’d been so caught up cowboying it that she hadn’t thought about the simple stuff. Thank God, neither had her captors. She scooped up the EPIRB and pressed the manual start. It instantly began pinging, sending a signal to a satellite that relayed a distress call to the Coast Guard. A few more gleefully hollered obscenities covered the beacon’s ping as she rushed to the bathroom. Olivia wrapped the blinking EPIRB in a towel, dropped it into the tub and heaped on more towels.

It was less than twenty minutes before three of the guards burst in. One stood at the door, weapon ready. The big rough guy yanked the EPIRB cabinet open and, finding it empty, told the third man to search the room. He strode to her and slapped her with such a force she was propelled back several steps. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

“Where is it, bitch?”

She didn’t answer. He slapped her again and she went down. She spit and smeared the blood. Leaving a trail was turning out to be easy. In a haze she watched the man go into the bathroom and pull the EPIRB from the tub.
God, please
.
Let the Coast Guard make the connection between the cell and EPIRB.
All she could do now was wait.

Two of the men yanked her up and shoved her to the bed. They handcuffed her to the headboard. She kicked out and connected with a face. One man yelped, the other punched her into unconsciousness.

Rico slouched in the backseat of the Suburban, staring out the heavily tinted windows into more darkness. For the first time he truly understood Olivia’s obsession with finding her brother’s killer.

Silva made a fatal mistake, two really. He had tried to kill him—twice—and he had taken away the only person Rico cared about. The only person that cared about him. Olivia. For that Silva would pay.

In his mind he made a list, ticking off everything he would do to Silva when he found him. If she was unharmed, not a scratch on her, he would make Silva’s death last only a few hours. If she was hurt in any way, if he’d touched her…His body jerked at the thought. Silva would die a slow, torturous death lasting days. There would be no trial. He would save the tax payers millions of dollars.

Baker was another story. He would break every bone in his body. Rupture a few internal organs. Take him someplace in the Everglades and cut pieces off to feed the gators.

They drove for three quarters of an hour before the SUV slowed. Through the windshield he could see a chain-link fence sliding open. He could hear the distant whine of jet engines. They had to be near Miami International. A logical staging area.

They drove inside a brightly lit warehouse. Groups of men and a few women were scattered around the space, talking and preparing equipment.

He immediately recognized Defoe standing with two other men, and walked toward him. The youngest and tallest of the three, her copilot he figured, saw Rico first and pointed him out.

Defoe barreled toward him. Five feet away, Rico put his hand out to shake. Defoe raised his hand and delivered a wicked undercut below Rico’s rib cage. The wind left him, his legs crumpled and he went down on his ass.

The son of a bitch jumped him, yelling and punching. Rico fell back, cracking his head against the concrete. Breathless from the punch and dizzy from head-to-concrete contact, he struggled to defend himself against Defoe’s punches.

“Get off him,” someone growled. The ache from his bruised ribs returned with a vengeance. He shook his head, struggling to stay awake. It was no use. He gave in and passed out.

Rico woke with a medic squatted next to him.

“How do ya feel?”

“Like someone punched me in the stomach.” He rubbed the spot where he could still feel the sting of Defoe’s fist.

“Are you dizzy?”

“Not right now.” Rico moved cautiously and winced. “Help me stand.”

“You sure, man? You went down hard.” The medic helped him sit.

“Back down. Dizzy.” He gulped.

Rico could see Olivia’s crew to his right, pacing. Defoe looked agitated. What was he so pissed about?

The medic flashed a light in his eyes and Rico pushed his hand away. “Okay, I’m good to get up.”

“You’ve probably got a concussion.”

Rico maneuvered to a sitting position and rubbed the back of his head. The kid helped him up, holding on until he could stand unaided. As soon as the medic stepped away Defoe began advancing. “You fucking asshole. Why did you let her go aboard that yacht?” The tall guy grabbed his arm, holding him back.

“I didn’t
let
her go,” Rico yelled. “I tried to stop her.”

“You did a piss poor job of it. Because of you, she’s God knows where, and who knows what they’re doing to her. This is all your fault.” Defoe punctuated each word with a fist jab in his direction.

Rico had had enough. He’d given Defoe a pass on the sucker punch. The guy had saved his life. Now, he’d crossed the line. “No, this is
your
fault.” He pointed at Defoe. “You assholes went all over Miami showing her picture to anyone who would look. That’s how Silva made her. She would be fine if it wasn’t for you.” He covered the distance between them in three strides, dipped his left shoulder on the forth stride and slammed it into Defoe chest. Both men went down hard, rolling and grappling. Rico was aware of yelling and hands pulling on him. Separated, they sat on the hanger floor, gulping in air, sizing each other up.

The guy they called Turner stood between them. “You two done?”

Rico rose. “I tried to stop her.” He offered an explanation to Turner, who looked the least pissed of Olivia’s crew. “She did this crazy thing with her legs and arms wrapped around me. I passed out.”

Turner’s body language changed. A grin spread across his face. What the hell? What was he grinning about?

“Man, you were had.” Lieutenant—what was his name?—Crenshaw was grinning also.

“L.T. and I have made a lot of money with that trick of hers,” Turner said.

Crenshaw nodded his head, the anger in his face gone. Rico touched his head and found a knot had formed.

“What are you two talking about?” Defoe fumed.

“Don’t feel bad, man,” Turner said, ignoring Defoe. “She always says, ‘the bigger the guy, the easier it is.’”

He looked at the three of them. He had no idea what they were talking about. “You want to explain? I’ve been unconscious too much in the last few hours.”

“When she crosses her arms under your chin it puts pressure on the carotid. Ten seconds and you’re out.”

Crenshaw offered a hand and Rico, taking the gesture a sign he wouldn’t be knocked on his ass again, allowed him to help him stand.

“Attention on deck,” a voice called out. The military types, even the men he suspected were Navy SEALs, snapped up straight. Rico turned to find the reason. A Coast Guard officer strode through the same door he had entered only a few minutes ago. He wasn’t good at military rank, but knew that stars meant this was an admiral. The woman removed her cap and he took an involuntary step back. He made the leap instantly. It was impossible not to.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Turner said.

“Oh yeah.” Crenshaw nodded. “The admiral looks exactly like Olivia.”

“At ease.” The admiral’s voice rose above the other noise in the huge room. “For those of you who don’t know me, I am Admiral Hendrickson. I will be overseeing this operation. I promise I will not be getting in anyone’s way. Hopefully I’ll be able to open a few doors to allow a quick conclusion. As you were.”

She walked toward them with long, purposeful strides. Rico couldn’t take his eyes off her—the resemblance was startling. There was no doubt she and Olivia were related, and no doubt where Olivia got her looks. Ivory skin, dark hair and eyes, trim, fit. The lady was a stunner.

She stopped in front of Crenshaw. “You her crew?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he gulped. “I’m Lieutenant Crenshaw.” He extended an arm toward the other men. “This is Senior Chief Defoe. And Petty Officer Turner, our gunner.”

The admiral turned to Rico. She narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together, giving him the same wicked, you-are-about-to-die look Olivia had given him a couple of times. He almost smiled.

“This is DEA Special Agent Rico Cortes, ma’am.”

“You’re the one?” She took a step closer.

He fought an urge to step back. Her gaze tracked from his face to his knees and back up like a predator sizing him up for its next meal.

“We have her position!” A young kid wearing glasses called out from a doorway behind the admiral. The room went silent. All eyes looked in the kid’s direction. All eyes, but the admiral’s. Hers were still cutting through him with experienced precision.

“It’s her cell. In a few minutes we’ll be able to triangulate an exact position.”

Rico recalled the scene in her kitchen, handing her the little card from her phone.
Son of a bitch.
She did it. Somehow, she did it.

Groups of men drifted toward the office door. The admiral gave him a look that let him know she wasn’t done with him and turned.

Rico allowed himself a breath before he followed.
Never there because of her career.
Olivia’s cryptic statements were getting clearer now. So was the reason she was hell bent on being successful in the Coast Guard.
To show her mother.

“U.S. territorial waters?” he heard the captain ask.

“No, sir.”

The captain looked deflated.

“First indication is thirty-five to forty miles off shore.”

The captain cupped the back of his neck with a hand and rubbed. He turned to the admiral. “We’ll go with the original plan.”

“Agreed.”

“Listen up, everyone,” the captain bellowed. “Team leaders make note. We are using U.S. Code Section 7. Special maritime and territorial jurisdiction of the United States. During a visit to the United States, persons on board a vessel of foreign registry have committed an offense against a national. We will be bringing those persons back to port.”

“We’ve got an EPIRB alert,” a shout came from another office. “It’s on the
Santa Monica
. It’s in the same vicinity of the commander’s phone.”

An excited buzz ran through the men as they crowded outside the door.

When the admiral and captain approached the group forming outside the office, she yelled, “Make a hole.”

The men separated to allow them through. A man wearing a blue T-shirt with ATF emblazoned in gold letters on the back followed. A big guy, who looked like the Hulk’s little brother, was followed by Rico’s boss, Palmer, and another man with the letters FBI on his shirt.

Rico grabbed Crenshaw’s arm. “Will they be able to find her faster now?”

“It’s a big ocean. Even finding a craft that big can be a problem.” Crenshaw shook off his grip and pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

Rico was left to pace the periphery. Being tall frequently had its advantages, now was one. He could see over the heads of most of the men who’d gone quiet listening to the conversation in the office.

“How many EPIRBs aboard that vessel?” the admiral asked.

“Twenty, Global Fix 406 MHz registered,” the man sitting in front of a bank of computer screens answered.

“Twenty? How big is that yacht?” the admiral asked.

“Two-hundred-eighty-five feet,” the captain said.

“Why only one distress code?” Palmer asked. “Why wouldn’t the others be alerting?”

“Because it’s the commander. She got a hold of one. Set it off.” Crenshaw pushed into the room. “Those 406s go off under three feet of water
or
are manually turned on. If that yacht was in trouble each and every one of the 406s would be sounding off.” All attention was on Crenshaw. “Those things give instant latitude and longitude satellite reads.” He walked to the man at the computer. “I’ll bet if you check the location, it’s moved. At the rate and direction the yacht is traveling.”

The man did some keyboard work. “He’s right. The location has changed and in a direction not consistent with normal current flow.”

“We have a decision to make,” the captain said. “We contact the
Santa Monica
to verify an emergency, they’ll know it was the commander who popped it.”

“If we don’t and they find the 406 themselves, they’ll know we’re on to them,” the admiral retorted. “Commander Carver knows full well what the procedure is. She took the chance.” She turned to the radioman. “Call district. Tell them to follow procedure to the letter when contacting the yacht. And you—” she indicated the keyboard operator, “—be ready to latch on to their IMERSAT read the moment they respond.”

Admiral Hendrickson turned. “The time has been moved up to ASAP. I’ll see unit leaders in fifteen minutes for a launch time.” She looked around. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Men and women scattered to their equipment.