Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) (6 page)

Anger. The final stage in my hostage’s handbook.

Since I’ve been held hostage, I’ve believed the gunman held my fate. And maybe he does.

But maybe, I hold his.

Ryder

“Cameras?” Briggs asks later when I brief him over the phone.

“Nothing that records. He doesn’t want anything he does there caught on film,” I explain. “There’s a live feed monitor only. I hacked into the wiring down the block to give you access. I also got a motion sensor so you can tap into the back stairwell to give me some extra eyes. It’s connected to the kitchen, which is poorly understaffed and used to deliver Miguel’s meals to his office, which is adjacent to his bedroom. The security is a joke.”

“What time are you going in?”

“Zero one hundred hours.”

“What’s your entrance strategy?”

“I already disabled the security for an overlooked window leading into the basement. The entire place has got great shrub coverage. The basement contains a storage pantry that leads into the kitchen—and thus the stairwell.”

“Exit?”

“Back the way I came while the guards are distracted with a dumpster explosion on the opposite side of the house,” I say. “I even programmed a few other complications for them, just in case things start going south.”

“Sounds good.”

After we synchronize our watches, I get in a three hour power-recharge sleep. I wake up before the alarm—my body is trained to do so—and recheck my gear.

I position my plates and carrier vest—standard Navy SEAL issued. I think about the man I loved as a father every time I do it.

“These plates can stop up to three AK-47 rounds,” he’d remind me every outing. “You are to always wear it, Ryder—don’t you dare go off slick—capish?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Good. Because I don’t want to have to be the one to tell your mother you were killed because you were going without it.”

Of course, I met my “mother” and Chief at the tender age of nine years old. Chief called her my mama, but I called her by her name, Betty, for a long time. Too long.

“What else is imperative, son?” he’d ask.

It’s so goddamn ingrained that I still pack my carrier and equipment, as if he were still right here beside me. Night vision goggles for night assault tactics—US SEAL issued. I check my Heckler & Koch M-4 assault rifle with suppressor and extra magazines and strap two Glocks into separate holsters. I’ve also got several smoke grenades, light canisters, my Winkler fixed blades, breaching charges, in case I’m put into a tough spot, tool box and lock picks, tourniquets and flashlights.

“The only easy day was yesterday, Ryder.” I may be the only one left speaking the SEAL motto out loud, but it’s all Chief.

I’m the last one alive.

Parking the Jag a mile from the target, I grab my equipment and take off on foot.

Through binoculars, I watch and wait as the middle rotating guard, who goes between the steel fencing and the stone wall, makes his lonely round with Cujo, the drooling canine, by his side.

Once past, I unearth the bolt cutters I left by the fence yesterday, hidden underneath a piece of fake green turf and tucked up into a small mounded decoy hill.

I snip myself a nice sized hole at the base of the fence, reposition the cutters back beneath the turf, crawl through and situate it so Cujo’s handler will be none the wiser.

My thumb taps the stopwatch on my SEAL dive watch. Ten minutes in and out.

“Talk to me, Briggs.” I barely breathe it. It’ll be the last thing I say through the communication device. But for all intents and purposes, Briggs will be my set of eyes in the building.

“You’re really blended, I can’t even detect your movement on the cam,” Briggs marvels. “But just in case, I’m disabling the live feed with a still shot. While I’m at it . . . there. All other monitor angles are frozen as well. You’re a ghost.”

Briggs and I have been doing this for years. He’s a great asset and friend, and we have our routine running smooth as clockwork.

I stay low on my belly over the stone wall and keep close to the ground as I glide, almost invisible, across the compound.

“Freeze,” Briggs says, and I do. “The guard is making his next pass. Just hold tight.”

I’m concealed within a cluster of banana palms and positioned enough upwind that Cujo won’t catch my scent.

Once they round the corner of the home, Briggs squawks, “Carry on.”

The window pops open with ease after my earlier tampering and I crawl through quickly.

The utility room is dark, but the night vision goggles keep everything illuminated. I reach the door and listen carefully before proceeding forward. There’s no monitoring equipment on the lowest level, so Briggs is out of the game, and I have only my eyes and ears to depend on.

Following the concrete hallway, Glock in hand, I head to the back stairs, which will lead me to the kitchen, when I hear a sound that stops me cold.

A frantic clanging of chains is accompanied by a woman’s high pitched screams, infused with panic.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” she yells.

I’m not surprised that it’s coming from behind the closed door of the “closet” my home tour guy wouldn’t let me into this afternoon.

A shrill, bloodcurdling wail follows a man’s sadistic laughter.

One swift kick to the door leverages it open.

The full picture is painted in a fraction of a second—a woman is on her knees atop a grimy old mattress. She’s blindfolded and chained to the concrete wall behind her.

Her torturer stands over her, the flat of his blade stroking her leg but not cutting—yet. He is momentarily stunned by my intrusion.

I shoot him dead without hesitation.

She continues to beg and yank violently against the chain.

“FUCK! You alive?” Brigg’s voice blasts through the ear comm.

“Yeah, shut up for a second.” I bend to one knee to see how best to free her. “Stop moving. I’m here to get you out,” I breathe in her ear.

She goes still and listens. I don’t want to risk shrapnel splay so I attack the lock with my tools. In less than a minute I have it open. The chain drops from the wall.

The woman gives a gasp when she realizes the weight of the chain has fallen.

I pull the chain out from the loop; her arms, however, are still bound behind her in a barbaric bar style cuff.

“What’s happening?” Her voice is strangled with tension. “Are you going to kill me now?”

“Ryder, we’ve got a serious complication.” Briggs’s tone is terse in my ear.

Before I can answer either of them, all hell erupts above our heads.

The staccato pattern of automatic weapons combined with shouts of anger, surprise and profanity becomes nonstop. Whatever is happening upstairs is separate from what’s happening down here and has nothing to do with me—but I’m not quite sure it doesn’t have to do with her.

“Looks like three separate gangs are infiltrating the estate.” Briggs sounds panicked. “You can distinguish them by their colors and patches. They’re storming the facility, Ryder, and they’ve got all kinds of numbers and munitions. You got to get the fuck out of there now!”

Shouts, groans of death and barked orders tell me it’s become a fucking warzone above us.

I yank the woman to her feet.

We don’t have time for explanations. It won’t be long before Miguel’s men or the opposing faction get down here and make us both a couple of ice cold corpses.

The woman’s legs buckle under her weight. “I can’t walk.”

“Don’t speak!” I growl urgently against her ear. We don’t want to make any noise that would alert someone to our location.

Without a word, I sling her body like a sack over my shoulder, wondering how long she’s been held down here. I bring us out the door and into the hallway.

“Incoming on the stairs!” Briggs announces just as a man drenched in blood comes rolling down the kitchen steps and sprawls facedown against the concrete floor.

Immediately following him is one of Miguel’s soldiers, who I recognize from yesterday, brandishing a truncheon.

He takes one look at me and the prisoner I’m carrying and comes at me with the military issued weapon he’d just bludgeoned his enemy with.

I shoot him between the eyes, turn and prepare to go back the way I came, but odds are the quiet, unguarded exit route I created is now in complete chaos.

“Dude, you better find someplace to hide; the house is completely surrounded and it doesn’t look like they’re taking any prisoners,” Briggs explains.

Before I can consider what he said, a blast goes off above us that shakes the foundations of the house and causes a fault line to crack open and snake up the concrete wall.

The woman screams and curls against me in terror.

They’re going to take this place apart.

I may have seen salvation in the basement laundry room yesterday where I’d discovered a steel reinforced plate behind the dryer. It’s worth a try. In my line of work I’ve seen escape hatches into sewer systems, tunnels dug beneath bathtubs, hidden rooms and safes hidden with every guise imaginable. In fact, Chief trained me to seek those types of things out every time I cased a joint—they’ve often proven to be an invaluable lifeline.

And who the hell puts that kind of barricading behind a common household appliance anyway?

I get into the laundry room and rush to the plate. After shoving the dryer out of the way with my hip, I glimpse the silver bolt lock on the lower section of panel.

“I’M HERE! I’M HERE!” the woman shouts.

“What the fuck, lady? They’re not the fucking cavalry!” I bark. “I am!”

But she’s not stopping. My fingers find the breaching charge and the duct tape from my carrier pouch. I cover her mouth fast with a strip of the tape and then adhere the charge next to the lock and panel edge. I light the charge and step back, hunching over the woman’s body so I’m her human shield.

It blows—I doubt with the ruckus upstairs anyone will notice—and the panel unhinges.

Right away, I see a tunnel bathed in the soft green glow of florescent security lights. Only fly in the ointment could be if this one tunnel has several intersections and we meet up with Miguel and his henchmen.

Adapt, improvise and overcome.

Keeping the woman balanced over my shoulder, I arm myself with both Glocks—one in each hand—and press forward like a bat out of hell.

Chapter Five

Rachel

Grave mistake.

I shouldn’t have played a bargaining chip like that! I just thought if I could get them to remove the cuffs, I’d have a chance to get away. I thought
anything
would be better than Mexico City!

Now I’m even more desperate. I don’t understand what’s happening!

The fighting noise erupts, and a new picture comes to mind. Miguel’s men saw police raiding the place and decided to get me the hell out before I was discovered. That’s why this guy isn’t bringing me to the rescuers. That’s why I’m still in these archaic cuffs that keep my arms and hands in check and immobilized behind my back, and that’s why, when I screamed, he taped my mouth shut.

He hasn’t uttered another word since telling me he was taking me out of here. No way he’s my savior.

What does that mean anyway,
taking you out of here?

He would have taken the cuffs off if this was a rescue; he would’ve removed the blindfold so I could see his face . . . it all would’ve been done differently.

He still hasn’t talked to me. His breathing is controlled as he runs almost full-force. He’s so strong, I don’t know how I can get free from him. But if I’m going to get free, this is my chance—during the transportation—before I’m thrown into another hole or a vehicle.

I consider hitting him with the cuff bar but realize I don’t have enough distance to strike with any real force, so I’d probably just succeed in pissing him off enough to knock me unconscious. Then I’ll have no chance.

Dread slows the beat of my heart to a near stall. What if
this
is the guy in charge of delivering me to the buyer? 

I can’t figure any of this out. All I know is that I’m being whisked away from police and closer to my death.

The man running doesn’t slow or falter, and his muscular shoulder is driving into my ribcage, grating against it without mercy. My legs press up against his chest, and being barelegged, my skin scrapes against some sort of utility vest—I can feel the cool metal and lumps of plastic within the Velcro micro pockets.

If I can just reach something in one of those pockets! I can poke out his eye! Or jab him in an artery.

Dear God, give me the opportunity.

All of a sudden, he stops and changes direction.

My ass, feet and legs keep hitting unyielding metal . . .

It’s a ladder, I can feel it.

Oh my God! How high is it? I’m on his shoulder!

I try screaming under the tape.

“Stay silent,” he barks gruffly in a low, threatening tone.

I can only imagine how high up we could be.

I wonder if I can push my face against the fabric of his shoulder and back and move this blindfold away from my eyes. Why hadn’t I thought of that when he first picked me up?

As he jostles me while going up the ladder, I work my cheek and temple over his shoulder, willing the blindfold to loosen its hold.

He wraps one arm over me and the other under my body for just a moment, causing me to freeze. Then he focuses his effort upwards. Lifting his arms and crushing me closer against him, he also lifts whatever’s over the top of us.

When he presses me into him, it’s exactly what I need, and the blindfold comes down and away from my right eye.

It feels like a lifeline I can grip onto for all I’m worth. I can see again. But what’s happening around me causes me to shudder with fear that’s quickly spilling towards hysteria.

It’s darkest night as he’s racing away through the edge of woods, as if to stay under the cover the low hanging trees provide. I can see a mansion and its lights receding as he pulls me deeper into the night. 

That place had to have been my prison. Under floodlights in the distance, I see men fighting, dying. I hear the sounds of bullets firing into the air and dogs barking.

Before I have the chance to process much more, I see a large man come out of the shadows and rush headlong into the guy carrying me. I’m thrust to the ground painfully hard as the three of us go down together.

The man who knocked us down jumps onto the man who took me, who responds by pistol whipping him in the head.

My legs aren’t useless any longer. I start crawling away from their melee and then get to my feet, but my arms still being locked behind me throws off my balance. I stumble over fallen logs and massive tree roots protruding from the soft soil. With no hands to catch myself, I’m nearly impaled. The black night is interrupted only by the moon, which is hidden behind the dense trees, and I can hardly see. I’m fleeing and fighting for my very life in this desperate nightmare, as my shins, knees and feet are ripped by the terrain.

I twist my head, trying to make a split-second decision. That man was taking me somewhere, and I need to assume it was nowhere good! The guy who tackled us could be here to help me or he could just be another one of my captors. I have no idea who’s winning the fight back at the house. I won’t run back towards the mansion, and I won’t run in the direction my assailant was taking me. I’ll go east.

I’m only a few feet away when a terrible grunting and gurgling sound hits my ears. I’m compelled to look.

And immediately wish I hadn’t.

The man who took me is on one knee, holding the hilt of a knife that presses through the tackler’s heart. The sound is the man drowning in his own blood and fluids.

Not me, please not me!
I push through on my knees over broken branches and puddles of dank, stagnant water. I pitch forward and my face smacks against the earth.

He’s on top of me in a heartbeat. “Don’t fucking run from me.” He seethes the warning into my left ear, quiet and deadly.

In the sharp glow of the moon, a trickle of blood drips from the large serrated blade he grips in his massive fist.

It’s instinct to scream. Self-preservation.

He mutters something, but I can’t hear anything except for my icy trill breaking through the night’s humid heat.

In the back of my mind, I realize the tape adhesive over my mouth must have been loosened by the water I face-planted in earlier.

A cloth is quickly stuffed into my mouth. I choke and nearly vomit as my belly goes back against his shoulder. I’m jostled as he continues on his original course.

I kick as hard as I can, but he holds my legs easily in his vicelike grip.

Moments later, he runs down a dock and throws me into the bottom of a boat.

The pain in my spine is sharp, but it dulls quickly enough. Rolling over, I see him grab the oar.

Jesus! He’s pushing us into the swamp!

Horror rushes through me.
Oh my God! He’s going to dump my body in the swamp where they can’t find me!

All of that time keeping me “safe” and their talk of selling me undamaged comes to a screeching halt when they realize their plot was discovered.

I’m not dying this way!

His back is turned to me. It may be my only chance. I come at him with all my weight and drive him over the side of the boat. I take him off guard. He curses as he hits the shallow waters.

Lumbering to the front of the boat, I scan the dashboard, praying to see how to turn it on!

The silver moonlight glints off something metal on the floor. Wedged halfway underneath the carpet are a set of keys. I must have dislodged them from their hiding place when I ran over them. I land hard on my knees and scoop the keys up and then, with fumbling fingers, try the first key I get a good grip on.

The lights on the boat flash.

I feel a surge of excitement as I turn the key and listen to the rev of the engine.

Spinning around to face the wheel, I decide I can drive with my chin. Just as I lean down to engage the gas pedal, a bullet whistles over my head.

My body is roughly pulled to the floor by a pair of calloused hands.

“Are you fucking crazy!?” my attacker storms in my face. “Now they all know where we are!”

Bullets spray into the side of the boat as my attacker orders, “Hold your breath!”

Almost before I can suck in a quick gasp of air, he plugs my nose closed with his fingers, hugs me hard against him and throws us into water on the opposite side of the boat.

A painful rush of fluid coats my lungs in white hot fire. As I’m spitting it up and out of my mouth, I’m flipped harshly onto my side. Coughing and gasping for oxygen sends excruciating vibrations through my chest.

After a second, I understand I’m on land again.

The man who pulled me out here wrenches me up from the ground, but instead of throwing me over his shoulder, he holds me with my front slung against his, one arm latched around my upper legs and the other around the center of my back.

There’s been a lapse of time.
What the hell happened?

I’m still choking on the water coming up from my lungs.

Did I almost drown? Did I
fully
drown?

Why am I alive now, then?

Did he . . .?
Why?

Why would he revive me?

It makes no sense!
I want to scream!

But then I see a black shadow closing in on us. An involuntary sound escapes my agony filled chest. Am I warning the guy carrying me or crying out for help from the one chasing us down? I don’t even know.

My eyes gaze upward just in time to see my assailant turn his head to see the guy chasing us. With the element of surprise no longer in his favor, the other guy stops, points his gun and takes several steps forward to close the distance between us.

My heart is hammering in terror and confusion.

The guy holding me lets my legs fall to the ground and my feet touch the earth before his arm moves away from my back. The next sequence of events happens so fast I almost wonder if they happen the way I think I see it.

My captor grabs the gun with his left hand, pushing it down to the side. When the bullet is released from its chamber it tears its way through the earth in a spray of dirt and mud. He hooks around the gunman’s right arm and, with a powerful fist, pummels the guy in the jaw as he rips the gun from his hand.

They exchange savage blows until the gunman lunges at my carrier with a knife.

Cringing, I remember with all too much clarity what happened the last time a knife was pulled.

I can’t get enough air to breathe properly, let alone run. Trying to crawl again, I’m struck by the piercing rawness of my knees, legs and feet. I’m not going to get far.

Frantically, I scan what’s around me—if I could get under some cover and hide . . . but I’m crushed by the probability of being at my captor’s mercy.

With two quick and deliberate turns, my assailant is around the back of the gunman and plunges his blade up and into the guy’s throat—directly in the crook beneath his chin where it meets his neck.

Blood sprays out of the hole when he yanks the knife down and out. He steps to the side, and the other guy drops, dying, his eyes wide and wild.

My captor comes at me, still holding the knife. The scream that’s been welling up in my bruised and swollen lungs finds its way out of my mouth.