Absolute Doubt (Fallen Agents of T-FLAC Book 1) Page 25

  No way in hell. "All she needed was her superhero cape and she’d be set. Or Ash Daklin’s goddamn phone number, assuming at some point on her trek up the mountain there’d be cell coverage. Even if she had service, the hottest man on the planet with whom she’d spent most of the day making love, hadn’t given her his number. Wasn’t that just freaking perfect?

  This was mission impossible and she knew it. If there was any other way, she wouldn't even be considering doing something this crazy. Yet she couldn't leave Oliver without a means of escape. Sometimes the ends justified the means, no matter what those means were. "Marcus, where are you?"

  How the hell was she going to get through those guarded gates alone? How was she going to find Oliver in that huge building? And once inside—-if she got that freaking far-—how was she going to get them out?

  She was an artist, a designer. She made exquisite and delicate lingerie. She was not, nor did she want to be, now, or at any time in the near future, a damned counterterrorist operative. Nausea churned her stomach, and she stood still, trying to regulate her erratic breathing.

  She had a million questions and no damned answers. As organized and methodical as she was in her day-to-day life, there was no rulebook for search and rescue missions. For Ash, this was just another day at the office. Hell of an office, buddy. Her nerves were shredded just thinking about what she had to accomplish.

  Breathe. Focus. Make a plan.

  The four-wheel drive truck that Ash and Franco had taken up to the mine the other day was parked under the hacienda's portico. If there were keys in it, she’d have her wheels. From there, she'd have to wing it.

  River dashed out of Marcus's small house, down the path, jumped over the water hose, ran through the gate, and then sprinted up the hill. Guided by no more than starlight, she crouched beside the low wall of the church, her lungs heaving from the high altitude and stress.

  Stopping dead, she spun on her heels and looked up as a loud, throbbing whop-whop-whop came out of nowhere. The helicopter sounded as if it was directly overhead. It almost was right over her head, so low, she could see pale faces of men inside. She automatically ducked.

  Woohoo. The cavalry had arrived. About freaking time!

  Her relief was profound. Marcus knew this world. With the help of the priest, as well as the operatives on board, she'd be able to find her brother. Oliver had a hell of a lot to answer for, but she’d save her personal argument with him for when they were both safely away from Los Santos and Cosio.

  Covering her ears against the deafening sound of the whipping blades, River ran toward the helicopter as it set down, light as a dragonfly, in front of the hacienda. Its spinning rotors just missed the roof of the portico, flattening flowers and shrubs in nearby flowerbeds. Everything not nailed down whirled up into the vortex created by the chopper.

  Ducking, River circumvented the helicopter as the door slid open. At the same time, Franco raced out of the open front door of the house, his hair wild, and eyes manic. In his arms, he carried a two-foot statue of Mary as if it were a baby.

  Ram was behind him. Leveling a gun at the fleeing Franco, he fired a shot at Franco's feet, which shattered several nearby driveway tiles. Franco stumbled back. "Stop," Ram shouted. "Or I will shoot to kill."

  Shit, shit, shit. River stopped dead in her tracks.

  Franco wouldn't be running to the helicopter if it was filled with T-FLAC operatives. Going hot then cold, River froze in the shadow of the still spinning rotors, terrified to move and draw attention to herself. God, she was way too freaking close to the helicopter. Her pale hair whipped around her head as she took a tiny sliding step back.

  Franco’s laugh was wild as he handed the statue to someone inside the helicopter. "Careful with her. Careful you fool!" he shouted in Spanish, then turned his head to answer the operative in English. "No, you won't. I have information T-FLAC wants."

  Ram stood in the slice of light from the front door, his expression grim, his stance and voice authoritative. "I don't have to kill you, Xavier. I can take out both your legs. Step away from the chopper and give yourself up. There's nowhere you can run now."

  River realized too late that Ram couldn’t see her, and she was standing far too close to Franco.

  She slid her other foot back and redistributed her weight.

  Something alerted Franco, and he turned his eyes sideways. Oh, crap. He saw her. River turned to run. In a spider-like half-crouch, Franco reached up and grabbed her wrist. Already off balance, River staggered as he yanked her down low, hauling her in a tight embrace against his side. Her hair whipped in stinging strands around her face as she struggled uselessly to free herself, pulling backwards, and digging her nails into his skin, none of which had any effect on him.

  "Here's my insurance policy.” Franco laughed, raising her arms with his, his thick fingers painfully shackling her wrist. "You'll know where to find me—-"

  As he lowered their joined hands, River yanked her arm close and bit down, hard, on his clenched fingers. With a furious exclamation, he backhanded her. Stinging pain flared in her cheek, and her eyes watered. She kicked him as hard as she could. Her foot landed on his shin and she stomped him again, before he had time to shift out of reach.

  He didn't let go of the stronghold he had on her with his right arm. "Bitch! You were trouble the moment I set eyes on you." Dragging her with him, he jerked her closer to the open door, where a crouching man inside opened fire.

  A stained glass side panel behind Ram exploded in a shower of colored glass.

  Ram returned fire. Someone in the helicopter gave an angry shout, firing a volley of shots as Ram retreated behind an enormous marble pillar.

  Over River's head, Franco's men kept up a steady stream of gunfire to hold Ram back. Franco shoved her ahead of him. "Take her. Take her!"

  No way in hell would she allow them to take her any-freaking-where. Eyes watering from the blow as well as the high wind of the rotors, River fought Franco by kicking, biting whatever she could reach, and trying to pull away from him with all her might. His implacable grip on her upper arm hurt like hell.

  Damn, the son of a bitch was strong!

  She was at the wrong angle to knee him in the balls, but she got in several good kicks, and scratched the side of his neck when he hauled back and tried to hit her again.

  Blocking his swinging hand with her forearm, River yelled, "Cobarde!" in Spanish as she wrenched and twisted. "Only a coward preys on innocent young girls. Only a coward would—-" He swung at her again, this time almost cutting off her breathing when the side of his hand connected with her throat. "Ow, shit!"

  Ram fired, the shot coming perilously close to River's head as the bullet skimmed a hot path over her shoulder. It was one hell of a shot, just missing her, and hitting Franco directly over her left shoulder.

  The operative was an expert marksman, gauging to within inches of River's height the much taller Franco. He didn't kill either of them. Yay for him, but River was shaken that he'd opted to shoot Franco while she was pretty much in the way. Take the shot, a phrase she often yelled at the hero in action movies, would now have new meaning.

  Clutching his shoulder, Franco teetered back, still crouched low, shackling her wrist in the vise of his fingers. "Shoot the fucker! Shoot him!" He screamed a string of obscenities muddled with English, Spanish, orders, and threats.

  His garbled speech and frantic movements, not to mention the sweat pouring down his temples, and his unrelenting grip on her, told her that Franco was clearly unraveling.

  From the open door of the helicopter, the loud sharp crack of returned fire sounded like cannons going over her head. River flinched every time a shot was fired. Glass shattered, wood splintered, bullets pinged off stone. They all combined in a godawful, frenetic noise with the whop-whop-whop of the blades overhead.

  She was disoriented by the danger at such close quarters, as well as her inability to flee and finding herself in the very center of all this chaos. Everythin
g was happening too fast to process. Her shoulder socket blazed red-hot fire as Franco's weight threatened to drag her to the ground. Counterbalancing, she tried to yank her arm free, trying in vain to half-walk, half-crawl away from him, all the while trying to scratch, bite, and claw.

  Fifty feet away, near the open front door of the hacienda, was the only person on her side with a gun and skill. Illuminated by a slice of light from the open front door and the lights on the helicopter, she saw blood pouring down Ram’s face from a slash at his temple. Shielded by one of the massive stone pillars of the portico, he swiped an impatient hand across his face to get the blood away from his eye, as he continued firing.

  His head wasn't the only place he'd been hit. He was covered in blood, but she couldn't tell where it was coming from. Dear God, was he going to die?

  "River!" The whine of another bullet from inside the helicopter silenced whatever the operative was trying to tell her. It slammed into the stone pillar inches from Ram's head. Chunks of marble flew.

  She tugged and pulled against Franco's hold, kneeing his leg. But all that did was make the cuff of his fingers tighten painfully, twisting the bones in her wrist. "Get your asses down here and take the girl!" he yelled to his men.

  Two shots blasted overhead in quick succession.

  Ram fired back three shots. The bullets ricocheted off the metal body of the helicopter in a shower of sparks. A blood curdling shout came from inside. A second later, a man fell out, landing with a sickening thud on the driveway, three feet from where River and Franco crouched. He lay still.

  Without half the back of his head, he couldn't be anything but dead. River swallowed bile.

  "River! Come to me!"

  Ramse had a lot of faith in her ability to wrest herself free of a man this determined to hold onto her. "I'm trying to, damn it!"

  The cacophony sounded exactly the way she imagined Dante's seventh level of hell would. The beautifully carved front door was now a mass of holes and splinters. Stained glass sidelights were shattered. Glass and bits of wood littered the elegantly curved stairs leading up to the front door.

  Still cursing, Franco twisted her arm up and back. River fell to the ground, hoping he'd fall with her and release his hold. It didn't happen. She connected hard on her hip and shoulder. Air escaped her lungs in a loud whoosh.

  "Come take the girl. For fucksake, take the goddamned girl!"

  The persistent whop-whop-whop of the helicopter blades was pierced by the sounds of half a dozen more shots.

  Sickened, River saw Ram go down through a curtain of her own hair. Dazed, she tried to lever her feet under her, staggering unsteadily, trying to center herself so she could crawl out from under the blades to help him. But Franco still had her in a death grip, and she couldn't break free.

  Ram was unconscious. Probably dead. Blood from his head wound now puddled, glistening dark red around him.

  Suddenly Franco released her. Shocked, River took a running step, only to be brought up short when a man jumped down from the helicopter to scoop her up. Shit, shit, shit.

  "Get her in. Get her in!"

  Kicking, bucking, and screaming like a demented banshee, there wasn't any-freaking-thing she could do to break the guy’s hold, no matter how hard she tried to fight. With her arms pinned to her sides, she could do little more than flail and make herself hard to hold onto. She let her legs fold under her, making herself deadweight. The guy just picked her up in a death grip.

  Do not let them get you into the helicopter.

  If they did, it would all be over. Franco had nothing good planned for her if he had anything planned at all. She was a nuisance and in the way. He'd kill her. The only question was how quickly.

  The bear-hugging thug hoisted her up to someone inside the helicopter who grabbed her arms, almost wrenching them from the sockets as he dragged her half into the helicopter. The coldness of the metal floor seeped into her cheek, and the edge of the threshold to the sliding door dug into her hipbones as she teetered, half in and half out.

  River fought to right herself and slid out of the helicopter, backwards. The second man slammed his foot on her back to hold her down. Ow, shit! Air left her lungs in a pained grunt. Wrapping both hands around his other ankle, digging her nails into his shin just above his heavy boot, she tried to pull him off balance. She was rewarded with a hard stomp in the small of her back, and a string of unintelligible Russian.

  Beside her, Franco was quickly pulled inside.

  "Go!" he yelled in Spanish. He lay on his belly on the metal floor beside her. Crimson blood soaked the shoulder of his crisply ironed white shirt, and matted the hair over his temple. She hoped it hurt like hell. A streak of black dirt smudged his cheek as he looked her straight in the eye. "Retribution is mine, saith the Lord. Amen. Lift off. Get us the fuck out of here!"

  The guy's foot lifted from River's back. She sucked a breath into her oxygen-starved lungs then kicked backwards before anyone could stop her. As the helicopter rose, she dropped out of the open door. For a few seconds, she fell through nothing but air as the high-pitched whine of a bullet skimmed her ear.

  River landed on the shrubs in a flowerbed, flat on her back. It wasn’t exactly a soft landing, but at least she hadn't hit the tiles. Shots fired from the retreating helicopter severed branches, scattered leaves, and lopped the heads off a row of purple flowers.

  Her heart pounded so hard, she felt as though a midget was attempting to jackhammer his way out of her chest while several of his fat friends bore down on her deflated lungs. Calm down. Don't panic. It was hard not to. Fear dogged her every breath. Gasping, it took several minutes to inflate her lungs and for the dizziness to fade. Profound relief seeped through her veins as she blinked the bright lights on the helicopter into focus, watching as it rose into the starry night sky.

  "Stay down. Stay down!" Father Marcus dropped to the dirt beside her, scaring the shit out of her all over again.

  Since she'd had all the air knocked out of her, and had yet to drag in a full breath, she didn't have any other option. She tried to blink him into focus. Dressed all in black and without his clerical collar, the priest knelt beside her with a massive weapon positioned on his shoulder. "Here, cover your ears!" He shoved an earmuff-type headset in her general direction.

  She managed to fumble the headset over her ears seconds before he fired. A blast of blazing hot air and a brilliant flash of light accompanied an incredibly loud bang that made River's ears ring in spite of the protective headwear.

  "Fuck. Missed!" Ram yelled. She saw him running toward them in her peripheral vision. "We're losing our window. Here, give it to me, Father."

  #

  "She fell from the helicopter," Franco repeated time. He listened through the head-set as the helicopter left the lights of Los Santos behind, flying now over jungle. A private jet waited for him in Santa De Porres.

  “Are you sure she’s dead?”

  "Of course she's dead." The pain in his shoulder where he'd been shot stung like damned fire ants, bleeding a hot, sticky red patch on his shirt. His heart pounded hard enough that he felt each staccato beat behind his eyes.

  Adrenaline surged nauseatingly through his body as the helicopter distanced him from danger. He gripped Mary against him to ward off more evil.

  His daughter would understand what he was going through. Catarina knew his world so well. Franco's eyes stung and he ached, missing her as deeply now as he had three years ago when he'd learned she'd been murdered. He remembered her as small girl. So intelligent, so inquisitive. If he could've taken her away from her mother to raise, dear Lord, what he could have made of her. But she had grown, with the steadying hand of her father to guide her only from a distance. Franco had been so very proud of all she'd accomplished, proud of her recruitment by T-FLAC—-the very organization that had been dogging his heels for years.

  She'd planted a bomb inside the well-protected, secure underground facility of T-FLAC headquarters building. Setting it to deton
ate years in the future. She'd had no idea at the time that less than a month after setting the timer, she’d be dead.

  Murdered in cold blood by the very people she'd worked beside, the very people she trusted. Hate ate at him. He had a prime directive. A God-given purpose.

  "And your Bishop?" The supercilious voice of his partner was muffled by the headset. Beneath the helicopter, the jungle was dark, although Franco could see the bright lights of the mine compound off to his left as they flew a few miles away.

  Should he lie? "As good as dead." It pained Franco that he'd had to leave behind Bishop Daklin. Taking him as a hostage would have been to his advantage. But he'd been lucky to escape the house with Mary. Where he was going, he needed nothing else.

  "As-good-as is not dead, Franco. It was a simple order. You'd better be absolutely certain, because if he's still alive, he'll return and tell them."

  "Tell them what?" Franco demanded. His partner never got his damned hands dirty. "Easy for you to give orders left, right, and center. I'm not willing to kill a man of God. There. I said it. If the bishop escapes Los Santos tonight with his life, so be it. Perhaps he'll authenticate my apparition when he returns."

  "And how will that help you where you're going, Franco?"

  "My children will know. It will be my legacy."

  "That man is no more a bishop than you or me. He duped you, Franco. Made a fool out of you."

  "This is not true. Rome sent him."

  "He's a T-FLAC operative, you idiot. Did you really think Rome would send someone on such short notice?"

  "You cannot know this. You've never met the man."

  "I've watched him. Listened to him. Now we know that T-FLAC infiltrated the soldiers. Infiltrated your own bodyguards."

  Franco wanted to say it was impossible. Yet there was no mistaking that Ortiz suddenly, and without provocation, wanted him dead. It had to be T-FLAC's influence. There was no other explanation.