“Jackson, stay with me.” My heart beats in a sick, erratic rhythm. Not Jackson. This can’t be happening to Jackson. I increase the pressure on his wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “Come on, buddy, just stay with me. Help will be here soon.”
“Run,” Jackson mumbles inaudibly. “He’ll kill…” He shudders, and I feel the moment it happens. His body goes limp, and the stench of evacuated bowels fills the air.
“Jackson!” Keeping my hand on his stomach, I reach for his neck, but there’s no pulse.
It’s over. My best friend is dead.
Rat-tat-tat!
The gunfire is back, and so is the syrupy fog in my brain. It’s also hot—far hotter than it should be at night in the desert. The heat is consuming me, eating away at me like—
Fucking hell, I’m burning!
Throwing myself to the side, I roll, not stopping until the burning heat recedes. My ribs scream in pain and my head spins, but the flames licking at my skin are gone.
Panting, I open my eyes and stare at the tall ceiling above me.
Ceiling, not night sky.
My brain synapses finally connect and begin firing.
Afghanistan was eight years ago.
I’m in Chicago, not Afghanistan, and whatever took me down has nothing to do with my old commander.
Rat-tat-tat!
I turn my head to see a small figure running on the other side of the hangar. Four men in SWAT gear are running after her. As I watch in disbelief, Esguerra’s wife turns and fires her AK-47 at the pursuers before darting behind one of the planes.
Shit. I have to help Nora. Groaning, I roll over onto my side. There’s burning rubble all around me, and the limo is on fire. In the hangar wall behind the limo is a gaping hole through which I can see the police chopper. It’s sitting on the grass outside, its blades no longer turning.
Sullivan’s henchmen must’ve taken out the guards in our last SUV before coming for us.
As I struggle to my feet, I see Esguerra leap toward the burning limo. He survived, I realize with relief. Fighting a wave of dizziness, I take a step toward the car, ignoring the agonizing pain in my ribs.
Before I can get there, Esguerra jumps out of the limo, holding two machine guns, and sprints after Nora’s pursuers. I’m about to go help him when I spot movement near the helicopter.
Two men are climbing out, clearly intent on getting away.
I react even before I consciously realize who they are. Lifting my weapon, I pepper them with bullets, purposefully aiming my shots away from critical organs. When I stop, the hangar is silent again, and I look back to see Esguerra embracing Nora, both of them seemingly unhurt.
A vicious smile curves my lips as I turn and make my way to the two men I injured.
It’s time for the Sullivans to get their due.
* * *
“Is that who I think it is?” Esguerra asks hoarsely, nodding toward the older man, and my smile widens.
“Yes. Patrick Sullivan himself, along with his favorite—and last remaining—son Sean.”
I shot Patrick through the leg and his son through the arm, and both men are rolling on the ground, blubbering in agony. Their pain helps soothe some of my raging fury. For what they did to Rosa and Nora, and for the guards who died today, these men will pay.
“I’m guessing they came in the chopper to observe the action and swoop in at the right time,” I say, holding my aching ribs. “Except the right time never came. They must’ve learned who you were and called in all the cops who owed them favors.”
“The men we killed were cops?” Nora asks, visibly trembling. She must be coming down from an adrenaline high. “The ones in the Hummers and the SUVs, too?”
“Judging by their gear, many of them were.” Esguerra wraps a supportive arm around her waist. “Some were probably dirty, but others just blindly following orders from their higher-ups. I have no doubt they were told we were highly dangerous criminals. Maybe even terrorists.”
“Oh.” Nora leans against her husband, her face suddenly turning gray.
“Fuck,” Esguerra mutters, picking her up. Holding her against his chest, he says, “I’m going to take her to the plane.”
To my surprise, Nora shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. Please let me down.” She pushes at him with such determination that Esguerra complies, carefully setting her on her feet.
Keeping one arm around her back, he gives her a concerned look. “What is it, baby?”
Nora gestures toward our captives. “What are you going to do with them? Are you going to kill them?”
“Yes,” Esguerra answers with no hesitation. “I will.”
Nora doesn’t say anything, and I remember my promise to her friend. “I think Rosa should be here for this,” I say. “She’ll want to see justice served.”
Esguerra looks at his wife, and she nods.
“Bring her here,” Esguerra says, and despite the grimness of the situation, I feel a twinge of amusement as I walk back to the plane.
Esguerra’s delicate little wife has acclimated to our world quite well.
When I get to the plane, Rosa steps out to meet me, her face pale. “Lucas, are they—”
“Yes, come.” Carefully taking her arm, I lead her out of the hangar. As we step outside, I see that Patrick Sullivan has passed out on the ground, but his son is still conscious and pleading for his life.
I glance at Rosa, and I’m pleased to see that her cheeks have regained some color. Approaching Sean Sullivan, she stares down at him for a couple of seconds before looking up at me and Esguerra.
“May I?” she asks, holding out her hand, and I smile coldly as I hand her my rifle. Rosa’s hands are steady as she aims at her attacker.
“Do it,” Esguerra says, and she pulls the trigger. Sean Sullivan’s face explodes, blood and bits of brain matter flying everywhere, but Rosa doesn’t flinch or look away.
Before the sound of her shot fades, Esguerra steps toward unconscious Patrick Sullivan and releases a round of bullets into the older man’s chest.
“We’re done here,” Esguerra says, turning away from the dead body, and the four of us return to the plane.
II
The Lead
16
Lucas
I spend the week after our return from Chicago dealing with the aftermath of the trip and recuperating from my injuries. According to Goldberg, our estate doctor, I have cracked ribs and a few first-degree burns on my back and arms—injuries that are beyond minor in light of the battle we survived.
“You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” Diego says when I finally sit down with him and Eduardo to catch up on the Yulia situation. “All those guys…”
“Yeah.” My teeth ache from clenching my jaw all day long. The faces of our dead men haunt me, just like those of the guards who died in the plane crash. Over the past couple of months, we’ve lost more than seventy of our people, and the mood on the compound is grim, to say the least.
Between organizing funerals, finding new recruits, and cleaning up the mess in Chicago, I’ve been running on nothing but adrenaline fumes.
“I hope you made the fuckers pay,” Eduardo says, his voice vibrating with fury. “If I’d been there—”
“You’d be dead just like the others,” I say wearily. I’m in no mood to indulge the young guard’s bluster; my burns are mostly healed at this point, but my ribs hurt with every movement. “Tell me what you’ve learned thus far. Did you figure out if anyone had contact with my prisoner prior to the escape?”
Diego and Eduardo exchange an odd look. Then Diego says, “Yes, but I don’t think it’s her.”
I frown. “Her?”
“Rosa Martinez, the maid from the main house,” Eduardo says hesitantly. “She… Well, the drone footage showed her coming to your house a couple of times during those two weeks.”
“Oh, yeah.” I chuckle humorlessly. “She had some kind of strange curiosity about Yulia.” I’m not about to tell the guards about Rosa’s possible crush on me. The girl seems to be past that now, and I don’t think she’d appreciate the others knowing about her feelings.
She’s been through enough.
“Oh, good. I’m glad you know about that.” Diego blows out a relieved breath. “We figured it’s unlikely to be her, but I wanted to let you know just in case. She’s the only one who came by your house on Tuesday, so…” He shrugs.
“Wait, Tuesday? As in, the day before we left?” I’d warned Rosa away long before that, and I thought she’d listened. “She came to my house on Tuesday?”
“That’s what the footage shows,” Eduardo says cautiously. “But it can’t be her. I know Rosa—we dated for some time. She’s not… she wouldn’t—”
I hold up my hand, cutting him off. “I’m sure she’s not the one to blame,” I say, even as a hard knot forms in my chest. If Rosa came to my house after I warned her away, that changes things.
My assumptions about the girl were wrong.
“You did well telling me about this,” I say to the two guards. “But I’d appreciate it if you kept quiet about it for now. We don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea—Rosa herself included.”
If there’s something more to her actions than a misplaced crush, I don’t want anyone to tip her off.