Gabe took a moment to survey the situation from this angle. The eight new bad guys had arrived in two vehicles. They looked like members of a local gang, dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and bandanas, carrying Uzis, most of them barely old enough to take a legal drink. And that was saying something, since the legal age in Colombia was eighteen. Jacinto probably recruited them in preparation for the ransom exchange.
Four of the kids now stood around in the driveway talking, while a fifth headed toward the front door with purpose in his stride. The other three still sat in the closer of the two vehicles, smoking something. From the sweet scent on the air, he’d guess pot. That evened the odds out some, but still not enough for his liking.
“We need to take out some of these guys,” he whispered. “Can you get to that car?”
Jean-Luc nodded. “Gotcha. I’ll go have a nice chat with our friendly Colombian gangbangers.”
“Don’t get killed.”
“Wouldn’t dream of depriving the world.”
Damn, but you couldn’t dislike like the guy. Gabe smiled and watched him crawl toward the car before turning his gaze to study the four gangbangers still standing in the driveway. He calculated several options and discarded them all with no small amount of frustration. A flashbang would be great right about now. So would hands-free radios.
A shout drew his attention back to the driveway. Several of the tangos spoke in rapid Spanish and ran across the pavement toward Jean-Luc’s position. Dammit, someone had spotted him. So much for taking out a few covertly before the action began.
Gabe lifted his rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and put a bullet through the neck of the closest man. Even before the dead guy collapsed, the others peppered Gabe’s hiding place with bullets and forced him to hit the ground behind the bushes for cover. He felt the heat of one round zing alarmingly close to his temple and Audrey’s voice whispered through his mind.
Promise me you’ll come back safe.
“I will,” he vowed into the dirt. Better late than never.
Gabe rolled away from the shower of bullets, gained his feet, and took off in a zigzagging sprint toward the back of the house as Jean-Luc and Ian engaged the remaining tangos. Their window of opportunity to get in, secure Bryson, and get out was now very, very slim. They had to go now, while everyone’s attention held firm on the firefight out front. He calculated fifteen minutes, max, before a neighbor alerted the authorities and all hell came crashing down. Once the authorities knew, the EPC would know. If they were involved, they’d send in reinforcements. Even if they weren’t involved, they might still send reinforcements solely because of Jacinto’s family ties to one of the head honchos.
Gabe hoped to be long gone—with Bryson Van Amee in tow—before that happened.
With a series of quick hand movements, he told Quinn and Jesse to go. In the original plan, he was supposed to stay outside and keep the backyard, their evac route to the helo, secure. Couldn’t do that now. The danger inside the house while they were in the basement was too great to leave the door unprotected, so he made eye contact with Marcus and motioned him over to the patio.
“Keep this area clear,” he ordered over the bursts of gunfire. Marcus nodded and took up the position as Gabe ducked into the house.
The kitchen reminded him of a morgue—vast, with a lot of cold stainless steel and black marble. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see a wall of drawers on the other side of the endless center island, but there was only a heavy door with a massive padlock holding it closed. Quinn hunched over the lock, muttering between his teeth as he tried to finesse it open.
Jesse stood to one side, medical bag slung across his chest. He peeked around the wall into the corridor that led to the action at the front of the house. “How we doin’ back there?”
Quinn cursed and smacked the lock. “Can’t get it. We need Marcus.”
“No,” Marcus, standing half in the kitchen, half on the patio, said. “Ian will do it faster.” And he sprinted across the yard.
Quinn straightened away from the door and grabbed his rifle. “You got this?”
“Yeah.” Gabe nodded. “Go help the men out front.”
Weapon raised, Quinn sprinted down the hallway off the kitchen.
A moment later, Ian came running, stumbling as a stray bullet ricocheted off the patio table and nailed him in the shoulder. Gabe laid down cover fire and Ian scrambled inside. He leaned on the island for a second, holding his shoulder, his lips pulled back in a grimace of pain. Jesse took a step forward to help, but Ian waved him away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Okay?” Gabe asked.