Chapter 20 Jon
Chapter twenty
Jon
It wasn’t as much fun to be back in the field as Jon might have expected.
Granted, there were more than a few key differences between their current trek and any of his previous deployments.
Most notably was probably the lack of gear so heavy and bulky that it may as well have been an extra layer of armor around his body. A close second was the blind hunt.
The blind hunt was fucking infuriating.
Which had made it all the more satisfying when they’d come upon their new friend a handful of hours prior.
Though he was quickly proving to be something of a wimp.
Seemed his smack-talk and bravado were directly glued to the sharp things he’d held in his possession, and without those, he was a simpering crybaby.
Jon flicked his wrist and splashed cold water across the half-unconscious guy’s face. “No one told you it was naptime, bud.” He didn’t bother using Spanish, his tone would translate clear enough.
The guy, probably not past his mid-twenties, let out a groan that slid into a whimper as he looked around with his unswollen eye. He swallowed visibly and sniffled so hard he probably sucked up dirt.
Alex tipped toward Jon and whispered, “I know this group’s supposed to be a big deal, but when you said ‘cartel’, I expected something … more.”
Jon grunted.
Herb moved forward and dropped into a crouch in front of the guy.
He spoke in Spanish, but Jon followed every word.
“You brought this on yourself, dumbass. Joining a cartel was stupid enough, but following those suicidal motherfuckers across the border? Stirring up shit in the states? Picking a fight with a bona-fucking-fide United States Marine?” Herb flicked the guy in the forehead, at the edge of a visible bruise.
“Stupid doesn’t cover it, kid. You obviously got a death wish.
Just tell us what we want and we’ll help you out with that. ”
Herb fell quiet again, and their new friend glared back.
Billy chuckled. “Who knew ‘bona-fucking-fide’ was Spanish?”
Jon’s lips twitched.
Lance snickered.
Herb rocked back on his heels and glanced their way. “It’s all about the accent and the attitude, hermano. The way you say it? Ain’t Spanish at all.”
“P-PJ,” their new friend sputtered, his voice strained, “wants to … make you suffer.”
The group quieted. Herb faced forward. “Us?”
“No.” The guy lifted his good eye over Herb’s shoulder, up to Jon. “Him. He drew our blood, so we’ll draw his. That’s … what PJ says.” He coughed and spat up phlegm tinted red with blood of his own.
More than one pair of eyes shifted back to Jon.
Lance arched a brow. “Makin’ friends everywhere you go, just like old times.”
Jon rolled his eyes and addressed Herb and the guy whose name they hadn’t bothered with. “And what the hell did I do to piss your Pretty Bird off?”
Their friend gave a weak shrug. “No lo sé.”
Jon ground his teeth. He should have expected that the foot soldiers wouldn’t know details.
It wasn’t much different from a military in that sense.
They were the grunts, merely given marching orders and expected to hop-to.
But it would be extremely helpful to understand why the hell a target he only knew the street name for had decided to hold a grudge against him, specifically.
Sure, he’d killed a couple of PJ’s guys.
But only when PJ had sent them after him, and after the women. Those were fights PJ had initiated.
Because guys like him always think rationally. He bit back the groan. For all he knew, this was because of that one damn bird. Or the botched robbery the two original hitmen had so blatantly been covering up.
Jon rolled his jaw. It was clear Parker had been in bed with the Veracruz Cartel to some degree, but would he have been so specific as to identify the two responsible for intervening in that plan? The would-be robbers were dead and the hitmen hadn’t shown up until after the deputies.
He’d assumed those men had circled back on him because he had returned fire on them, defended the bakery, and survived.
Because he’d seen at least one of their faces and maybe they’d considered that he might have glimpsed their license plate, too.
But what if it had been more than that? What if their attempt to silence him had run deeper, even then?
It would really help if he knew who the fuck PJ was.
Jon met their captive’s one-eyed stare. “Give it your best guess.”
The guy pulled his mouth into a thin line and hesitated with a response. His usable eye darted around, once again taking stock, as if he’d hoped one or all of Jon’s armed buddies might have strolled away. Finally, he responded, “You got in the way. PJ … he likes—”
“Got three bogies crawling up our ass,” Lance interrupted. He lifted his head, fingers still pressed to the dirt. “Looks like our stray had friends.”
“Uh-uh,” Foxe said, settling his canon in his palm as he turned appropriately. “I might like to do a little finger action, but no one fucks me in the ass.”
Billy, Herb, and even Alex immediately erupted in vocal, loudly whispered protest.
To his credit, Lance was biting back the surely crude remark sitting on his tongue.
Jon shook his head, hefted his gun, and ignored Billy’s comment about things that didn’t need to be said as he closed his eyes.
He trusted Lance’s version of a superpowered radar sweep as well as he trusted his own, but a second set of eyes never hurt.
And while Lance’s never failed to be accurate, Jon had better range.
Jon spotted the three forms Lance surely meant with ease.
They were moving up from the southeastern side of the tree line, no one more than four feet from another.
Each had a rifle gripped tight, butt pressed to his shoulder, and their back aimed at a comrade.
It was a cautious, vulnerable, but not altogether terrible tactic.
They clearly knew something was wrong. Their fourth had disappeared from the side of the road while pissing into a perfectly ordinary bush, after all.
“Herb,” Jon said quietly, “give him a nudge.”
The man made a noise like he recognized what was happening. He opened his mouth to call for his brothers-in-arms.
Alex cut Jon a sharp stare, obviously questioning the strategy.
Lance lifted from his kneeling position and shuffled to the side, until their group formed a rough path framed by semi-unwittingly retired military men with loaded guns aimed at the spot in the trees their targets would pass through.
Seconds later, the first of the trio was in sight. By the time he’d swung his rifle around and begun shouting, the guy behind him was also through.
Two quick shots from Billy dropped the third and furthest guy to the forest floor.
Loud, agitated Spanish flew in both directions at once.
The newcomers demanding who they were and for them to release their friend.
Jon caught half of what sounded amusingly like ‘if you know what’s good for you.
’ The guy they’d been chatting with for the last couple of hours was simultaneously trying to tell them to leave him and run.
He’d seen enough to make peace with the reality that his crew couldn’t save him.
The scene was equal parts flattering and frustrating, and Jon would have been happy to let it play a little longer if they weren’t short on time. But his instinct said they were. He knew damn well they’d lost too much already.
Lightning crashed down between the arguing factions from the clear sky overhead, an echoing, crackling snap lingering in the air even as the bolt faded. The top layer of dirt was singed, an unavoidable and unignorable reminder that no one had hallucinated the sudden event.
Billy let out a whistle.
Alex raised his head from his scope and turned an arched brow over to Jon. Which made sense. He hadn’t had occasion to witness that trick, or probably any other Lance specialty, before.
Jon tipped his head in Lance’s direction as Lance himself opened his mouth.
Lance had lowered his gun and was holding one arm out, pointer finger extended in a gesture that was more symbolic than necessary.
Not unlike the gun. “All you motherfuckers shut up,” he snapped before lowering his arm.
“Next one of you who tries turning this into a goddamn episode of Jerry Springer takes it to the chest.” He flexed his fingers and let a spark pop between them, a motion Jon knew he did as an intimidation tactic.
And, as it usually did, it succeeding in cowing his audience. Most people didn’t want to screw around with a human lightning bolt.
Lance flicked his glare between the beaten-up dumbass on one side and the two remaining newcomers on the other. “I have a very strong desire to have a face-to-face with PJ. If you can’t make that happen, I’m going to be upset.”
Jon watched carefully as the two technically mobile men shifted.
Their bodies were tense, their heartrates elevated, and their weapons lowered.
But they were on their feet and still armed, which meant it was foolish to count them out.
Their expressions were wary, uncertain and hesitant, which implied they had some way to form the bridge Jon and the others sought.
The one in the back slowly shook his head.
“Jon.” Jenna’s voice sizzled over Jon’s awareness sharper than the jolt of electricity that had tingled the hair on his skin. His breathing faltered and he shut out the conversation around him on instinct, diverting his consciousness to her and the environment around her.
And he almost wished he hadn’t.
“—never let you get away with this, Q. Whatever you do to me, or Lynnette, he’ll find you.”
Q? He recognized that moniker. Q was a customer of hers, a man who’d recently tried pushing her into meeting him alone outside of town under the auspices of securing a secondary location.
He wanted to wonder what a busy-body customer was doing at Jenna’s apartment, but he was significantly more worried about the way Jenna had positioned herself like a shield in front of Lynnette.
He expanded his view and saw that the women were surrounded. Not only were they facing a male he presumed to be Q, but there were two armed males on either side of them. And Q’s absolute lack of concern was a clear and fatal indicator of which side he was on in the altercation going down.
It was that moment when the words their cartel captive had started to say clicked into place. “PJ … he likes—” Jenna. Jon was absolutely sure that was the rest of the sentence, or the accurate completion of it, at least.
Grinding his teeth, Jon forced a small portion of his focus back to the present and found another round of heated dialogue had begun.
Lance was sparking again, one of the newcomers had a fresh burn they hadn’t had seconds earlier, and Foxe was informing them that the pain was their own fault in a fabulously threatening manner. The only problem with the scene was that they no longer had time for it.
On the positive side, Jon supposed he’d just learned the answer they were hunting for.
Cracking his neck, Jon turned a glare on the guy they’d already beaten up and growled, “You should’ve just talked.
” With a twist of his wrist, he raised all the liquid components of the man’s insides up, forcing the accumulation through his esophagus and letting it gush out his mouth in a noisy splash that ended with the asshole dead and the argument up ahead silenced.
“Uh, Jon?” Billy asked. “Were we done with him?”
“Fuck,” Foxe muttered, “I hate when he does that.”
Jon looked forward. “We’re done with all of them.
” For a moment, he considered explaining the trouble he could do nothing more than watch while nausea twisted his own stomach.
Lance would punch him later for keeping his mouth shut, undoubtedly.
But all any of them could do from their distance was worry, so instead, he said, “I know who PJ is, and I know where he lives. We need to move.”
The guys blinked, obviously startled.
One of the newcomers curled his lip in visible agitation and raised his gun. “PJ has plans today,” he said in passable English.
With his extra sensory vision, Jon watched Lynnette haul Jenna behind the line of trees that acted as a natural borderline for the apartment community.
Watched as they dashed into the forest, diving to the left and barely dodging bullets.
The same forest he’d hunkered down in to keep watch over Jenna the night she’d thrown him out.
Not that she knew about that. Not that it mattered.
He let the anger rise in his voice. “I have a good idea what PJ’s plans are,” he said to the idiot aiming at him, “and I’m canceling them.” He let the words hang for three seconds, then snapped one more. “Fire.”
He didn’t feel a twinge of guilt for leaving those bodies in the dirt, unburied and undignified in their deaths.
The only thing he felt was disappointment that the three clustered together had died swiftly.
Each with two bullets to the head. Jon had no doubt they deserved worse, but there was no time.
He’d heard somewhere in town that Q had purchased the long-vacant Leeland Estate on the edge of Misty Glades. It was a little out of the way, but conveniently, the group they’d just put down had come with wheels.
And if he was driving while he explained, Lance was less likely to hit him with anything fatal in his outrage.