Lash (Club Sin #7)

13. Duped

duped

Lash

I creep through the jungle, pausing to listen every few steps. So far, only jungle noises. Orienting myself in the dark is tricky; my HK MP5SD does have a flashlight on the lower rail, but I'm hesitant to use it unless absolutely necessary—it sort of does away with stealth if you give yourself away with a light. I test my steps before I commit to them and keep my head on a swivel. It's a long, slow walk, but eventually I see a dim glow in the distance and head for it.

I reach the edge of the forest and crouch just inside the tree line, assessing what I see. The bag of goodies Nils’ contact provided also contained military-grade comms, and I key the mic and whisper into it. "Nicolae, in position. Holding and waiting for patrols."

Lorenzo and Scarlett echo my message.

There is a good hundred yards of clearing between the wall of the estate and the tree line, with a wide grassy swath between. Floodlights at the base of the wall shine bright lights at regular intervals, illuminating the gleam of the razor wire along the top.

Several minutes after I reached the tree line, a patrol of four men saunter around the far corner. They carry submachine guns, wear body armor, and have comms. They mutter to each other, and one of them barks a laugh. Occasionally, the man on the outside sweeps a flashlight across the lawn. These are not bored, idle guards, these men are alert and know their job.

"North side," comes Lorenzo's whisper. “Four-man patrol leaving the main gate on foot. Approaching my position."

“East side," says Scarlett. “Four-man patrol going from the south wall to the north."

"West side," I say. “Four-man patrol going south to north."

"Stand by," Lorenzo mutters. A few minutes later he whispers into the comms again. "They meet at the gate and go back the other way. Nicolae, circle to the south wall. That may be our way in."

"Copy," I respond. "Moving."

I slip further back into the trees and make my way along the west wall. Once I'm facing the south wall, I crouch and watch until the patrol appears. They round the west-south corner and halt in the middle of the south wall. They stand in a line abreast, waiting and watching until the east wall patrol rounds the corner. The two patrols converse for a few moments in voices too low for me to make out, and then the west side patrol resumes their track to the gate.

“They stagger the patrols," I whisper. "West patrol reaches south first and waits, east patrol reaches them and they wait there together, and then west patrol moves out, and then east."

"Shit,” Lorenzo mutters. "How long is the south wall unguarded?"

"Stand by," I answer.

I watch the patrols through two more cycles, timing them. "Two minutes max between patrols at the south wall."

"Patrol nearing my position," Lorenzo whispers, so quiet it's barely audible. A few minutes later, he's back on the comms. "They go about half a click down the road, stop, turn around, and then split at the tree line. Two go east along the perimeter, and two go west. I think they make a circle to the south, meet again at the north, and repeat."

"Copy," I say; Scarlett echoes me.

"Let's watch a few more minutes to confirm the pattern. Meet back at the caravan in ten," Lorenzo says.

Scarlett and I both confirm his order. Sure enough, a few minutes later, two men approach my position, walking parallel to the tree line. They shine lights into the trees and scan the lawn as they walk. I shuffle backward and find a spot to hide behind a wide tree, peeking out every few seconds to assess their progress. Once it's clear, I slip back to the edge and watch them. As Lorenzo suspected, the two patrols meet in the middle of the south side, converse, and then go back the way they came. Lorenzo confirms they pause a few minutes at the gate and then start the pattern all over again.

Once I'm certain we have the patrol patterns established, I make my way slowly and silently back to the Land Rovers. Scarlett and Lorenzo appear almost at the same time as me.

Solomon flicks the headlights back on—while they waited for us to recon, they turned them off and waited inside the vehicles.

"We didn't make contact," Lorenzo says. "It was to observe and report only. They have three patrols—one from the north gate to the south wall and back, another on the opposite side, and a third that goes down this road half a click and then around the perimeter."

"What's the wall like?" Kane asks.

"Fifteen feet or so, topped with razor wire. Probably a shit load of electronic security measures inside, as well as more patrols," Lorenzo answers.

"So, what's the plan?" Saxon asks. "Sounds like they got their shit locked down pretty tight."

"The south wall is unguarded for about two minutes," I say. "If we can find a way over the wall and the razor wire, that's our ingress point."

"Big if," Silas says.

"What if we pick off the patrols?" Rev suggests. "Get their attention."

"Kicking the nest doesn't seem like a good plan to me," Chance says. "We’re outnumbered."

"Any tools in those bags?" asks Kane.

Silas roots through both and comes up shaking his head. "Nothing for wire. No rope, either."

"Shit." Solomon turns away from the group, thinking. He comes back, pointing at Rev. "I think we have to go with his idea. But we don't pick them off one by one. We do it all at once, in sync. It'll have to be you three again. Once we’re inside, the rest of us can and will incapacitate, but until we're in, we can't risk accidental detection."

"So we take out the patrols, and then what?" Kane asks.

"Fake 'em out," Chance suggests. "Toss some grenades over the south wall to get their attention while everyone else breaches the gate."

"What do we know about the gate?" Silas asks.

"Not much,” Lorenzo answers. "I couldn't risk getting close enough to assess."

"We do have breaching explosives," Silas says.

"So we take out the patrols, pull their attention to the south wall," Lorenzo says, putting the plan together. "Breach the front gate. Infil, find Inez, and fight our way out."

"I'm just gonna say this because someone has to," Saxon says into the ensuing silence. "I'm not sure how realistic it is to think we can accomplish this without killing anyone, even by accident. We all know that once a pitched firefight starts, you take the shot you get. You can't wait for a perfect target. This is already damn near a suicide mission."

Rev clears his throat. "I don't disagree. I'll do everything I can to keep that oath, but if it's my life or one of yours on the line, I’m doing what I gotta do, oath be damned. I swore that oath and I fuckin' meant it, but not at the expense of the lives of the people I care about."

"Word," Saxon says.

Solomon scans the group. "I think we all agree. We keep our oaths, but if it comes down to dropping a motherfucker to save a life or stay alive, do it."

"Agreed," Chance says.

"Same," Kane adds.

Silas frowns and then shrugs. "I don't see another way. Don't give a fuck what it takes, I’m going home to Naomi."

Everyone assents to that.

"But listen to me," I say. "Please, do not throw away your vows lightly. I know, this is easy for me to say as I have not sworn that oath. But it means something. If you must break it, then so be it. But do not look for excuses."

There's no verbal response to this, but I see everyone nodding, thinking.

"So," Solomon says, clapping his hands to get our attention. "Teams. Scarlett, Tatiana, Kane—you take out the south perimeter patrol. Lorenzo, Silas, and Saxon, west side. Lash, Chance, Rev, and I will take the gate. Stay on your comms and wait for the signal from me." He waits for questions. "Once the patrols are down, Scarlett, Tatiana, and Kane, you throw a bunch of grenades and flashbangs over the south wall. Maybe just flashbangs, honestly—we don’t know the layout of the interior, so we don’t wanna cause destruction when we don't know where Inez is being held."

"Copy that," Kane says. "Flashbangs only."

"Once we have the distraction, my team will breach the gate and the rest of us will infil."

"We’ll be a ways behind the rest of you," Scarlett says. “We gotta circle from the south."

“That actually works out," Solomon says. "You can be rearguard, make sure we don’t get surprised. Maybe post Tatiana at the gate watching for reinforcements."

Tatiana looks frightened but determined. "I can do that."

“Good." Solomon scans us again. "Any questions, comments, or concerns?"

Silence.

"Everyone knows the plans?" he asks.

We all do.

"Alright then," he says. "Let's go get Inez."

Tatiana crosses to me and hugs me. "I am frightened, Nico."

I breathe in her scent. "I know, Lovely One. But you will be okay."

"I wish I could go with you."

I sigh. "I know. But it is better this way. If I am with you, my focus will be on you. And my focus is needed elsewhere. Scarlett will not let anything happen to you. Nor will Kane."

Kane gives her a reassuring smile. "No worries, baby girl. We got you."

Scarlett meets my eyes and nods, then pulls Tatiana away. “C’mon, it's time to move. You're a badass, Tatiana. You've got this."

Tatiana nods, lets out a harsh sigh, and then shoots me one last longing look. "I love you."

"I love you as well," I answer. "See you on the other side."

Scarlett, Kane, and Tatiana filter into the forest and are soon gone. Within seconds, everyone else is vanishing into the jungle.

Chance, Solomon, Rev and I make our way along the narrow path in a V formation. Once the lights of the compound are in sight, we inch carefully forward until we can almost see the compound itself.

The dirt road is narrow, the jungle forming a thick canopy of foliage over our heads, blocking out the sky. Ahead, we can see the whitewashed adobe walls lit by the floodlights. The gate is high, arched, and of black metal. If I squint, I can almost make out movement within. We only have to wait a few minutes before the perimeter guards meet where the road exits the rainforest and move up to the gate. They stand there for a few minutes, watching, talking, and smoking cigarettes, and then they start their walk this way.

They walk four abreast, chatting in low tones in Spanish, assault rifles hung on their shoulders. They are alert but not expecting trouble. After all, who would be so foolish as to assault Mercado's home compound?

Solomon uses hand signals to direct me and Chance to one side and him and Rev to the other. More hand signals indicate that I take point on the elimination. I acknowledge and prepare.

Clipping my MP5SD to my vest, I draw my pistol, check the load, check the suppressor, and then crouch in wait; Chance looms behind and above me, a mammoth, watchful shadow. The dim light from the courtyard behind the approaching patrol casts long, faint shadows of each figure along the low, narrow path. Insects whirr and chirrup; an owl hoots in the distance. I hear their voices first, occasional desultory mutters, and then the crunch of their boots on the hard-packed dirt road. They scan the road and the edges with their flashlights; one of them sweeps the beam of his light across the path and then lifts his fist to call a halt, crouching and focusing on something in the path—a boot print.

Time is up.

They are a little over fifteen meters away, so not close, but within range even with a suppressor. I shift my weight so I am kneeling with one knee in front, brace my elbow on my knee, and draw bead on the farthest guard. Inhale, hold my breath.

POP-POP .

He drops, two red spots blossoming on his forehead.

Before the others can figure out what's going on, I shift my aim to the next.

POP-POP.

POP-POP.

POP-POP.

Each man drops silently, crumpling heavily to the ground as if a puppeteer had cut their strings.

I wait a moment or two, listening for an alarm, and then key my mic. "This is Nicolae. Gate and perimeter patrol neutralized. Proceed with east and west patrol neutralization."

"Copy," Lorenzo and Scarlett say at the same time.

Chance and I each grab a guard and haul them off-path, and Solomon and Rev do the same, bringing their corpses to the opposite side. I grab the walkie and earpiece from one of the guards and clip it to my belt, running the earpiece up under my vest—I’ll have to be careful about which mic I'm keying, but it will be helpful to hear what they are saying.

The four of us jog up the path foursquare, slowing when we near the opening of the clearing around the compound. We split again, kneeling in the dense undergrowth just off-path and inside the tree line.

"Nicolae—you eliminated all four guards?" Scarlett asks.

"Affirmative," I respond.

"West patrol approaching our position," Lorenzo says.

I can see them from here, small black dots skylined against the white adobe wall, bathed in floodlights.

A few seconds later, Scarlett comes on the radio. "East patrol approaching."

"On my signal," Solomon says. "Hold—hold—"

He's watching the east side, and glancing at me every couple of seconds. I give him a hand signal, and he nods. "Now—now—now. Neutralize."

Lorenzo, Scarlett, and I carry suppressed MP5s, making the sound of gunfire almost indiscernible from this distance. The only noise is a faint click of the bolt and a soft WHUMP, barely audible beyond a short distance.

The outermost guard's head jerks sideways and blood sprays in silhouette. Before the other two can react, even to shout, Lorenzo is moving in a fast tactical crouch, firing as he moves, dropping the other two a split second later.

"All targets neutralized," Solomon reports. “Hide the bodies and converge at the gate. Scarlett and Tatiana, prepare to deploy flashbangs."

Everyone replies with a "Copy," and within a minute or so, we're approaching the gate from oblique angles, staying out of eyeline in case there are guards within the courtyard.

"Ricardo, report," comes a gravelly male voice in Spanish in my stolen earpiece.

I key the team comms. "I have one of their radios, Sol," I say. "They are asking for a report in. Ignore or respond?"

"They're about to know we're here, so ignore," he answers.

"Ricardo! Report now!"

We're crouching in clusters on either side of the gate, waiting. I hear boots on gravel, and the same voice now echoing in both my ear and in the earpiece simultaneously. "Ricardo? Mateo? Alvarez?"

"Deploy," Solomon orders.

A few seconds later, there's a loud BANG ! from the far side of the compound, and the boots sprint away, the voice shouting.

"We're under attack! All units, we're being breached at the south wall. Luis, Andre, Carlos, gate. Everyone else, south end."

"Breach the gate," Sol orders.

Kane moves in front of the gate and applies the breaching cord to the hinges and lock. Before he can fire it, though, he curses and ducks back around behind cover.

"Contact," he hisses.

“Light 'em up," Sol snaps. "Oath-holders, center mass shots only."

Kane, Silas, and I move in unspoken unison, rolling out in front of the gate. Another series of loud bangs erupt from the south end in quick succession, accompanied by automatic weapons fire.

"Who are they shooting at?" Saxon asks across the line.

Three men approach the gate at a jog—they see us a split second too late; their rifles are lifting as we're firing. Silas and Kane do not have silenced weapons so their shots are a giveaway.

"Contact at the gate," someone says on the enemy line. "Shots fired at the gate."

"Breaching," Kane grunts into the mic.

We all turn away and cover our ears; the detonation of the charges is deafening, even with our ears plugged. The gate creaks and then topples inward. Ears ringing, we roll around into the opening in double file, sweeping the interior of the courtyard.

The compound covers several hundred acres. The main house sits on the far rear of the property, barely visible from the gate. A long, low garage parallel to the west wall just inside the gate, and a two-story guard barracks is along the east wall opposite the barracks. Three black Suburbans are parked on each side of the courtyard, facing inward. Smoke billows skyward from the south wall, and a confused overlap of chatter in Spanish fills the comms line of my stolen earpiece—orders, questions, curses.

Perhaps two minutes after the first flashbang went off, a new voice fills the channel, this one sharp, pissed off, and authoritative. "What is happening? Antonio—status report."

It's Mercado.

"I am not sure yet, sir," Antonio says. "Flashbangs at the south wall but no contact. Patrols are unresponsive. I'm getting reports of a breach at the gate. I am on the way there to assess."

"I want every available man inside the residence, NOW," Mercado snaps. "Call in for backups from the village, ASAP." The last word is pronounced in English, military-style— AY-sap .

"Yes sir, right away," Antonio says.

"They're calling all units inside the residence," I say across our line. "Mercado is here, he's pissed, and he's calling for reinforcements. We are officially on the clock. We are fucked if we are not gone by the time the reinforcements arrive."

"We're gonna have to fight our way in and out," Saxon says. "Shit's about to get hot."

"Lash, Ren, Scarla—you're point," Solomon says. "We stick together for now."

"Copy," Lorenzo and Scarlett answer, once again in near unison.

We're passing through the courtyard in a tight double-file line. Now that Scarlett and Tatiana have stopped throwing flashbangs, the compound is oddly silent once more.

I feel a hand on my shoulder—Scarlett. Lorenzo moves into position on the other side of Scarlett, and the others readjust the formation into an inverted wedge, with Tatiana at the back.

"Tatiana is staying with us," Scarlett says. "It's too risky for her to wait at the gate alone."

"Copy," I mutter. “Moving."

We surge forward through the courtyard, making no contact. The main house is a massive, distant shadow, three sprawling floors with an east and west wing framing the center. A mile- long, ruler-straight driveway runs from the courtyard to the gate flanked on both sides by towering trees. Off to the west, half a mile distant, is the moonlit silhouette of a huge stable.

Panting from the mile run, we pause at the base of the steps, staring up at the monstrous house. Built of white marble and roofed in scalloped slate tiles, the house is ornate, with Ionic columns holding up the portico over the front porch, which doubles as a balcony overlooking the compound. The grass island at the center of the circle drive is an ornate marble fountain—a reproduction of something from Roman antiquity, most likely. A trio of glossy black Range Rovers are parked in a line in front of the house, and sixty or seventy meters to the east of the house, perched on the wide rolling lawn like a hungry insect, is a Soviet gunship helicopter.

"Kane," Solomon says across the line, "take out the helo. In fact, you and Silas take out the Suburbans back by the gate. Except one, if you can find keys, so we can make a getaway."

“He'll have them tracked," Kane says.

"I can find the tracker and get rid of it," Silas says. “Not a problem."

"Go," Solomon says.

The walls encircling the compound must encompass several miles of perimeter to enclose this much area; it’s easily a mile from wall to wall east to west and roughly the same north to south. The hacienda sits in the middle of the compound toward the south wall, on a slight rise.

Figures move in the beams of headlights over near the stable—more hands hurrying to obey Mercado's call to defend him at the main house.

"Contact west," I say. "Targets mobilizing at the barn."

"Copy," Solomon says. "Saxon, Chance—they've only got one route here. Take them out."

"Copy," they both say.

A huge explosion rocks us, and we watch as the gunship bursts into flames. Seconds later, a much larger, brighter blast follows as the fuel ignites.

Without a word, we all break into a run—that explosion will have gotten Mercado's attention for sure. We reach the line of Range Rovers and take cover behind them, pausing a moment to catch our breath.

Tatiana is behind Scarlett on my right, holding her pistol in both hands barrel skyward, finger outside the trigger guard, panting and looking scared but calm.

Solomon gives the signal to move, and Scarlett taps Tatiana on the shoulder and repeats the signal; Tatiana nods and follows as we slip around the SUVs and head for the front door.

"Assume contact on the other side of the door," Solomon says. "Rev, kick it in."

"Copy," Rev mutters.

I put my hand on Rev's shoulder and follow him up the wide but shallow marble stairs. As we reach the door, I check my mag, charging handle, and fire selector switch, making sure everything is ready for action.

Rev does the same, glances at me, and receives my nod.

With a deep breath and a sharp exhale, he nods once to psych himself up, and then takes a big step backward and lunges forward, planting his boot right next to the door handle. It splinters but holds; he swivels out of the way of the door, anticipating a barrage of gunfire that never comes. After a short wait, he boots the door in the rest of the way. The doors burst inward with a crash, slamming all the way in, hitting the wall on the inside, and shuddering to a halt.

I shuffle past Rev, sweeping the vast foyer with my barrel—acres of polished, black-and-white marble tiles in a checkerboard pattern gleam, lit by a crystal-dripping chandelier. A suit of medieval armor stands on a pedestal in the center of the foyer, wielding a polearm. Twin staircases curve up to a second story landing in graceful, mirrored arcs on either side of the foyer, with more suits of armor marching along the wall from the stairs to the front door.

Beyond, looking beneath the second-story landing, glimpses of the kitchen—marble counters, the same checkered floor, and glass doors overlooking an expanse of verdant green lawn.

All is silent.

"Foyer is empty," I report across the channel. "No signs of life so far."

"Search the house," Sol orders.

Something doesn't feel right. It is based on nothing but instinct, a niggling in my gut. This has been too easy.

I glance at Rev, who is scenting the air like a wolf, eyes narrowed, rifle at the ready. He shakes his head. "Negative," he says into his mic.

"Repeat," Sol says.

"Negative," Rev says again. "This feels wrong."

"I agree," I say. "Something does not feel correct."

A pause. "Pull back to the circle," Solomon says.

Rev and I jog outside and to the circle where everyone else is gathered.

"Explain," Solomon says, rifle hanging from his shoulder, hands hooked into the neck of his vest.

I shrug. "It feels wrong. In there, I mean. It's too easy. They know we are here. Rafael called for all units to the house, and we're just going to walk right in? It feels like a trap."

Lorenzo growls. "I agree. Rafael is clever. He will have expected us. He likely knows of our escape from Zagreb and Pugli's men. Also, my intel says that he does not usually keep prisoners at the house."

"Where, then?" Kane asks.

Lorenzo points at the barn. "There."

"But Inez is no ordinary prisoner," Scarlett says.

Lorenzo shakes his head. “No. But then, he did not apprehend her out of revenge. He needed information from her. And there is only one way to get information out of someone like Sophia Sousa."

"Sophia Sousa?" Chance rumbles. "That's her real name? I like it."

"She will be pleased," Lorenzo says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"What information?" Rev asks.

Lorenzo sighs. "She will not like that I have shared this, but it was going to come out regardless." Another sigh. "She has a son—Rafael's son. She fled with him and placed him with a woman. She ensured she never knew where he was. Rafael is thinking of the future—of his legacy. He had another son with a different woman, but a rival killed them, so now he looks for his son with Sophia so he can make him the heir to the Mercado empire. He will not rest until he has what he wants. He knows that while she may not know where he is right now, Sophia can find her son. So the only question," Lorenzo says, "is how long Sophia can hold out. How much torture she can withstand. She will never give him what he wants—never. But he will not accept failure. So either she will break or she will die."

"And the point you are making is that he will not torture her in the house?" Kane asks.

"Correct," Lorenzo answers.

"But can we afford to make that assumption?" Solomon asks. "Time is wasting. We're here. Our entire plan was based on assaulting the main house."

"No, our plan was based on getting inside the compound and finding her," Lorenzo replies. "I do not think she is in the house. I think Rafael gambled on us assuming that, and probably that we would get their comms. If we search that house, we walk into an ambush."

Solomon glances across the compound at the distant bulk of the stable, then at the house. "Fine. You know Rafael, we don't." He circles his hand over his head and then points at the barn. "Double time it, folks."

We form a single file line that spreads out as we run across the lawn toward the barn, Lorenzo in the lead and Chance bringing up the rear—Chance can plod along at a jog for a very, very long time, but he will never be a fast runner.

Rev falls in beside me. "I don't like this, Lash. Sorry, Nicolae. That's gonna take a minute to get used to."

"I agree," I say. "This feels like a fishing expedition. Mercado is clever. He is usually several steps ahead of his enemies, which includes US intelligence. Something is amiss." I grin at him. "You can call me Nico, if you like. It may be easier."

"Alright then, Nico." He slaps me on the back. "Good to have you back. Gotta say, brother, it's great to see you and Tatiana together. You seem…lighter. I dunno if that's the right word."

I nod. "It is as good as any. I do feel lighter."

A couple minutes later, Sol calls a halt as we near the barn. It's dark, all exterior lights off except one, on a pole near the large sliding doors, casting a wide pool of yellow light on the white gravel. It is too still, too quiet. In a distant paddock, horses cluster together, heads down as they sleep, a couple of them laying down—it's hard to get a good count in the dark from a distance, but it looks like at least a dozen horses, if not closer to twenty. Which means the barn is likely empty—they put all the horses out to pasture to protect them from the anticipated gunfight. We're at the apex of a slight rise, looking downward toward the barn, kneeling or on our bellies as Solomon scans the barn with the scope of his rifle.

"Cameras at the corners," he whispers. "Nicolae—take 'em out."

I spot the cameras, glowing red with infrared. Pop—Pop.

"Advance," Sol whispers.

So far, this has not gone as we've anticipated. My gut roils with unease. There's something we're missing, I just have no way of knowing what until it happens.

And that's how people get killed on ops.

We advance to the side of the long structure, pausing to catch our breath as the rest of the team assembles. Using hand signals, Solomon indicates that half of us should go around the rear, and the other half around the front; I'm with the half hitting the front, along with Chance, Rev, Silas, and Kane, while Saxon, Solomon, Lorenzo, Scarlett, and Tatiana go around the rear.

I take out another camera and then aim my rifle at the smaller human-sized door beside the large double sliders. Chance kicks the door in and swings out of the way.

BOOOM ! The blast of a shotgun is a deafening concussion, accompanied by the rattle-sprinkle of buckshot pellets punching holes through the walls.

“Fuck,” Kane snaps, dancing away from the wall, clutching his left tricep.

There's no time to worry about him—it's a minor injury at worst and Kane is tough. I took a few flashbangs as we left the circle—I arm one and toss it in through the open door. I turn away, close my eyes, and plug my ears as the device goes off with a bang deafening even with my fingers in my ears, and blinding even with my eyes shut and my body turned away.

The second it goes off I'm in motion, surging through the doorway, stepping through and then sideways in a low crouching shuffle. I see a figure in the swirling smoke, dazed and disoriented—male, with a rifle.

I drop him with a pair of slugs through the skull, step over his body and catch up the shotgun—an excellent operator-grade Binelli.

He has a bandolier of shells which I also claim and sling over my torso.

I let my MP5 hang behind me and proceed through the gloom of the stable. The pungent smell of hay and manure and horse is thick and close; the lights are off, only the open door shedding light into the interior—all I can make out are shapes. I see the bars of horse stalls on either side, an intersection at the center of the structure faintly illuminated by the red glow of an exit sign. I hear the slam of a door being kicked in, the concussive chatter of an assault rifle opening up on full auto, abruptly cut off.

The five of us make our way slowly and cautiously down the stable hallway, sweeping each stall as we pass them. To the right of the intersection at the center of the barn is the vast, echoing space of an indoor arena. To the left, a short hallway leads to a closed doorway; on the left side of the hallway is an open stall for bathing and grooming the horses, while a darkened room on the right holds the bulky shadows of saddles and tack. More stalls march down the stable beyond the intersection, and large double sliding doors, a smaller human-sized door beside them; the smaller door is open and shedding ambient light from outside. The shadows of our team loom large on the stable floor as they enter the barn and head this way, scanning the stalls as they pass.

Solomon assesses the intersection, and then juts his chin at the arena, glancing at Lorenzo and me. "Check it out."

"Copy," I mutter.

Lorenzo and I move in silent tandem toward the arena; it is not pitch black, having narrow, rectangular windows running the perimeter along three walls just below the roofline. The ground underfoot is soft, fine, dense dirt, compressing silently under each step. I click on the flashlight on my lower rail, indicating with hand signals that Lorenzo should go left while I go right. The arena must be at least ten thousand square feet of open, echoing space; in the middle are the shadowy shapes of dressage and jumping practice elements. Lorenzo and I make a quick circuit of the space, sweeping our beams across the middle, and then return to the team at the intersection.

Solomon eyes the doorway at the end of the lefthand hallway. "Well, I guess we go there."

"I will continue to take point,” I say, trotting to the door.

It is thick metal, windowless, with a numeric keypad lock. I check the knob, just in case, but it is, in fact, locked.

I look at Lorenzo. "I will breach. Cover me."

He nods once, assuming a ready stance, aiming at the doorway from an oblique angle so anyone shooting through the opening will miss him. The others press against the walls, waiting. I thumb a new shell into the Binelli, rack the slide to eject the spent casing, and then blast a round through the lock— crump-BOOM ! The lock disintegrates and the door squeals on its hinges. I shoulder it open and pivot to lean against the frame, dropping to a knee as Lorenzo sweeps from the inside right corner across the space to the inside left corner behind the door.

We're in another hallway, this one short and more like an office than a barn, with polished concrete floors and drywalled and painted walls. There are four doors, two on each side of the hallway. First on the right side is an empty bathroom, first on the left is a storage closet; second right leads to a large, industrial kitchen with acres of dully gleaming stainless steel, and opposite the kitchen is a den, with a big U-shaped sectional facing a massive TV. On the coffee table in the center of the sectional's open space is a clutter of empty beer bottles, half-empty liquor bottles, overflowing ashtrays, baggies of cannabis and cocaine, and boxes of ammunition and empty magazines. One of the ashtrays holds a still-smoldering cigarette butt.

"Well, they were here," Solomon says, eying the smoldering butt. “And recently.”

"What did we miss?" Silas asks.

Lorenzo is back in the doorway between this section and the stable, spinning in a slow circle, his gaze thoughtful.

“What, Ren?" Sol says.

A shrug. "I do not know. But they are here somewhere. I can feel it."

"Okay, I believe you," Solomon says. "But where? We've searched the barn. No upstairs, no obvious basement."

"No," Lorenzo says. "It would not be obvious, would it? It isn't a basement, it is a cellar or a dungeon. It will be hidden."

"So we're looking for a trap door?" Saxon says. "That changes things. It won’t be in the arena or the stalls. Tack room, maybe? Our barn at the estate we grew up on had a small cellar below the tack room. Dad hid the trapdoor beneath a fancy-ass rug, because the motherfucker was a bougie-ass dick."

Lorenzo strides aggressively toward the tack room and flips on the light—saddles rest on racks on the walls and on sawhorses here and there, with bits and bridles and halters hanging from hooks. Wide, deep wooden chests line the walls below the hooks and racks, and a large, expensive Persian rug covers the center of the floor. Lorenzo grabs a corner of the rug and tosses it, revealing a trapdoor. I help him pull the rug out of the way, and then he grabs the ring, pausing with a glance at me. I brace the shotgun in my shoulder, aim it at the door, and give him a nod. He jerks, but the door must be locked from below. He backs away and turns aside as I rack the empty shell out and blast a round through the handle. Lorenzo snags the gaping hole and heaves the heavy wooden door upward and drops it; I scan the opening with my flashlight.

A staircase, very steep, almost a ladder. Darkness below.

With a bracing exhale, I drop onto the stairs into a crouch and bend, tilting my shotgun sideways to sweep the light beam across the space: cinderblock walls, bare concrete floor, spiderwebs in the rafters, exposed electrical and plumbing; a long, wide corridor running the footprint of the stable. Bare lightbulbs dot the ceiling at regular intervals, turned off. A closed door here, a slightly ajar one there. Piles of random junk are scattered here and there—discarded building supplies, old saddles and pieces of tack, and agricultural tools and implements I cannot identify. Lorenzo follows me down, followed by Saxon and Rev; Lorenzo and Saxon search the lefthand corridor, and Rev and I the right. We creep silently for the nearest door, left slightly ajar. Rev takes up position on the hinge side while I wait by the latch side, switching back to my MP5; Rev shoves the door open and bolts backward out of the way; just in time, too.

Gunfire is a sudden barrage of noise and light and chaos, slashing through the dark silence. Rounds smash through the wall where Rev had been standing. If he hadn't expected exactly that and moved, he'd be dead.

I have one flashbang left, but I opt to preserve it, along with my pair of frag grenades. I use the bright spear of muzzle flash to pinpoint the shooter and send a trio of rounds just above the muzzle flash. They smack wetly, and the shooter collapses with a soft grunt.

Rev sweeps into the opening and rakes his beam across the room, momentarily blinding the three other occupants. He drops one with a pair of rounds to the chest—he's wearing a vest, so the shots aren't lethal; my follow-up slug to his skull is. The other shoot is quick to drop to a knee and rip off a short burst at Rev. He's too quick, the rounds going wide, and Rev doesn't miss, putting three more rounds to center mass, and I drop the third with a round through the throat, finishing the second shooter before he can recover.

I hear gunfire, a shout.

Tatiana screams; more gunfire. Scarlett shouts something, and then Solomon.

Cursing in Romani, I bolt out of the room. At the far end of the other corridor, Sol and Scarlett are pulling an enraged Tatiana out of a room, screaming and kicking.

A powerful hand grabs my arm. "We gotta clear this room, Nico," Rev growls in my ear. “You gotta trust them for a second."

Cursing again, I stomp across the hall and kick in the closed door, a rash, foolhardy action.

Something smashes me in the chest, knocking me backward several feet and crushing the breath from my lungs. I crash to the ground and crack my head on the floor, and stars whirl behind my eyes.

Rev steps over me and his rifle barks in a quick series of three-round bursts. He stares down at me as I blink and gasp. "Rookie mistake, Nico."

I nod, my mouth working as I struggle to catch my breath. That was stupid. I know better: don’t rush is rule number one of room-clearing. I catch a sliver of oxygen and then manage a deeper breath, and then finally my lungs catch up and I gasp, gag, and cough. I hear groaning and gasping—the same noises I'm making. I grab Rev's proffered hand and accept his help up to my feet, struggling to pull a full breath. In the room, several men lay writhing and gasping and coughing on the floor.

Pissed off at myself, I switch to the Binelli and finish them off with a rapid sequence of blasts.

Rev chuckles as I exit the room. "Alright, then." His humor fades immediately. "You alright?"

I nod, pushing on my chest to check for tenderness, wincing and hissing. "Yes, I do not believe anything is broken."

More gunfire, a few quick bursts. At the other end, Scarlett has Tatiana pressed up against the wall, speaking to her intently. I jog down the corridor to them.

"What is it?" I demand. "What happened?"

Scarlett meets my gaze, indicating the room I saw them dragging Tatiana from. With a heavy heart, I enter it.

Hanging from a hook in the ceiling by thick, rusty chains, shoulders dislocated, bruised, beaten bloody, tortured, and left to bleed out is Stjepan Juric—Tatiana's father.

"Fuck," I snarl.

Solomon reenters. "Punishment for letting us get away, I guess."

"That must be what the shooting was after we left—Mercado sent men to make sure we were finished off," I said, "and when they discovered we were gone, they took Stjepan instead.”

Sol just nods. "No sign of Inez. We’ve searched the whole barn."

Kane pokes his head in. "Lorenzo took Sax, Chance, and Si back to the house to look there. But I think we were played. He took her—probably waited somewhere he could see us within walkie range and left a few sacrificial lambs to make it convincing."

Solomon rubs his face. "Goddammit. God fucking dammit."

"I knew this was too easy," I snarl. "Lorenzo will be fit to be tied."

"Let's go help them search that big ass house, just in case," Kane says.

I nod, exiting the room. Tatiana surges past Scarlett and slams into me.

"Why?" She sobs against my chest. "I don't understand. Why?"

"He allowed us to get away. Mercado does not tolerate failure." I let out a sigh, stroking her hair. "I am so sorry, my love. I am sorry. He did not deserve to die."

"Not like this," she murmurs. "Not like this."

"We have to go, Tati. We can't stay here. Mercado's men might return."

She shakes her head. "We cannot leave him here, Nico. We can't."

"We cannot bring him all the way back to Zagreb, either. It is simply impossible."

Despite my words, I lower Stjepan from the hook, unchain him, and put him over my shoulder. He is not a light man, but I am strong, and it is for my Tatiana, so I do it without complaint.

Sniffling quietly the whole way, Tatiana accompanies me to the main house, where Lorenzo is waiting near an idling Suburban with a murderous expression on his face.

One by one, everyone else files out of the house, morose, pissed off, and defeated.

Solomon is the last one out, carrying a small tablet.

When Silas saw me coming with Stjepan on my shoulder, he went back inside and came out with a flat sheet and some bungee cords; he places the flat sheet on the ground and helps me wrap Stjepan in it, securing the sheet around his cold and stiffening body, and we place it in the back of the Suburban.

Once this is done, Solomon hands me the tablet without a word. Tatiana moves to stand beside me, her lovely face tear-tracked and sorrowful. I click the button on the top right end of the device and it comes to life without a passcode; an upward swipe opens it to a video. When I press play, the blur on the screen resolves into Rafael moving into the frame.

"Welcome, friends," he says with a winning grin. His English is absolutely flawless—if I didn't know better, he could be a third-generation Colombian-American, raised speaking English as a first language. "By now, since you are viewing this recording, you have discovered that you are not as smart as you thought. In fact, you have the lovely Sophia, whom I believe you know as Inez—" he reaches off-screen and jerks Inez into view, "to thank for the fact that you are still alive. I could have had you all killed at any time, but I am only interested in one thing, and Inez, my lovely and loyal wife, values your lives, so she gave me what I want."

I pause the video, sighing as I curse under my breath in Romani.

Lorenzo spits in the gravel at his feet, cursing floridly and extensively in Spanish, English, and Portuguese. "Fuck," he snarls, in English, after pausing for breath. "She gave him up."

"Her son?" Scarlett asks. "I can't believe she would do that, even for us."

Lorenzo shakes his head. "I don't know. I do not know. I would not think so either, not after everything she did to see him safe from Rafael. But you are her responsibility, and she takes that very seriously."

"Something's off, though," Solomon says. "Keep watching."

I tap the screen to play it again.

Inez is in awful shape—her face is bruised, bloody, and swollen, with cut lips, black eyes, a visibly broken nose, and a vicious gash to her left cheekbone. The camera pulls back and it becomes clear they did more than just hit her—she's been tortured. Lorenzo collapses to his knees in the gravel, keening a guttural cry like a trapped panther. He rockets to his feet and moves to smash his fist into the side of the suburban, but Chance dodges in front of Lorenzo and takes the blow to the gut. Lorenzo shouts something unintelligible in Portuguese, shoving at Chance, who barely moves.

"You need your hands to save your woman,” Chance murmurs. “Need to hit something, hit me. I can take it."

Lorenzo shakes his head, the fight leaching out of him—he collapses again, this time bonelessly, and Chance catches him.

"We'll find her, Ren," he murmurs. "She's the toughest bitch this side of Hell, and we both know it."

Lorenzo finds his feet after a moment, swiping at his nose with his wrist, nodding. "Sorry. I’m—I am sorry, I—"

Chance's mammoth arms pull him into a crushing hug. "No apologies, bro. We all know exactly how you feel. We’ve all had our women in danger. We'll stop at nothing to get her back, even if we have to wade into fuckin' hell itself."

“He fucking tortured her," Lorenzo hisses, his accent thicker than I've ever heard it. "Beat her. Cut her. Pulled out her fingernails. I…I fucking—when I get my hands on him, no death will be too fucking slow for that—that…" he shakes his head. "I do not have the word for what he is."

Solomon moves to Lorenzo's other side. “You gotta keep watching, man. She's giving you a message. You gotta watch."

Lorenzo takes the tablet from me and plays the recording again.

"Look at her eyes," Solomon says. "Watch."

She's blinking strangely, I realize. Too fast or too slow, and in a strange rhythm.

"Oh, fuck," Kane says. "Morse code!”

"What?" Saxon asks. "She's blinking in Morse Code?”

“Yeah," Kane says. "I read about this on Reddit once. There was this POW in Vietnam. They made him make one of those propaganda videos, you know? He was saying what they told him to say, but he was blinking a whole other fuckin' message in Morse Code. Can’t remember what the message was, but it doesn't matter."

"So, who knows Morse code?" Lorenzo asks. "I did not know she knew it."

"Inez is a deep well of mysteries," Silas says. "None of us really know her. Shit man, you don't know her—not all the way. You knew the woman she was. The woman she still can be, and still is in some ways, but she's also totally someone else."

Lorenzo waves this off with a disgusted sigh. "I know you are right, but psychology is meaningless to me right now. What the fuck is she saying? That is what I need to know."

Solomon brings up an internet search on the tablet. “Here we go. We need a notebook or something.”

A few minutes later, Solomon has transcribed the Morse code alphabet onto a notebook page. Then he rewinds the video and plays it frame by frame, writing down the pattern of Inez's blinked message—it's a slow, painstaking process. Once the message has been written down in Morse Code, Solomon and Scarlett work together to translate it.

Finally, Solomon smacks the page. "Inez, you clever fuckin' bitch."

"What?" Lorenzo snarls, snatching the notebook, and reading out loud. “R knows who not where. Name is Lorenzo Oliveira." Lorenzo chokes, here, voice shaking. "He is in—shit. Shit! What does this say, Solomon?"

Sol peers at it. "Man, she's spelling the name of a town I've never heard of in Brazil, and she's spelling it Morse fucking Code." He checks the notes. "Looks like…S-U-R-U-C-U-C-U."

Lorenzo growls, rubbing his face. "That's not what you wrote here. This is gibberish." He holds up his hand, head hanging. "I apologize— it is not your fault. I have heard of this place—it is a very small place, barely a village on the Corumbá River, south of Brasilia." He scrubs his face. "The message concludes—'R will find L. You find first. Forget me. Get L.'"

Silence.

"She named him Lorenzo," Lorenzo whispers. To the group, then. "We must go, now. I will arrange transport to Brasilia." He looks at Tatiana. "I will also make arrangements for your father. I am sorry for your loss."

Tatiana, tears streaking anew down her face, meets his gaze. "This Rafael or Mercado, or whatever he calls himself—he owes us all a slow death. It is a tragedy we cannot kill him more than once."

“Facts,” Saxon says. "Let’s find keys for these slick-ass rides and get the fuck to Brazil, ASAP."

"Agreed," Silas says. "I don't like feeling like I fucked up and failed. This motherfucker is gonna die."

Lorenzo says nothing, but the venomous fury on his face says it all.