Chapter 25
CHAPTER 25
T he Colombian nodded, and they went inside the barn. Two of Federico’s men followed, while two positioned themselves at the barn entrance, two stayed outside, and four remained by the truck.
Ghost stood to the side and let Markov take charge. It was his merchandise, after all. Once the money changed hands, that’s when the real action would begin.
He hugged the rough wooden walls, resisting the urge to glance up at the loft where the Blackthorn Security operators were hiding. It was a good vantage point, allowing them to fire down if necessary. Like a castle, the loft was easy to defend if anyone tried climbing up the ladder to attack.
“You don’t mind if we inspect the merchandise?” Federico’s question was more of a statement than a request.
Markov spread his hands. “By all means.”
The two mercenaries left his side and began inspecting the crates. They opened the top one and pulled out an AK-47 assault rifle, checking it over, disassembling and reassembling it before nodding at their boss. “Seems legit.”
“Check the others,” Federico barked.
They moved through the crates, which contained machine guns, RPGs, and other lethal equipment. All twenty crates were accounted for. Finally, Federico nodded and gestured to one of the men at the barn door. The man disappeared outside to the truck, returning with a sleek tablet. He powered it on and handed it to his boss.
“One hundred and fifty million dollars, as agreed.”
Markov nodded, his eyes gleaming as he watched the cartel buyer orchestrate the payment.
Almost time.
His gaze drifted up to the rafters, but there was no sound, no movement. He knew the Blackthorn operators were up there, invisible to those below. No one had thought to check the loft.
From above, a hidden camera was rolling, capturing the scene below. The men waiting in the jungle were prepared for a signal from inside before advancing. Their job was to take out the armed men by the truck and those guarding the barn perimeter.
The Blackthorn operator in the loft would fire down, eliminating the interior guards, leaving Markov and Federico with no choice but to surrender.
That was Plan A.
But in true Marine fashion, Ghost had planned for every possible scenario. He knew from experience that things rarely went as planned.
Plan B involved a firefight—the most likely outcome. The guards would retaliate, people would get shot, and Markov and Federico would be captured in the chaos, if they were still breathing.
Plans C, D, and E covered contingencies in case Markov or Federico escaped into the jungle or the sugarcane fields, or if they took hostages. Other plans accounted for the possibility of losing any Blackthorn operators or the key players themselves.
Federico handed Markov the tablet. “Transaction complete.”
Let’s go!
It was time.
Ghost, who was unarmed, backed into a corner where a rusty, unused tractor stood gathering dust. Taped to the underside was a handgun he’d need when the bullets started flying.
The floorboards above him creaked, and a loud voice rang out. “Put down your weapons. You’re under arrest!”
Immediately, the two armed men at the door aimed high and opened fire, bullets slamming into the underside of the loft and ricocheting off the metal platform where the operators lay. Pat, Blade, and Cole fired back, focusing on the guards, not Markov or Federico.
Ghost threw himself behind the tractor and slid beneath it, tearing the gun free from its hiding spot. He checked the chamber. Loaded.
He rolled onto his stomach and fired at Federico, but the Colombian was already being hustled out by two of his men. One fired behind them into the barn, while the other created cover outside. They weren’t amateurs.
An all-out firefight erupted. Bullets flew from the edge of the jungle, and the cartel’s militia fired back from behind the truck.
There was a yell as Ramirez took a hit to the shoulder, followed by another to the gut. The shots came from Federico’s men, as far as Ghost could tell. Ramirez dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach, blood pooling around him. Ghost thought about pulling him to safety but figured with a gut wound like that, it probably wouldn’t matter.
Markov sprinted for the exit, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets from above, and took off across the clearing into the sugarcane. Somehow, he avoided getting hit.
“Cover me!” Ghost shouted, running after him.
Pat, Blade, and Cole immediately provided cover fire, sliding down the ladder from the loft like firemen on a pole. Their rapid fire created a gap, allowing Ghost to sprint to the cane field.
The cartel’s small army was now trapped, shooting wildly in all directions as they fended off incoming fire from the Colombian military advancing through the jungle, as well as the two FBI agents and the Blackthorn operators in the barn.
Ghost left them to it and raced after Markov.
Shit.
He had to catch him before he gave Carlos the kill order.
There was no doubt in Ghost’s mind that Carlos would execute Becca. He just hoped that in the chaos, Markov hadn’t managed to send the message yet.
Ghost scanned the path splitting the sugarcane field but couldn’t spot the arms dealer. Markov must’ve veered off into the dense cane, where he could stay hidden but would also be slowed down.
Ghost looked for broken stems or disturbed plants—anything that might show where Markov had entered the field. He couldn’t hear him running, thanks to the gunfire behind him.
Time’s running out.
Desperation sharpening his focus, Ghost retraced his steps and peered into the thick cane.
There!
Several stalks had recently been broken, sap still oozing. The ground beneath was flattened and disturbed. Markov had gone in there.
Ghost plunged into the field, grateful for his ankle-high army boots. The bastard he was chasing was wearing loafers, which would make running through this mess a nightmare. It wasn’t hard to follow the trail as Markov bulldozed his way through the cane, falling every few yards.
“Markov!” Ghost shouted.
The arms dealer turned, twisting his body to fire a shot in Ghost’s direction.
Ghost ducked as the bullet embedded itself in the cane. Close, but he’d been expecting it. He didn’t fire back. He needed Markov alive.
The bastard would pay for what he’d done to Becca, rotting in a Colombian prison for the rest of his miserable life. Death was too easy.
Markov pushed on. Ghost followed.
He was gaining on him, but every few seconds, Markov would turn and fire, forcing Ghost to dive for cover. His aim was terrible, hampered by the dense cane and the uneven terrain.
“It’s over, Markov!” Ghost’s voice echoed through the field. “There’s nowhere to run!”
Markov stopped, realizing he was cornered.
Slowly, he turned to face his pursuer.
For a moment, Ghost thought he was surrendering, but he had underestimated the slimy bastard. Markov held up his phone. “Back off, or she dies.”
Ghost could tell by his voice he wasn’t bluffing.
He froze, but kept his gun leveled at Markov’s head.
One shot. That’s all it would take. He could end this right now, blow the bastard’s brains out and be done with it.
“I said, stand down.” Markov’s finger hovered over the send button.
Ghost slowly lowered his arm.
Fuck.
He couldn’t risk it. Not with Becca’s life on the line.
“Toss the gun,” Markov ordered.
Ghost hesitated, then threw the gun into the cane. He wasn’t about to hand it over for Markov to use as backup.
“Stay there,” the arms dealer cautioned. “One move, and Carlos knows what to do.”
Ghost glared but didn’t move.
Markov began inching away, eyes on his phone. He pushed a button, then slipped the phone into his jacket pocket.
No fucking way.
Had he just sent the kill order?
Over my dead body.
Markov wasn’t going to murder Becca and vanish into the ether.
Ghost dove into the cane, tearing it apart until he found his gun.
Markov zigzagged madly through the stalks, trying to make himself harder to hit. Ghost could only catch glimpses of his dark jacket, but that didn’t matter. He stood, gun gripped in both hands. He stilled his breathing, focused, and anticipated where Markov would dodge next.
A low exhale—then he squeezed the trigger.
The shot echoed through the field. Ghost heard a sharp cry and saw Markov spin from the impact.
Gotcha.
Ghost sprinted forward. He had to get that phone and call Carlos off.
When he reached Markov, the arms dealer was on his knees, clutching his bloody shoulder.
“Give me the phone,” Ghost growled, gun aimed at Markov’s head.
“It’s too late,” Markov hissed, tossing the phone at him.
Fuck, no!
Ghost picked it up and stared at the message on the screen.
His chest constricted.
Kill the girl.
It had been sent.