Chapter 26
CHAPTER 26
“ Y ou bastard!”
Ghost turned back to Markov, only to find the snake had slithered off again into the cane field.
Raising his weapon, he fired, but the hollow click told him the cartridge was empty.
Shit.
He tossed the gun away in disgust.
He was about to go after the arms dealer when the phone in his hand beeped. Glancing down, Ghost saw a red exclamation mark next to the sent message.
Only one bar.
No reception. They were in a dead zone.
He felt weak with relief.
Thank you, God.
He knew the message would send as soon as it found a signal, but at least this bought him some time.
He was itching to go after Markov and finish the job. He wanted to beat him senseless and leave his rotting corpse to be eaten by rats in this very field.
But he had precious little time to get to Becca.
There was still a chance he could outrun the text message.
Dropping the phone where he stood, Ghost turned and raced back to the clearing.
“You get him?” Pat strode out of the barn, rifle slung over his shoulder. The clearing looked like the aftermath of a warzone. The Colombian military was rounding up cartel members who weren’t bleeding out on the ground, cuffing their wrists and loading them into the back of their own truck.
Ghost shook his head. “Bastard got away, but I hit him in the shoulder. He won’t be hard to track.”
Pat frowned. “It’s not like you to miss. What’s up?”
Ghost ran a hand through his messy hair. “Markov gave the kill order on Becca. They were using her as leverage.”
Pat’s face darkened. “Shit, I didn’t know.”
“There wasn’t time to tell you. I’ve got to get back to the hacienda.”
In the background, Blade was on the sat phone, calling for an evac helo. Cole was talking with two serious-looking Americans—probably the FBI guys.
“You want the helo?” Pat asked.
“Nah, I’ll take the Cessna. It’s faster.” The chopper would take too long, and Ghost didn’t have that kind of time.
Pat slapped him on the back. “Call if you need backup.”
Ghost nodded. “Will do.”
He jumped into the pickup and floored it down the dirt road to the waiting aircraft. His mind raced. Markov was injured, and he’d have to walk a few miles, while Ghost had the advantage of wheels. Plus, the plane was still there—he hadn’t seen it take off.
But he’d forgotten about the guard they’d left behind.
“What’s going on?” the thug demanded as Ghost leaped from the pickup. “I heard gunfire. Where’s the boss?”
Gunfire? That was an understatement—they’d been in a firefight for over twenty minutes. Coward.
Without hesitation, Ghost smashed his fist into the guy’s face, dropping him instantly. He snagged the Glock that fell beside him. There wasn’t time to explain. Besides, the guy owed him for the gut punch earlier.
The pilot flinched at the violence, but Ghost leveled the Glock at him. “Get this thing in the air. We’re leaving.”
The pilot swallowed his objections and started the engine. Ghost climbed into the cockpit, strapped in, and within moments, they were taxiing down the narrow road, ready for takeoff.
Ghost knew Pat had the situation locked down. They had the whole transaction on video, which meant they now had everything they needed to take down Markov and Federico.
It was just a matter of time. There was nowhere left for Markov to hide. He’d never operate in this area again, and if he set foot in the U.S., he’d be arrested for attempted murder, money laundering, arms dealing, and a laundry list of other felonies.
He was done.
As they lifted off into the night sky, Ghost made a vow—he’d hunt Markov down, even if it was the last thing he ever did. But first, he had to get to Becca.
“Head north,” he told the stunned pilot. “We’re going to Panama.”