Chapter 27
CHAPTER 27
P lease let her still be alive.
They flew north, up the west coast toward Panama and the Villa del Mar hacienda. The Pacific Ocean below shimmered like an oil slick—dark and foreboding.
As they neared the hacienda, Ghost turned his attention to the next problem. Where the hell were they going to put her down?
“We’re out of gas,” the pilot croaked, his voice strained. Right on cue, the little Cessna sputtered and began losing altitude. “We have to land.”
Markov’s sprawling estate, dimly lit by outdoor lamps and the underwater pool light—glowing like a blue homing beacon—came into view.
“Take her down,” Ghost ordered.
“Where?”
Ghost could hear the panic in the pilot’s voice. The plane was dropping fast.
“There!” He pointed to the approach road that stretched from the neighboring village to the estate. It was a few miles long, straight, and though not smooth, it was better than the dirt track they’d landed on at Miguel’s farm. But without landing lights, it was hidden in the darkness.
The pilot squinted through the windshield. “I can’t see it.”
Ghost could only make it out because he knew it was there.
“I’ll guide you.” He leaned forward, eyes locked on the ground, searching for the break in the vegetation that marked the strip of tarmac. He made small corrections as they descended, until the pilot was lined up with the road. Seeing no headlights, they knew the path was clear.
They dropped lower, decreasing speed and altitude until they were just above the ground. The plane hovered, almost suspended in the air, before the wheels screeched as they made contact with the tarmac.
Ghost exhaled softly.
They’d made it.
The plane taxied a few thousand feet before coming to a halt.
“Gracias a Dios,” the pilot breathed, collapsing in his seat.
“Yeah, that,” Ghost muttered. “Thanks for the ride.” He jumped down from the cockpit onto the road.
“Hey, wait! How am I gonna get back?” the pilot called after him, but Ghost was already sprinting toward the hacienda.
He stopped at the wrought-iron gates, scanning for the security guards he knew were there. Two men, armed and under strict orders not to let anyone in. A camera was also positioned above the gate to capture any arrivals.
Ghost didn’t have time to argue with the guards or risk alerting Carlos by starting a shootout. He bypassed the gate and headed toward the fence that surrounded the property.
It wasn’t electrified, though it did have spikes at the top. Ghost ripped his shirt in two, wrapping the fabric around his hands for protection. Beyond the fence lay thick, impenetrable jungle vegetation. It wasn’t patrolled because it was too dense to navigate, but there were sensors hidden in the undergrowth that would detect movement.
Luckily, he knew where they were.
Like any good Marine, he’d taken a walk one evening and deliberately set them off, noting their locations, response times, and generally giving Carlos a headache. It had been a fun exercise then, but now, that prep work was about to pay off.
Ghost zigzagged through the undergrowth, crouched low, the gun he’d taken from the tractor ready at his side.
Ten minutes in, he found the path leading to his cabin.
Crouching low, he sprinted the rest of the way, keeping an eye out for patrols. He slipped inside the cabin and went straight to the wooden cabinet in the living room. From the bottom drawer, he retrieved the emergency stash of cash he’d taped to the back.
They’d need it if they were going to lay low for a while—at least until they could rendezvous with Pat and his team.
After grabbing a fresh T-shirt and pulling it on, he slipped back into the bush behind the cabin. By now, he knew the route to the pool terrace like the back of his hand. It didn’t take him long to reach it.
There was a guard sitting on a deck chair, taking a smoke break, his rifle casually slung over his shoulder.
When the boss is away…
They weren’t expecting trouble.
Ghost snorted quietly to himself. Well, trouble had just arrived.
He maneuvered until he was directly behind the man, creeping forward inch by inch. After a quick glance around to ensure they were alone, he made his move.
In less than a minute, the guard was unconscious, his cigarette still smoldering beside him—and Ghost had appropriated his rifle.
He checked it over and grunted in approval; it was fully loaded.
Grabbing the guard’s ankles, Ghost dragged him into the undergrowth, covering the body with some branches and leaves. Then he stomped out the cigarette.
Moving as silently as a panther, he crept toward the house. The front entrance was out of the question, so he went to the patio door leading to Becca’s apartment. The bedroom window was open. He pulled it wide and climbed through.
Step one complete. He was in the house.
Now, where were they keeping her?
From the photo, it looked like she was being held in a storeroom. Based on his earlier recon of the property, he figured it had to be near the pool equipment storage or some kind of pantry attached to the kitchen. There weren’t many other places she could be.
Tucking the Glock into the back of his pants, rifle in hand, he stalked down the corridor, ignoring the camera that would capture his image. If they saw him unarmed, they might assume he’d just returned unexpectedly. He was a familiar face here by now. But one look at the AK in his hands, and they’d know he meant business.
Moving quickly, he headed toward the storage units. The house was eerily quiet. Where was everyone? No one came to stop him, so he assumed that with Markov in Colombia, security was either relaxed or nonexistent.
He took a right down the hall, passing two unlocked doors filled with gardening equipment and pool supplies. The third door was locked.
He knocked but got no response. If Becca was inside, she couldn’t answer.
His body tensed.
Please don’t let him be too late.
Without any lock-picking tools, he went for plan B: kicking the door down. It took a few hard kicks and several shoulder slams, but eventually, the door splintered and gave way.
“Becca!”
Ghost rushed to where she sat tied to a chair. Her head hung forward, and for a terrifying moment, he feared the worst. His heart pounded as he checked her pulse.
Thank God. She was still alive.
“You!” came a voice behind him.
Carlos.
Slowly, Ghost turned to face Becca’s captor.
“What are you doing here?” Carlos barked, eyes narrowing as they landed on the rifle in Ghost’s hands.
“What does it look like?” he growled.
Carlos drew his weapon, but Ghost launched himself at him before he could fire. Gunshots would alert the rest of the guards, and he needed to get Becca out alive.
Carlos pulled out a hunting knife, and the two men squared off. Ghost removed the magazine from his rifle and tossed it aside. He was going to enjoy this.
Carlos snarled, slashing at him, but Ghost sidestepped easily.
Nice try, asshole.
Ghost punched him in the stomach, dodging the knife again as Carlos grunted but stood his ground. The guy was sturdier than he looked. He came at Ghost again, eyes blazing, the knife glinting in the dim light.
“I’ll kill you,” Carlos sneered.
“Not if I kill you first,” Ghost muttered, dodging another strike and landing a solid right hook to Carlos’s head.
Carlos staggered but recovered, advancing again.
Becca moaned softly, drawing his attention for a split second—enough time for Carlos to slash him across the upper arm.
He grunted in pain but didn’t back down.
You get one. That’s it.
Enough was enough.
As much as Ghost would have enjoyed round two, Becca needed him, and they had to get out of here. At any moment, the Panamanian police could show up.
He kicked the knife out of Carlos’s hand, grinning at the look of shock on the henchman’s face. The blade flew across the room, sliding under some boxes.
Ghost closed in, pummeling Carlos in the face, breaking his nose and splitting his lip. “How’s that feel, you brute?”
He kept hitting him until Carlos stumbled backward and crumpled to the floor. Ghost didn’t stop until he was sure the guy wasn’t getting up again.
Becca moaned, and Ghost straightened, wiping his bloody knuckles on his pants. He grabbed the knife and cut through Becca’s bindings, catching her as she slumped forward into his arms. He ripped the tape off her mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his heart aching at the sight of her bruised, swollen face. Carlos deserved everything he got.
Ghost picked her up, kicking Carlos in the ribs as he carried her out.
He made his way through the kitchen and out the back toward the garages. Shifting Becca’s weight over his shoulder, he grimaced as his injured left arm took the strain, but he needed his right free for the rifle. There were still guards on patrol and if they hadn’t heard the ruckus inside, they’d soon find Carlos’s body and the place would be shut down.
“Who are you?”
Ghost spun around, weapon poised. One of Carlos’s men was pointing a rifle at him.
“I’ve got to get her to a doctor,” he said, taking a chance and lowering the weapon. The man wouldn’t know he was rescuing her. “I work for Markov, this is his personal assistant.”
The man hesitated, his gaze wandering over Becca. From where he was standing, he couldn’t see her face.
“She’s hurt, there’s been an accident,” Dom insisted. “The boss wouldn’t want anything to happen to her while he’s away.”
The man nodded and pressed a remote, which raised the garage door. Dom ducked inside and laid Becca on the back seat of the SUV. He’d no more than closed the door before he heard shouting outside.
“Stop him!” came the cry in Spanish.
Shit.
They’d found Carlos’s body!
Ghost jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Luckily, the keys were always kept in the ignition in case of emergencies. Markov’s orders. He never knew when he’d have to make a quick exit.
The garage door began to lower, but Ghost revved the SUV and took off, accelerating through it. The bottom half went flying.
The two guards jumped back as he roared past them down the driveway. The vegetation on either side flew by in a green blur. There was some incoming fire at the gate as the guards tried half-heartedly to stop him, but he blasted through with a crunch of twisted metal.
Becca was still unconscious on the back seat. This wasn’t good, she was in a bad way.
He pushed the SUV as hard as it would go, past the light aircraft that had been abandoned by the side of the road, skidding around corners and smoking on the worn tarmac until he reached the nearest village.
It was in darkness, having shut down for the night. He decreased his speed and cruised until he came across a tiny cantina, which was little more than a lit window in a wall.
Good enough.
He pulled over, giving the young couple making out in front a fright.
“Which way to the nearest doctor?” he asked, in Spanish.
When they just stared at him, he reiterated, “Doctor? Clinic? Hospital?”
“Ah, si,” said the young man and rattled off an address.
Ghost shook his head and pointed down the road. “Dónde?” Where?
The girl gave him directions. He nodded his thanks.
“The clinic will be shut,” she shouted after him, “but the doctor lives in the apartment above.”
Ghost put his foot down, leaving skid marks behind him.