Into the Storm, page 12
He couldn’t help but wonder who the hostage was supposed to be.
These thoughts swirled through his mind as he followed the tracks of a tango through the miserable cold, dark rain. At least the trail was easy to follow. These guys didn’t care about covering tracks or snapping branches. Whoever Rivera had lined up to play the role of baddies was making it easy.
Either they were SEALs who were pretending to be less trained, or they were Army.
He smiled grimly at his mental joke. He’d have to rib one of his Ranger buddies with that one next time they went out for beers.
He paused and studied the ground where a bunch of leaves were smashed and branches broken.
“Shit,” Phelps said, obviously noting the same thing.
“A fight,” Chris said softly, thankful for the cover of the rain.
“One of our guys tangled here? With who? One of the trainers?”
That didn’t make sense either. They were working in four-man Fire Teams. This looked like a two-man fight and not a group brawl.
His night vision goggles allowed him to follow a short trail of smashed leaves and gouged moss to where a swath of flattened branches suggested one of the combatants had slid downhill.
And there was the proof, in the middle of cleared ground, in glowing shades of green.
“Is that…a dummy?” Huang whispered in disbelief.
Chris had wanted to think the same thing, because the truth was too horrible to fathom.
This was an exercise. Fake. Training. Not real.
And yet, just a few feet away was a very real dead body with a snapped neck.
The Baldwin cabin was a treasure trove of camping supplies. Not for backpacking—the tents were bigger and heavier, and the sleeping bags were base-camp style and not compact mummy bags—but Xavier wasn’t about to complain about the bulky items and extra weight. They would need a good shelter when they rested come daylight.
He wished they could pitch the tent now. Audrey was exhausted. Soaking wet. At the end of the trek to get to the Baldwins’, she’d been shivering with every step she took, teeth chattering and all.
But they couldn’t stop now. Jeb’s cabin wasn’t far, and it might have answers.
So they’d gather supplies here, then continue on to Jeb’s, which was the last one before the road dead-ended at the CCC shelter and campground.
At least here, in the Baldwin cabin, Audrey was no longer shivering. First thing they’d done was doff her rain gear and wrap her in a wool blanket that had been draped over the back of a sofa.
Once she was no longer shivering, they’d returned to the utility room at the back of the attached garage and raided it for gear: a green two-person half-dome tent, two all-season sleeping bags, two inflatable sleeping pads, a large-frame backpack for Xavier and another one for Audrey that she could clip her day pack to. They had a Sierra stove, fire bricks, and a small pot for boiling water. Now they just needed food.
Xavier led her into the kitchen, where they started with the pantry. They hit the jackpot when he found a stash of packaged Styrofoam noodle cups and mashed potato packets that only required hot water. He grabbed cans of tuna and chicken and threw those in his borrowed frame pack.
“Jeb was right about this being a vacation rental,” Audrey said.
“Yeah, the notes everywhere give it away.” There were little cards next to light switches and instruction sheets for how to use the compost bin and where to place the trash at the end of the stay.
“That and the locked closets and cabinets.” She pointed to the lock on the cupboard above the fridge. “I’m guessing that’s the liquor cabinet. It probably also holds the good knives and Le Creuset.”
“Think there’s anything we can use in there?” he asked.
“Doubt it, unless you want scotch or vodka.”
“Gin is really my preferred liquor.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Tempting but risky.” He paused, then reconsidered. “Although alcohol is flammable. Wouldn’t hurt to have the makings for a Molotov cocktail.” He reached for a step stool and grabbed one of the cheap knives from the butcher block.
“Suuuurrre,” she said with a laugh in an unmistakably sarcastic tone. “It’s for a Molotov cocktail.”
He chuckled. “Tell you what, when this is all over, I’ll introduce you to my favorite gin. It’s made in small batches at a distillery in Portland.” He slipped the knife blade between door and frame of the cupboard and popped it free of the cheap lock.
Behind him, Audrey said, “I’m not much for hard alcohol these days.”
He scanned the contents of the cupboard, which, as Audrey had guessed, contained booze and quality cookware—but not Le Creuset. He was a little relieved by that deviation or he’d have to wonder if the woman was psychic. He grabbed vodka and a fifth of whiskey and passed them to her to drop in his pack.
After climbing down, he checked the cupboard above the countertop coffeemaker. “Coffee, filters, and a cone. Score!”
“Is there any decaf?”
“Nope. Why?” They’d had regular coffee the morning after their night together and she hadn’t said anything then. If there was ever a time she might need caffeine, it was now.
“No big deal. I’ve just been off caffeine for the last few weeks.” She shrugged. “I’ll take some of that herbal tea instead.”
He tossed packets of tea into the pack and grabbed two stainless steel travel mugs. “Any other food you want?”
From the pantry, she grabbed a sealed salami log, a box of saltines, a pack of bite-sized rice cakes, and a bar of dark chocolate. After placing those in the pack, she turned to the fridge and let out a squeal of delight as she grabbed a brick of unopened cheddar cheese. “Even better score.”
She returned to the fridge. The remaining contents were mostly condiments along with jars of olives and pickles and other items with a long refrigerated shelf life. She opened a container of cottage cheese and took a sniff. All at once, she slammed the container on the counter next to the sink and retched into the basin.
He’d never seen anyone go from fine to sick like that in such a flash. Earlier, when she’d vomited in the yurt, she hadn’t been anything close to fine. “You have a mold allergy?” he asked after shining the red light into the open container.
“It was the sour smell that got me. I’ve got a sensitive stomach right now, I guess.”
“Understandable given the situation.”
She turned on the water and dunked her face in the stream. She took a long gulp and spit the water out, then dunked her head under again, this time letting the water run over the back of her neck. After raising her head again, she shut off the spray and placed both hands on the lip of the sink, hanging her head over the stainless steel basin. “You don’t know the half of it.” The words were a soft mumble.
He wanted to ask what she meant, but every minute they were inside the house, the danger of being cornered again increased. He’d have to wait to continue this conversation when they were alone in the tent later. “You okay now?”
She nodded.
“’Kay. Let’s go upstairs and see if we can find you better clothes.”
She took a hand towel from the hook next to the sink and patted her face and neck. “I’ve been crossing my fingers for that ever since we decided to rob this place. Danielle Baldwin is about my size.”
Before going up, Xavier grabbed a small crowbar from the garage. A knife probably wouldn’t cut it—no pun intended—if the bedroom closets had solid interior doors.
His assumption proved correct, and he quickly pried open the locked closet in the master bedroom. It was a small walk-in, and they entered and closed the door, allowing Xavier to use the bright white lens on his flashlight to illuminate the fully enclosed space that included built-in shelves loaded with clothing. A tower of drawers filled one short wall.
“I joke about stealing, but I really feel terrible we’re doing this.” She ran her hand over a set of quality long underwear. “I’m going to reimburse the Baldwins for everything we pilfer.”
“Borrow. And I will pay back every dime personally. I’ll fix the doors and locks myself.”
Audrey pulled open a drawer, then slammed it shut. “I can’t take Danielle’s underwear.”
“Audrey, are your bra and underwear soaked?”
“Damp. Not soaked.”
“If she has a sports bra that will fit you, you need to change. And you need to take a spare. You won’t be comfortable hiking without a bra, and pulling on dry long underwear over a damp bra makes no sense. We can’t have you succumbing to hypothermia out there.”
She let out a heavy sigh and said, “Fine.”
She found hiking pants and thick wool socks and took two of everything. “I’ll change into one set now and keep the other in case these get soaked too.”
He nodded and reached for the doorknob. “Hurry. We need to get out of here.”
After making sure she had a flashlight, he left her in the closet and went downstairs to their pile of supplies that had yet to go into a bag. In the garage, he found a large box of heavy-duty garbage bags and set to work wrapping the tent, ground pads, and sleeping bags. He then strapped the wrapped items to the outside of their packs, making sure Audrey’s would be lighter than his by quite a bit. She was strong and a hiker, but he was trained to carry extremely heavy packs on ten-mile hikes while wearing body armor.
He was in the middle of this process when he heard Audrey’s footsteps behind him. He turned to see her arms loaded with clothing, including a heavy-duty raincoat made for winter hiking. “Danielle Baldwin might be my favorite person in the world right now.”
“I’d suggest we leave her a thank-you note, but if someone else found it, they’d know what supplies we took. They’ll guess we were here from the broken locks, but no need to advertise we’ve got camping supplies and food.”
She frowned. “I—” She paused and shook her head. “Never mind. Later.”
He cocked his head, but didn’t probe. They’d lingered here too long already. “Let’s roll.”
“You don’t want to see if any of Frank’s clothes will fit you?”
“No. I need my IR patches visible for the SEALs.”
“But aren’t they visible to the bad guys too?”
He smiled at her use of the term bad guys. “They already know I’m the enemy. Doesn’t matter. The team needs to know we’re both friendlies. The patch protects us both.” After a pause, he added, “If anything happens to me, you need to put on my coat. The tactical vest too.”
She held his gaze. He guessed her face had just blanched, but it was hard to see in the red glow. After a beat, she nodded agreement.
He turned back to packing, making sure she had the stove and pot and half the food. If they had to separate, she’d have what she needed to survive.
When they were ready, she pulled on the heavy raincoat. Before she donned the bulky, loaded-down pack, he grabbed the lapel of her open coat and pulled her to him. “Can I kiss you?”
Her nostrils flared, then she gave a quick, slight nod.
He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. When he would have raised his head, she opened her mouth, inviting a deeper kiss.
He wasn’t one to question her offering, short on time or not. He slipped his tongue inside, and they shared a brief but deep kiss. Without a word, he released her and stepped back, then slipped the straps of his loaded pack over his shoulders. The injured joint throbbed, but there was no avoiding the pain.
He would suffer any amount of agony to keep Audrey safe.
Chapter Twelve
Paul tried not to think about the pain in his left hand, but the wound throbbed, shattering his ability to compartmentalize. It would be different if he were still in the fight, but he was trussed up in the cold ballroom, immobilized with nothing for his brain to focus on but worry for his team of trainers, who were all unconscious—or dead.
Only Reichmann’s chest visibly rose and fell with the cadence of sleep. The others could be breathing, but Paul hadn’t been able to detect movement. It could be the dim lighting and the fact they were half the distance of the ballroom away.
He studied Palmer, waiting for the man to inhale. No movement he could discern. Fear coursed through his pain-riddled body. As if it wasn’t bad enough that they’d cut off his finger, they’d had to go and break his ribs and punch him in the kidneys too. He was in bad shape, but for now, he was alive.
He would focus on that. Try to forget he was missing a ring finger.
Impossible, but once upon a time, he’d been a special operator. The best of the motherfucking best.
His gaze dropped to his bandaged hand. He wouldn’t look away. He tightened his fingers and felt a surge of pain.
All that mattered was he was still breathing, and as long as he was breathing, he would look for ways to help the team in the forest, who were surely working on a plan to rescue him and the other hostages.
If they knew there were real hostages, that is.
He went over what had happened, step by agonizing step, in his mind. This exercise would trigger a detail that would help. Something he could use against his Russian captors.
They’d dragged him to the lodge shortly after they’d destroyed the electronics and cut off his finger. He’d been taken into the public restroom near the check-in desk, where one of the mercs bandaged his hand, staunching the flow of blood that had left him light-headed.
It was around that point that Paul realized they wanted him alive. If this was because they thought he was going to spill the beans on future SEAL training exercises, then they were fools.
But that possibility meant he and his team had been beaten by fools. An added humiliation he hadn’t anticipated.
Who are these finger-stealing assholes?
The humiliation had deepened when he’d been dragged into the ballroom and spotted the other four trainers, their team of fake tangos. The only person missing from their six-man band was Rivera.
He’d gone off on what Paul had figured was a boondoggle with the archaeologist. He hadn’t been in position when disaster struck. Hadn’t been taken.
At least, that’s what Paul hoped.
If the woman was in on this somehow, if it had been her job to divert Rivera and the team, then they were all fucked. He figured Rivera had been distracted by the woman he’d screwed and then screwed over.
Paul’s confusion about the situation only grew when he was dragged before the man who must be the leader of the merc team. He wore a balaclava hood with night vision goggles, making it impossible for Paul to make out his features in the dim light of the ballroom.
Why bother to hide his face? Was this man known to the US military?
That question became secondary when the masked man took one look at Paul, then decked one of his minions and yelled at him in Russian.
Luckily, Paul spoke Russian. Unlucky for the merc, he didn’t know Paul was fluent in his language.
“This is not Rivera! I need the sonofabitch alive, and you bring me this piece of shit?” He’d kicked Paul in the ribs then, and the blow managed to eclipse the pain in his hand for a few moments.
What was this guy’s beef with Rivera?
But that had been hours ago.
Now Paul was tied to a chair, halfway across the room from his team, wondering if they were sleeping or dead.
Two mercs entered the ballroom.
“Did you get him?” the masked leader asked in Russian.
“No,” the taller of the two henchmen said, as the shorter man waved a piece of paper in the air.
“But we do have a letter. From a woman to a man named Xavier.”
“Give it to me.”
The short man hesitated, as if realizing the piece of paper was of great value, but handed it over after only a moment, likely realizing that holding the letter hostage would mean losing his own finger. Maybe even death.
Not the brightest bulbs, but not the dimmest either.
Paul studied the leader. He’d removed the NVGs to read the letter in the glow of a red flashlight, but he was too far away and the light too dim for Paul to notice anything distinguishable about his features.
It had been too much to hope the man couldn’t read English, but he let out a nasty cackle as he set the letter on the table. “She’s pregnant. With his bastard.”
Paul had to work to keep his expression blank. Listless.
The archaeologist was pregnant with Rivera’s child? And she’d written him a letter about it? Had she shown up tonight not because of her cameras—it had seemed like a far-fetched excuse—but because she wanted to slip Rivera the letter? Had she interrupted a military op so she could pass him a note like she was in middle school?
And why was their captor so damn happy about this turn of events?
The man spoke again. “This changes things. I need them both alive. Bring me the woman, and I’ll pay double what I promised for Rivera.” He lowered his voice, but still, it carried in the quiet room. “I will cut her while her lover listens to her screams.”
Chapter Thirteen
Chris let out a birdcall, even knowing it wouldn’t carry far over the tapping of the rain. The never-ending downpour cloaked them from the tangos in the forest, but it also made it difficult to find the other Fire Teams.
Four hundred hours and they were in the rendezvous area. All four teams should be here. He was certain the others had come across signs of trouble as his team had. They hadn’t taken the lodge. They hadn’t reached a single objective as it had been laid out for them on Whidbey Island.
Where was Rivera? Where were Cohen and the other trainers? Were they all in the lodge—real hostages and not the fake ones they’d been promised yesterday?
Surely someone was free if the guy with the snapped neck was any indication. The body had no weapons, which meant the trainer who’d taken the guy down had a gun that fired real bullets.
