SEAL of Honor Page 3

  “Has a ransom demand been issued yet?” Gabe asked.

  “About an hour ago, according to Tuc’s sources. Sixty-two point five million.”

  “That’s pretty damn high for one guy.”

  “No. What it is, is damn specific. In fact…” Quinn slid a calculator from the bag at his feet and punched in some numbers. “It’s exactly a quarter of Van Amee’s worth.”

  And, Gabe noted, the maximum amount Van Amee’s kidnap and ransom insurance would cover. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “So what are we dealing with?” Quinn asked. “Tangos who do their homework?”

  “Too soon to tell.” The plane leveled out and a moment later, the seatbelt light went off. “Suppose it’s time to brief the troops.”

  Quinn grunted. “If you can call them that.”

  Gabe stood and braced his hands on the backs of the seats on either side of the aisle. Pain spiked through his foot, but he’d be damned if he relied on his cane. Last thing he needed was to show any sign of weakness in front of this ragtag group.

  He waited a moment. When nobody quieted down, he put his fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp whistle that echoed around the plane’s interior in the silent aftermath.

  “Gentlemen, listen up. I’d like to introduce myself before we get started. My name’s Gabe Bristow. You’ve all been dealing with Quinn, my XO, but from now on, you’ll answer to me.”

  “Do you expect us to salute?” Ian Reinhardt asked. His motorcycle jacket creaked as he raised an arm and gave a cheeky two-finger salute. “Sir.”

  So this was the explosive ordnance expert. After reading everyone’s dossiers on the way to New Orleans, he’d known Ian might be a problem. The guy was bad attitude personified. “No, I don’t expect that. However, showing some respect for a fellow teammate wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Bite me,” Ian said.

  Oh, yeah. This was going to be fun. “Do I look like a fucking vampire, Reinhardt? And if you have a problem with my leadership…” He turned, walked to a closet at the front of the plane, grabbed one of the parachutes he’d asked Quinn to pack, and tossed it to Ian. “Strap in. The door’s right there. Go find yourself a new job.”

  Ian caught the chute and his dark eyes locked on Gabe’s in a game of chicken for a long moment. Then he flashed a smile that held just an edge of malice and tossed the chute back. “Nah, I don’t have a problem with you, Bristow. I like your style. We’ll get along fine.”

  “Let’s hope, because I have no use for disrespectful assholes on my team. Those guys get their teammates killed, and I want everyone here to go home to their families when this is over. You clear on that?”

  Ian grunted something that may have been an agreement. Or, more likely, a fuck you.

  Gabe decided he’d have to chat with Reinhardt about his attitude at some point in the next few hours.

  He took a moment to replace the parachute in the closet, then returned to his spot in front of his men.

  “Our objective is to find and rescue this man, Bryson Van Amee, before any ransom money is paid.” He opened the folder Quinn handed him and held up the businessman’s photo. “He’s forty-three years old, five-eleven, one-eighty, with thinning brown hair, brown eyes. He co-founded The Bryda Corporation twelve years ago with his college roommate, has been married to his wife, Chloe, for five years, and is the father of two young boys, Ashton, five, and Grayson, three. His parents are deceased, so he also provides for his younger sister, Audrey, twenty-seven, a struggling artist.”

  “In an ideal situation,” Quinn said and passed around copies of the file, “we’d have trained together for a couple months before taking on our first mission, but we don’t have that luxury. Most of you have been on this type of op before, so we’re confident we can pull together and bring Bryson home to his wife and kids.”

  “This is truly a trial-by-fire, gentlemen,” Gabe agreed. “We fail and this man will at best live the next few years of his life in some Colombian jungle shithole. At worst, he dies. Neither of those outcomes is acceptable.” He gave them a moment, letting the grim reality of this mission settle into their minds. The lighthearted mood dissipated as everyone got their game faces on. “I expect you to know the information in this file inside and out by the time we land.”

  “Has there been a ransom demand yet?” Marcus Deangelo asked.

  “Sixty million and some change,” Quinn said. “It’s all there in the file.”

  “Who’s taking responsibility?” Harvard asked.

  “A new terrorist faction calling themselves Ejército del Pueblo de Colombia, the People’s Army of Colombia, or EPC,” Gabe said. “All we know about them is that they broke off from the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia about six months ago and have been on a terror campaign ever since.

  “That’s where Harvard comes in.” He turned toward Eric Physick, who had a rep as one of the best analysts ever to work for the CIA. A genius with more brain than brawn—something Gabe would have to fix if the kid wanted a chance of staying on this team. “We need you to gather as much intel as possible on the EPC. Who, what, where, how—get me everything available. We’re working against the clock. The FBI will only be able to stall the ransom drop for so long and I don’t want to go up against these guys blind.”

  Harvard nodded, picked up his laptop case, and unzipped it. “You’ll know the basics by the time we get to Colombia. The rest will take me a little longer.”

  “Thanks.” Gabe refocused on the rest of the men. “Okay, so here’s how the team’s going to work. Harvard will control base camp and all the comms, including all contact with the hostage takers, should it come to that. Harvard, make a list of everything you might need and you’ll have it when we land.”

  The kid nodded, but didn’t look up from his computer.

  “Jesse Warrick will function as our medic. Anyone gets hurt, we defer to him. If you need anything, Jesse, let either Quinn or me know and we’ll get it for you.”

  Jesse tipped the brim of his Stetson back with one knuckle and patted the bulging bag on the seat next to him. “I travel with my own supplies, thanks,” he drawled. “But I do want access to medical records and everyone needs to have a physical exam in the next twenty-four hours so I have a baseline reading should one of ya get hurt.”

  “Done.” Gabe studied the group. “We’ll rely on Jean-Luc as our translator. Anyone else fluent in Spanish?”

  “Mine’s passable,” Jesse answered.

  “All I remember from Spanish class is un burro sabe mas que tu,” Marcus said and Jean-Luc snorted a laugh.

  “‘A donkey knows more than you?’ Nice, Marcus. If we need to insult the EPC into submission, we’ll know who to call.”

  “All right, gentlemen,” Gabe said. “Enough joking around. We have a little over four hours until we land. Read up and catch whatever sleep you can, because once we’re on the ground, we’re on the move.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  BOGOTÁ, COLOMBIA

  “Nice digs,” Jean-Luc said from the passenger seat of the rented 4Runner. “Nice neighborhood. I didn’t think Colombia had nice neighborhoods.”

  Gabe ignored him and leaned on the steering wheel to study Bryson Van Amee’s apartment building and the surrounding neighborhood. It was nice. Affluent. Clean. Full of sprawling parks and red brick buildings with a subtle British flair to the architecture. A million steps up from the barrios he’d seen during his past two trips to Bogotá. Of course, he’d been assisting the Colombian Army in hunting for the brutal leader of a drug cartel, not searching for an unfortunate American businessman caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “I don’t think the snatch happened inside his place,” Gabe said, “but it won’t hurt to check it out.” He needed to get a feel for the kind of person Van Amee was. A survivor, he hoped, or else they’d be dragging a body back to the States.

  “Security guard on the front door,” Jean-Luc pointed out. “Cameras, too. IP-based, which means they
probably archive their footage.”

  “How do you know?” Gabe had seen the cameras, but as far as he knew, there was no way to tell whether they were on an IP network or closed-circuit TV just by looking.

  “My brother-in-law owns a security company in New Orleans,” Jean-Luc said and raised a pair of binoculars, focusing on the closest camera. “I help out with installing systems when he’s short staffed, and…oui, I know that brand. I can call him, but I’m pretty sure it’s an IP camera. We should ask to see their footage.”

  Gabe shook his head. “I don’t want to risk tipping anyone off that we’re looking.”

  Jean-Luc lowered the binoculars and grinned. “I like the way your mind works, mon capitaine. Very James Bond.”

  “No,” Gabe corrected, “very practical. Van Amee’s limo driver, Armando Castillo, reported him missing when he didn’t show for his scheduled pick-up. Building security had no clue anything was wrong until Armando raised the alarm.” He scanned the building, looking for faults in its security. At first glance, he didn’t find many. A guard here, a camera there, angled just right. Not necessarily unassailable for a trained operative, but a newly formed, ragtag terrorist faction would have a rough time of it.

  “Leads me to believe the EPC has someone on the inside,” he continued. “How else would they know who to hit and when? They had to have surveillance on him.”

  “I’ll call Harvard, see if he can hack into their network.” Jean-Luc flipped open his phone, spoke for a moment, gave the camera’s brand name and apartment’s address, and nodded. “Harvard says it’s a go. He’ll have the footage for us in an hour.” He closed the phone and slid it into the front pocket of his button-up shirt, which he wore open over a Pink Floyd T-shirt. “So, mon capitaine, we have time to kill. You want us to sneak a peek inside?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to recon the block first. You stay here and keep eyes on.” Gabe climbed out of the 4Runner and grabbed one of the radios Harvard had given him before they left the safe house. “Anything suspicious, radio me. Don’t go in by yourself.”

  “Aye-aye. But, uh…” Jean-Luc reached into the backseat. “Shouldn’t you take your cane?”

  “Goddammit.” He snatched it from Jean-Luc’s hand. The only reason he had the fucking thing was Jesse Warrick, after getting a load of his medical history and doing a physical, insisted he use it more. Since he told his men to defer to the medic, he couldn’t very well go against his own order.

  “Goddammit,” he said again and Jean-Luc laughed as the car door shut.

  …

  Nothing.

  Not that Audrey had expected a glaring neon sign with an arrow that said, Find Bryson Here, but, well, at least one clue would be nice. The apartment was disgustingly tidy, so like Bryson. No ruffled pillows, no dust on the rosy hardwood floors, no leftover dishes in the sink or crumbs on the marble counters. The coffee pot appeared unused and the fridge sat mostly empty. Also not a surprise. Brys couldn’t cook worth a damn, somehow managing to burn everything he toasted, nuked, or fried up in a skillet. Like the time he’d tried to make Mama’s famous casserole shortly after their parents died to cheer her up and ended up with half of Savannah’s fire department on the front lawn.

  Audrey smiled a little and ran a finger along one of the unused frying pans hanging above the kitchen’s center island. Yes, they had their issues, but she couldn’t have asked for a better big brother.

  Now he was gone.

  Her smile faded, but she wouldn’t let the surge of stomach-churning fear get to her again or else she’d spend the next several hours hung over a toilet like she had when she realized she’d witnessed his kidnapping.

  God, that short call might be the last time she ever talked to him.

  No. No, she refused to think that. Bryson deserved better than that from her. He’d go to the ends of the earth to find her if she was in trouble. She couldn’t do any less than the same.

  But where to start?

  Audrey drifted over to the window that took up one whole wall of the living room and stepped out onto the balcony. So many buildings, people, and parks in this quiet neighborhood alone. She had no idea where or even how to start looking. Chloe, the Wicked Sister-in-Law of the West Coast, had been next-to-no help.

  “Don’t get involved,” Chloe had said. They simply had to do what the kidnappers wanted. Pay a ransom, get Bryson back. No police involvement. “Everything will be all right,” she had said. “Trust me.”

  Uh-huh. Audrey would trust her the day Chloe admitted her boobs, butt, and the age on her ID were all fake. The only thing that woman had ever done right in her miserable life was give Bryson two sweet, adorable sons.

  Audrey had ignored Chloe and called the FBI, who hadn’t seemed all that interested, but said they would “look into it.” Wasn’t the FBI supposed to be all about finding kidnappers? At least, they were on Without a Trace. So she tried every other alphabet soup bureaucracy she could think of, and even Bryson’s insurance company, in hopes someone could do something. But everyone said it was someone else’s jurisdiction, except the insurance company, which was more worried about their bottom line than her brother’s wellbeing. As soon as she hung up with them, she called her manager, canceled her show, and started packing her bags. If nobody was willing to help, she’d just find Brys herself.

  Somehow.

  On the street below, a man with a cane caught her eye as he climbed out of a dented blue 4Runner parked at the curb. He didn’t look Colombian. For one thing, he towered head and shoulders above everyone he passed. He had dark close-cropped hair and light skin and wore a simple white short-sleeved shirt over olive green cargo pants. His footwear looked an awful lot like combat boots. Even two stories up, she could feel the waves of command radiating from him.

  He seemed to be looking for something.

  No, not looking. Canvassing. That’s what all those cop dramas Mama used to like called it. Canvassing the neighborhood. Er, casing? She always got those confused, but that was beside the point. He didn’t belong here, and jangled all of her mental warning bells.

  Did he know something about Bryson’s abduction? If not, why else would a man like him be here?

  With a hard lump of fear rising in her throat, she watched him turn the corner at the end of the street, then she looked at the 4Runner he’d abandoned. From what she could see, it appeared to have local plates and another man sat inside. Okay, maybe she was overreacting. Maybe they were tourists, and the man with the cane was searching for a restroom. Or they were lost and looking for their hotel. Or they—

  The man inside the vehicle lifted a set of binoculars and focused them directly at her.

  Audrey ducked back into the apartment. A car door slammed shut a heartbeat later.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  Heart pounding, she scanned the room. The apartment was too open and airy, too minimalist to offer any decent hiding place. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to get in. The security guard at the door hadn’t believed that she was Bryson Van Amee’s sister, and it had taken a lot of wheedling and charm to access his apartment.

  Footsteps pounded hard and fast down the hallway and her hope plummeted. The man obviously knew tricks to get by security guards. Big surprise. Did he also know how to get inside a locked apartment?

  When the knob rattled and she saw the point of a knife slip between the door and frame, she got her answer.

  What had she been thinking coming here alone? Yes, she’d wanted to find her brother, but not like this. Not as a fellow captive.

  The door clicked and opened, catching on the chain she’d at least had the foresight to slide home.

  “Policía,” the man called, but his Spanish carried an accent she couldn’t place and she didn’t believe him for a second. “¡Abra la puerta!”

  Uh-huh. Hell would most definitely freeze over before she acknowledged his command to open the door. Way she saw it, all she had going for her was the element of surprise. He figured someone was inside,
but he didn’t know who or where or whether she was armed.

  She grabbed the closest thing, a heavy glass lamp on the end table beside the couch—such a girly weapon and not as heavy as she’d hoped, but it’d still make the fake policeman see stars—and moved to the right side of the door.

  “¡Policía!”

  Ri-ight. And if she had a cup of tea and a biscuit, she’d be the Queen of England.

  Holding her breath until her ears buzzed, Audrey waited for him to kick the door, her hands beginning to sweat on the lamp. Any second now. Any…second…

  The door flew open, banging into the opposite wall, and she went into pure adrenaline-fueled fight or flight mode, slamming the lamp down as hard as she could on his blond head. Once, twice, a third time for good measure, her heart hammering so hard she thought for sure it was going to pop out of her chest and join in on the beating.

  The fake policeman collapsed with an umph and she scrambled over his big body. And, boy, was he big. A solid lump of muscle lying dazed on the floor, blocking her only escape. He looked more like a frat boy than a kidnapper in his Pink Floyd T-shirt, jeans, and Nikes, one of which connected with the back of her left knee, buckling her leg.

  She managed to keep from slamming face-first into the floor by catching herself on her hands and knees. Tried to crawl away from her attacker, but he snagged her pant leg. On instinct, she kicked out, crashed the heel of her sandal into his nose, and wished like hell that she were wearing a stiletto instead. As blood spurted, he lost his grip and she scrambled to her feet.

  He cursed in a language that was definitely not Spanish and, ignoring his bleeding nose, he was back on his feet as if he hadn’t ever been down.

  Who was this guy, the freaking Terminator? If he was this resilient, she didn’t want to stick around and meet his friend with the cane.

  “Hey, stop! I just want to talk to you.” His English was perfect, barely accented, and he repeated the command in Spanish.