Broken Honor (5 page)

Of course it couldn’t be that easy. “What about the way you tracked Gabe’s phone in Colombia—can you do that with mine?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good. I hope that program of yours has a global reach, because if they put Mara on a plane, I’m going to be on it with her. I’ll need you to lock on my signal and find us. Send the team.”

“Oh, man. Quinn—”

“Does it have a global reach or not?”

“Yeah, of course. As long as your phone has battery power, I’ll be able to track you.”

“Then I’m getting on that plane one way or another.” Quinn stared out the dusty windshield at the winding road in front of him. Adrenaline spilled into his blood, making him twitchy. “And, Harvard, you better make damn sure the team’s right on my ass, got it?”

Chapter Five

The problem with deserts was that every move you made kicked up a cloud of dust as good as a neon sign screaming, “Incoming!” Quinn took the truck in as close as he dared, then dumped it and continued on foot at a dead run until he was within sight of the airfield. Only then did he force himself to slow down and flatten out on the ground. Except for a few rocks and some short desert plants, there was little in the way of cover here, but dust already caked most
of his sweat-dampened skin and clothes, offering a bit of camouflage if he stayed low.

Quinn could be a patient man, but crawling toward that airfield one excruciating inch at a time was one of the most trying tests of self-restraint he’d ever endured. Every fiber in his being screamed that he had to get to Mara
now
. Make sure she was okay. Protect her. But he hadn’t seen a plane take off or land, so she had to still be at the airfield, and running in like Rambo would only get them both killed.

Christ, he wished the team were here to back him up.

He halted in the shrubs alongside the runway and spotted the Explorer parked in front of one of the two metal hangars about 150 meters away from his position. Was she still in the vehicle? He couldn’t tell. And he didn’t have a visual on the fuckhead, either.

Now what?

He had no team, minimal gear, and only a handgun. It was a damn fine weapon but still not enough firepower to take on…whoever he was about to take on. The Juarez Syndicate made the most sense, but it didn’t sit right in his gut. The abduction had been too slick, and the Syndicate had too much of a gang mentality to pull off something like this. Their style was more like the sloppy drive-by assassination attempt on Ramon Escareno last July. They didn’t do covert well.

But who else could it be?

Quinn rested his head on his forearms and gave himself a moment to breathe, which he hadn’t done properly since he saw Mara snatched. His headache was nearing epic proportions, and he had to face the possibility it could explode into a full-blown migraine. Or, worse, a blackout episode. If he went lights-on-nobody-home right now, he’d lose Mara.

Possibly forever.

Yeah, sure, he’d already lost any chance he would have had with her, and he could live with that. Maybe. But losing her completely? Knowing he’d never find out if she’d give him another shot because she was just…gone? His stomach clenched at the thought. No. He wouldn’t let it happen and fought against the headache with everything he had, separating himself from the pain, locking it away. He’d pay for it later, but right now all that mattered was getting to Mara. If he could free her now, before the plane they were undoubtedly waiting for arrived, he’d wouldn’t have to worry so much about the unknowns—how to get on the plane, where they were going, how he’d keep track of her once they landed.

At least he didn’t also have to deal with scorching heat. Even with the bright afternoon sun, the temperature was struggling to top fifty. A blessing now, but if he was still waiting out here when the sun went down, hypothermia would become a very real problem.

Which was exactly why he should make his move.

Quinn sucked in a deep breath and shoved himself upright. He sprinted across the open runway in a low crouch. Nobody tried to gun him down, which he took as a good sign that this was a small-time operation, possibly even a one-man job.

One man he could take. More than that… Well. He’d do whatever he had to.

He reached the first hangar, found a side door propped open a half inch, and peeked inside. Dark. The fuckhead wouldn’t be sitting in complete darkness with Mara. They had to be in the other one. He backed away from the door and, staying close to the outside wall, moved around the back side of the building, then ghosted up the alley created by the two hangars. Even before he reached the second hangar’s closed side door, he heard muffled female sobs inside, and his heart clenched.

I’m here, Mara. Hang on just a bit longer.

He tested the door. Locked. Because of course it was.

The distinct sound of a plane decelerating overhead caught his attention, and he squinted toward the sky. Whomever Fuckhead had been waiting for was only minutes away, and he’d prefer to be long gone with Mara by his side before that plane touched down.

Now or never.

Keeping to the shadows of the alley, he raced toward the front of the building, firearm up and ready. The main hangar door was open, the lights on, and he sensed movement inside. He sucked in a breath to calm the adrenaline-fueled jitters in his gut, then swung into the opening. The hangar was filled with three planes in various states of disrepair, the internal mechanics spread out on the concrete floor as if the planes had been gutted for parts. And there on the floor in the middle of it all was Mara, struggling against the zip ties holding her wrists, tears streaming over her flushed cheeks and a duct-tape gag.

Their eyes met, and the relief filtering through hers ignited a fragile spark of hope that maybe he hadn’t fubar’d things with her yet—a spark he ruthlessly squashed. At this point she’d be relieved to see Elvis walk through that door—anyone but her attacker. She made a muffled sound behind her gag, and he pressed a finger to his lips. She nodded.

“Where he is?” he mouthed.

She shrugged, shook her head.

Quinn crouched in front of her. “All right. Let’s get you out of here. We have to move fast. Can you walk?”

She lifted her feet to show they were also bound with a zip tie.

Rage sent fire roaring through his veins, and he clenched his teeth against it. He wanted to punch something. Or someone. Preferably the fuckhead who’d abducted her. He did another quick scan of the hangar, then set his gun down and reached into his boot for the knife he’d slid in there before leaving the stolen truck. He bent to saw through the tie—

Mara’s shout from behind her gag was the only warning he had of an impending attack. He whirled, knife raised, and Fuckhead’s fist glanced off his jaw. The blade flew from his hand, clattering to the floor somewhere nearby. He saw white. His knees buckled and he didn’t catch himself soon enough to stop the fall. He was going down one way or another, but he couldn’t stay down or he’d end up dead. That punch had been calculated to KO him. Truthfully, it was a wonder it hadn’t.

Rattled from the blow, he clumsily rolled into the fall, sprang back to his feet behind Fuckhead, and snaked an arm around his windpipe, squeezing tight. The guy grunted, and sweat soaked through his balaclava as he struggled for oxygen.

Quinn was sweating, too, breathing harder than he should have been. Choking someone out was nothing, a cakewalk, and yet his vision started to tunnel on him, and for one horrifying second, he thought he was going to pass out himself. His grip loosened enough on Fuckhead’s windpipe that the guy was able to suck in a rejuvenating breath.

Shit. A quick, clean knockout wasn’t going to be possible now.

Quinn blinked away the fuzzy gray dots clouding his vision and redoubled his grip, but the guy was huge, a good three inches taller and carrying an extra thirty pounds of muscle, and he’d tensed up his neck like a steel beam. He reared back, hitting Quinn’s jaw with the top of his head.

Quinn released the chokehold and staggered. Barely had a chance to suck in a breath to regroup before Fuckhead made like a ram, plowing him in the stomach, and the fight was back on. Kicks and punches flew, Quinn battling for each blow he landed. Fuckhead fought like a machine and was quick for his large size. A punch glanced off Quinn’s side, too close to his kidney for comfort.

Fuck this. The guy wanted dirty, Quinn would give him dirty.

Shutting off higher thought, he went into survival mode, all brutal action and reaction. He brought his knee up and connected with Fuckhead’s balls hard enough that the guy’s dark eyes bulged. When he bent double, groaning, Quinn grabbed him by the hair and slammed a knee up into his face. He made an
ump
sound and staggered sideways but still didn’t go down. Blood splattered the floor from his nose, and he groped around under his jacket, no doubt going for some kind of weapon. Quinn wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to pull it and drove his elbow into the base of the guy’s skull. Finally, Fuckhead collapsed to the floor and didn’t move again.

Christ.

Panting hard, Quinn swept his sweat-dampened hair from his face. All right. Who was this guy? He rolled his opponent over and pulled off the balaclava. The face underneath was a bloody mess and his nose was certainly broken, but…

No.

No way.

Recognition slammed through Quinn like a train. This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. “Urban?”

Petty Officer First Class Todd Urban’s eyelids were frozen half open, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

No. Oh, fuck, no.

Quinn fumbled for a pulse and found nothing under his fingers but cooling skin. That final blow to the head had done more than render Urban unconscious.

Quinn sat back, head reeling, his stomach threatening a revolt that had nothing to do with the sudden, insistent pounding of a headache inside his skull. He scrambled away from the body and gulped in large drafts of air, silently talking his gut down before it went all
Exorcist
on him. Puking at the scene of the crime was not a good plan.

Really not a good plan.

Fuck! He’d just killed an active-fucking-duty U.S. Navy SEAL. A former teammate. A guy he’d once considered a friend…

And yet Urban had been fighting to kill. How had he not recognized Quinn? Sure, he’d lost some weight since leaving the SEALs, but he hadn’t changed that much. And why was Urban here alone, without his team? They wouldn’t have deployed on U.S. soil, no matter how important Mara’s stepfather was.

What the hell was going on here?

Mara made a whimpering sound, and he gazed over at her. This time, there was no relief in her eyes. Instead, he saw fear. Of him. She was staring at him with sheer terror, her eyes too big in her pale face and showing too much white.

“Mara.” Her name came out on a soft exhale. He reached for her, his knuckles bruised and bloodied, and she flinched back. The gesture was worlds away from last night, when she had arched into his touch, begged for it. He swallowed hard at the memory, his throat tight. After witnessing this, she’d never let him touch her like that again.

Which was for the better. A woman like her didn’t deserve his brand of danger in her life.

He found his knife on the floor near a dismantled plane engine and crossed back to her, holding it up in a silent question. She nodded and shut her eyes, squeezing out tears to roll over her gag as he sliced through the ties on her feet and wrists.

He reached for the duct tape over her mouth last. “I’ll do it fast, but this will hurt. I’m sorry.” And he yanked it off.

She cried out in a string of Spanish curses and stomped her feet in a way that had him fighting back a smile.

Christ, he loved that feisty streak in her, the one she fought so hard to hide behind a demure outer shell.

Whoa, wait. Loved?

Ha. What did he know about love? He shouldn’t even think that word in conjunction with Mara. He needed to stop that shit, because she was obviously terrified of him now. With good reason.

He backed away from her, careful to keep his face impassive. “We need to go.”

Mara sucked in a shaky breath. Nodded. “Okay.”

She climbed to her feet and looked so damn small and fragile standing there, he wanted nothing more than to wrap her up in his arms and never let her go.

Bad idea.

He spun away, snatched his gun from the floor, and, after a moment of hesitation, he searched Urban and found another gun. He’d need all the firepower he could get his hands on to make sure Mara stayed safe.

He stared down into Urban’s bloodied face. He hated leaving the guy here, but he didn’t have much choice. Carrying Urban back to the truck would only slow them down, and Mara was his first priority. He’d take her back to El Paso, make sure she was secure, then turn himself in at Fort Bliss. The army would send someone out to investigate and collect Urban’s body. There would be questions he wouldn’t have answers for and possibly even a trial.

“Goddammit. This shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry, man.” He ran a hand over Urban’s face, closing his eyes for the last time. In his peripheral vision, he saw Mara cover her mouth with her hand.

“You know him?” she gasped.

“He was a SEAL. A friend.” Quinn looked over at her, watched the color drain from her face.

“But—but why would he kidnap me?”

Wait. What? Sure, Urban had been wearing a hoodie and a balaclava like the abductor, but after Quinn uncovered his face, he’d assumed it had been a tragic case of mistaken identity on both of their parts. It hadn’t once crossed his mind that Urban
was
the abductor, because that didn’t line up with the Todd Urban he knew—a likable, hardworking family man who would sell his soul for his wife and kids. “
This
is the man that abducted you? You’re sure?”

Mara nodded, her dark eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. “He broke into my house and took me out of my bedroom.” She started to tremble. Probably going into shock.

Again, Quinn wanted to hold her, to tuck her in against his chest until the shivering stopped and the bad memories faded. And again he restrained himself. She had flinched the last time he reached for her. She didn’t want him or his comfort, and who could blame her for that?