Dillon was wondering where in this huge fortress Sanchez might be keeping Ellie and Matt. He studied the cell door and answered, “Sure, what?”
Sara looked like she was about to wince. She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and said, “Manny Vega is my brother.”
“I’m sorry?” What the hell was she talking about? Was this nonsense related somehow to the murder she’d just seen? Was Sara in shock?
“Manny Vega is Matt Jackson.”
Dillon almost laughed in her face. But when he saw how serious she was, he took a step closer. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head?”
Sara’s hands clenched. “Manny Vega is my brother. Just ask Sanchez.”
Dillon narrowed his eyes into slits, suddenly beside himself with anger. “Let me get this straight. I’m working on saving the same man I’m trying to kill? Exactly when were you planning on telling me? Before, or after, I shot him? Holy God, Sara!”
“He’s innocent! He’s working undercover!”
“My ass! Vega’s a rogue! Do you know the things he’s done?”
“I don’t know or care about Vega. I do know that Matt helped me. He gave me the flash drive and the map. He saved my life!”
“You’re his sister, of course he saved you! Even scum have scruples. That doesn’t mean he’s not working for Sanchez. He was, after all, with you on Rafe’s boat.”
“He’s not rogue!”
Dillon gave a short, humorless laugh. “How do you know? Matt is Manny. Manny is Matt. Well, that’s just fucking great.” His lips turned down in a scowl and he leaned in close, his words soft, “And now
you
need to understand one last thing. Thanks to your nice little secret, I’m a walking dead man. The map, the drive, Matt as prisoner--all a fabulous lure. A nice, tidy trap. And here I am. Christ, that drive wasn’t
your
death warrant, Sara, it was
mine
.”
Dillon snapped his jaws shut and whirled away in fury.
“Matt wouldn’t kill you.”
“You don’t know that for sure. He blames me for Lisa’s death and he’s not stable. Dammit, don’t you think I had the right to know what I was walking into?” Matt. Manny. The same man, yet not.
“Of course, but--”
“Why didn’t you tell me? What the hell kind of a man do you think I am?”
“The kind who lives by a code. Justice at any cost. You want Vega dead. But he’s still my brother, and I’m telling you he’s innocent.”
Matt. Manny.
Sanchez.
The dock. The explosion. The
meet
.
Christ, he didn’t know what to think. Or do.
“Dillon, please--”
“We’re in trouble here and right now I’m done talking.”
He paced away from her, wondering just what the hell to do now, when a key rattled in the lock and the door to the cell opened. A slightly built woman entered pointing an Uzi directly at his chest, and motioned for him to move backward, farther into the room.
Shit. Just what he needed. Lena, the dead guard’s sister, coming to settle the score.
Dillon moved back with his hands raised and faced her, wondering what form retaliation would take. A bullet in the chest? In the head?
No, probably nothing that severe. He didn’t think Lena would risk killing him; Sanchez would lose his ever-lovin’ mind. But a couple of bullets in the thigh could cripple him enough to blow any plans of escape he had right out the window.
Although, he did still have his pistol, and if push came to shove, he was sure he could take her. As long as she kept her weapon pointed away from Sara.
Schooling his features into a blank mask, he asked, “Something we can do for you?”
“Señor Sanchez would like you to join him for dinner.”
Lena spoke perfect English, and for a second, he was thrown. But only for a second. “Screw Sanchez.”
There was a world of sadness in her dark green eyes, but behind the sorrow lurked a smoldering hate. “Yes. I agree with your sentiment. As you witnessed, he murdered my brother.”
Was the quiet rage he saw on her face directed only at Sanchez, or at him and Sara as well? He reached slowly behind his back, ready to draw his gun if she so much as blinked wrong.
She kept the weapon aimed at his chest, her posture stiff, angry, almost challenging.
Don’t make me do it. You’re just a kid and I’m sick and damn tired of all the killing.
But then her grip slacked off the Uzi and she lowered it to her side. “I don’t blame you,” she said, and glanced at Sara. “Either one of you.”
Maybe she didn’t blame them, but she sure as hell wanted to. He could see it plain as day. He knew what the darker side of vengeance looked like, how it felt, and this young woman had it in spades. She needed someone to blame, someone to hate, someone to pay back.
“My brother was wrong in what he did. But Sanchez was more wrong.” She looked at her shoes, pausing only long enough to clear her throat before she continued. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here, but I sense you hate Sanchez even more than I. Am I wrong?”
“No. You’re not wrong.”
She nodded. “Then I hope you succeed in killing him. Perhaps you will not live that long,” she shrugged, “but I want justice for my brother. That is why I am not locking the door when I leave.”
Sara scrambled to her feet, eager to go.
Dillon held out a staying hand toward her and studied Lena, wondering briefly if this could be some kind of a trap.
He didn’t think so. Sanchez wasn’t that elaborate. If he wanted Dillon dead, he’d simply put a gun against his head and pull the trigger. Cat and mouse only went so far, and they were both too far gone for any kind of bullshit games.
Dillon nodded his thanks to the young woman and grabbed Sara’s hand, ready to move. Turning back to Lena he said, “If I were you, I’d leave here in a hurry.”
“
Sĩ
. Go to the main building. Sanchez is waiting.”
<><><>
If Sanchez wanted guests for dinner, Dillon was more than happy to oblige. Oh, hell yes, more than happy, indeed.
Turning right, he led Sara silently down the dim passageway toward the main building. Stopping at the first junction in the corridor, he gestured for Sara to crouch down. Angling his head around the corner, he checked for guards.
No one in sight.
He took Sara’s hand and together they continued down the hallway to the end where a heavy wooden door stood closed. Dillon eased the handle, and the door skimmed open just enough to see inside.
He’d been in and out of some highly classified places in his time, but what he saw now made his balls shrivel. The door opened into a control room right out of a friggin’ science fiction movie.
State-of-the-art surveillance equipment covered one entire wall. An infrared video monitor, motion sensor indicators, radios, a weather monitor, audio and video multi-channel recorders, a couple of computer terminals and a radar operator’s console with a PPI scope all whirred together in one huge, high-tech nightmare.
Holy shit, they were in trouble. Big trouble. Sanchez had enough communications equipment in here to control a vast network of drug trafficking and create political and social mayhem anywhere in the world.
No wonder he’d been able to find them in the jungle. He had a real-time thermal imaging system set up in one corner, and a satellite relay station in another. Six men, all dressed in camouflage, all armed, all busy, thank God, operated the various systems.
Obviously Sanchez was into a lot more than Dillon had ever known. Probably more than the U.S. Government knew. And no way was Sanchez doing all this alone.
So just how deeply was Matt involved? Did he know who the leak was? Was the leak Rafe’s partner? Why would Vega set up a meet a year ago and then pull a no-show? Had Sanchez found out Dillon would be there and come instead?
Dillon didn’t get it. This trade wasn’t even--if Matt were really Vega, then he knew way too much. And if he’d been undercover the whole time...
Craig.
If Craig hadn’t told him about Sara, maybe he hadn’t told him about Matt either.
But…why?
Because after so many deaths Dillon had been blind with vengeance. He’d been a loose cannon and Craig had known it.
In fact, Craig’s silence was the only thing that made even a little bit of sense.
Dillon’s hope sank. Knowing Sanchez, if Matt had been working undercover, that meant the odds of him still being alive were nil.
And what about Ellie? Would Sanchez have kept her?
He didn’t know how much more Sara could take without going over that really fine line of heart-ripping grief into no-man’s land. He knew too well about walking that line.
Dillon squeezed the door closed and stepped away. He motioned for Sara to follow him and together they turned left and went toward the only other door in the hallway.
He paused.
Should he try to find Matt and Ellie first, then deal with Sanchez?
The darkest corner of Dillon’s mind whispered, Sanchez first. If he didn’t kill Sanchez now, if Sanchez somehow managed to escape, Sara would never be safe. He’d forever be looking over not only his shoulder, but hers too, wondering when the next hit would happen, where, how...
No. No way was he going to put Sara through that kind of hell. And no way was he going to risk losing her, or his child, ever again. Giving them up on his own was one thing, but having their lives snatched away from under him was simply not going to happen.
They would live. No matter what he had to do, his wife and child would live.
Sounds great in theory, pal, but if you kill Sanchez right here, tonight, you’ll never make it out of here alive. You’re out-manned, and way the hell out-gunned. You’ll all die.
Unless...unless he could get them to the chopper.
Unnoticed.
And that was pretty much the only kick-in-the-crotch choice he had, which wasn’t much of a choice at all.
So. This was it. Sanchez waited beyond that door, lurking like a reptile. When all was said and done, Dillon knew one of them was definitely going to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
When Sara came up beside him, he gently clasped her shoulders in his hands and whispered, “Listen, before we go in there, there’s something I need to say.”
She shook her head. “No. There isn’t.”
He ignored her. “If anything happens to me, find Matt. He’ll get you and Ellie out of here. Take her and get as far--”
She pressed a finger against his lips. “I know.”
He nodded and kissed her on the forehead.
Then with a turn of his hand, he opened the door. The well-lit room looked like the living room of a very rich dope dealer and Dillon wanted to drown it in acid. Plush and well appointed and paid for with drug money from futureless kids, burned out soccer moms and everyone else who couldn’t find their way off the pharmacopoeia highway.
Two armed men stood near the back wall.
“Come in, Señor Caldwell, I’ve been waiting for you.”
Dillon pushed the door open, entered, then waited for Sara to follow. Once inside, he closed the door behind her.
Sanchez gestured toward a leather sofa. “Please, sit down. Perhaps you would care to join me in a cocktail before dinner?”
Dillon ignored the invitation. He walked further into the room, making sure he kept Sara behind him. “Why don’t we just cut the hospitality crap, I give you the drive, you give me my child and Matt, then you let us go?”
He doubted Sanchez had anything as simple as that in mind. He could’ve searched them, stripped them naked, and gotten the drive at any point after their capture, but he hadn’t. No, Sanchez might want the drive, but wanted them to suffer first, and then wanted them dead.
It was time to move forward and settle the score once and for all.
“Why don’t you give me the drive, and I won’t make your wife suffer before she dies?”
Dillon strode over to Sanchez, and only inches from his face, said, “You’ve already made her suffer.” He leaned closer. “And soon,
Señor
, you are a dead man.”
Sanchez’s eyes went glacial. His guards raised their guns. “Brave words, considering.”
When Dillon didn’t back down, Sanchez sighed, stepped around him and motioned for the two guards to lower their weapons. Then he walked over to a wet-bar, put ice in a glass and filled it with water. “Please, sit. I insist.”
Sara wasn’t going to be told a third time and sat at the end of a tan leather couch. Dillon sat next to her.
Sanchez approached her with the glass of ice water and a smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. She took the offered glass and for a moment her hand shook just enough to make Dillon wonder if she was going to throw it back in his face. He took the glass from her and set it on a side table. This pretense at civility was making him sick. Sanchez wasn’t civilized. He was a drug dealer and a murderer. So, why the macabre tea party?
Sanchez went back to the bar. “And for you, Caldwell? Still drinking gin and tonic? Unblended scotch?”
Dillon said nothing.
This man butchers people. Sews their mouths closed with turkey needles and fishing line.
Sanchez poured himself two fingers of whiskey, swirled his glass and the tiger paws tattooed onto his hands looked like he was mauling the air. He looked at Sara then at Dillon and said, “You miss Dreena, yes?”
Dillon said nothing.
He crucifies, beheads, tortures, removes tongues and eyelids of the living. Revels in their screams. Scoffs when they beg. Laughs when they pray. This man, the father of a child he’d loved.
“I wonder. Would you have saved them? If you had not been a traitor, one who allowed for any sacrifice, would you have saved them?”
“If you had not been a drug dealer, there would have been nothing to save them from.”
“You think I deserved their deaths?”
I think you need a needle in your arm, something you can’t escape from.
“I think they deserved better.”