Endgame (Last Chance Series) (35 page)

"Waters."

"Hey, Sam." Raymond Seaver's voice held a hint of laughter and rebuke. "I thought you were on your way back to Atlanta."

"Sort of got sidetracked." She frowned into the phone.

"So I hear."

News traveled fast, but there was no way Seaver had called just to talk about her latest escapade. Her boss was too focused for that. "What's up?"

"Got a call from a guy named Cullen Pulaski." There was a pause as Seaver waited for the information to sink in.

"The industrialist?" Sam shivered in anticipation. Something big was coming down.

"Yeah. There's been a bombing in San Antonio. Senator Ruckland and two of his colleagues were killed." Again he paused for impact.

"So?" she urged, trying to contain her impatience.

"So," Seaver drawled, "there's some kind of task force. Last Chance something-or-other. Best of the best sort of thing. And Pulaski wants you."

*****

SWEAT DRIPPED DOWN Payton Reynolds's neck, pooling at the small of his back, his shirt sticking to him like a second skin. The hovel he currently called home was nothing more than a lean-to amidst the squalor of the Peruvian mountain jungle, the loam floor a pungent reminder that the usual occupants of the structure were sheep.

Still, it was better than sitting out in the pouring rain. A little better. He swiped at a mosquito and pulled the lantern closer to the map he was studying. According to his calculations, he was about a quarter mile from his objective.

Aimil Cortez was wanted in six countries, the combined price on his head enough to make someone a very wealthy man. Unfortunately, not Payton. His mission was to take the man out and then disappear as quietly as he'd come. By the time Cortez's body was discovered, Payton would be long gone. And the world would be a safer place. Or at least a little less repulsive.

He checked his rifle, a 50-caliber high-powered Beretta, designed to hit just about anything, but particularly useful when hunting slime. Once assured that everything was ready, Payton adjusted his pack and stepped out into the humid night air. The rain had abated slightly, turning to a fine mist, the kind one found in a sweat lodge or a sauna. Except that there was no escape when it became too cloying.

Between the moisture and the vegetation, movement was limited, but Payton had already cleared a pathway with his machete earlier in the day. He moved now with the stealth of years of training, his mind completely centered on the task at hand.

He'd been hunting Cortez for almost three months now. The man kept fading into the jungle like a fucking ghost. But perseverance always paid off, and now Payton was about to close the deal. It had been a while since he'd killed on orders, but the drug war was fought on amoral ground. And at the moment, the dark forces were winning the day, governments like the United States more interested in fighting the enemies they could see—and use as a sound bite. Which left the dirty work to operatives like Payton.

He pushed through the last of the overgrowth, stepping into a clearing. Even without the rain it would have been a moonless night, but with the clouds and precipitation, it was almost pitch black. Just the way Payton liked it.

He stopped, crouching behind a stand of feather grass and pulled out his night vision binoculars, scanning the building directly ahead, an acting gatehouse of sorts. If things were running true to form, the watchmen were in the back drinking and playing cards.

Out in the middle of the jungle there really wasn't all that much to guard against, and Payton had spent the past couple of days watching for patterns. All he had to do was wait for the man on rounds to head into the bunkhouse, then make for the fallen tree about fifty yards away.

As if on cue, the man arrived at the door, calling out to his compadres as he holstered his machine gun. Clutching his rifle, Payton ran toward the tree, crouching low to avoid detection. He waited one beat and then another, and when everything remained quiet, pulled up into the tree, climbing along its massive trunk like a spider.

With the added height, it didn't take much for Payton to vault over the stone enclosure, and he landed silently in the soft dirt of the Peruvian compound. Lights glowed to his right, marking the bunkhouse. More, twinkling to his left, indicated the location of the house guards. All he had to do was make a beeline between the two toward the darkened windows of the bougainvillea-laden hacienda.

The whole thing took about two minutes, which meant Payton had about five more before the guard reemerged to continue his rounds. Staying low and sticking to the shadows, he crossed the courtyard and slid into the deeper gloom cast by the U-shaped walls of the building.

Sliding a climber's rope from his pocket, he tossed it in the air, satisfied when it lodged around a balcony railing just above his head. In seconds, he was up and over the railing, dropping down onto the cement floor almost soundlessly. After checking to make certain that the room behind him was empty, he turned his sights on the wing across the courtyard.

Cortez's room was directly opposite. Light spilled from the open window, the gauzy curtains lifting languidly in the water-saturated breeze. Payton waited, counting the seconds, and then released a breath as Cortez appeared through the window, crossing back and forth as he made preparations for bed.

It only took a moment to sight the gun and then Payton waited for the moving figure to hit center at the open window. One pass, two and then a third, before the man stopped to stare out into the night. With a quiet hiss, the bullet was instantly on its way, the only sign it had hit target a brief fluttering of the curtains as it passed, and a muffled thud as the body fell.

Holstering the rifle, Payton shimmied back to the ground, and moved swiftly back across the courtyard toward the fence, his mind centered now on escape. A cry from inside the house signaled his luck was almost out, and he broke into a run. Lights flashed on behind him, spilling out across the manicured lawn that stretched between the compound and its enclosure.

Dodging between bushes, he hit the fence running and was up and over in a matter of seconds, landing hard on the other side. Voices were filling the night now, trying to make order out of chaos.

Payton rounded the corner, heading back for the sanctuary of the jungle, the rain falling in earnest again, muffling the sound of his movements. He was just passing the feather grass when someone hit him hard in the small of the back. Reacting from instinct, he rolled and managed to move clear of the man, reaching for the knife in his boot, but before he could pull it free, Cortez's man hit him again.

Payton stumbled back a step, and then cut forward, surprising his assailant and connecting with the man's chin. Following up with a fist to the stomach, Payton succeeded in bringing the South American to his knees, and then, taking advantage of the opening, he grabbed the knife, moving in for the kill. But it seemed the guard had friends, and they were closing in, weapons at the ready.

Payton scanned the crowd, weighing his options, refusing to accept the fact that he was outgunned. Using the fallen man as a shield, he began to edge back toward the jungle. If he could just make his way there, he might have a chance.

Unfortunately, the men with guns didn't think much of their compadre. A pock-marked man with a gold tooth and braided hair lifted his rifle, the intent clear. Payton pushed his hostage forward, sidestepping the body as the bullet ripped through the startled guard. The man fell, clutching his chest, his surprise almost comical. Except that Gold Tooth was now aiming at Payton.

Accepting defeat, or at least living with it for the moment, Payton dropped the knife, holding his hands out, palms downward, in what he hoped looked like a gesture of supplication. Not that he'd ever give up without a fight.

With a smile for the assembled South Americans, he fingered the grenade hidden in his hand. It was more than enough to blow the whole lot of them to kingdom come and back. The only downside being that he'd be a casualty as well. Still, he figured it was better than letting them take him prisoner. And it wasn't as if he had anything else particularly important to do. Still grinning, he shrugged, and was just going to throw the thing, when a shot from above took out Gold Tooth.

The others spun to look for the unseen enemy, shooting blindly into the night. Payton took the opportunity and shot off toward the jungle, but not before one of Cortez's men grabbed him by the foot.

The sound of rotors broke the night, the tall grass bending perpendicular in the manufactured breeze. The chopper appeared suddenly out of the mist like some sort of fiery bird from hell, the telltale tracers from gunfire spitting out of its yawning black maw.

Payton shook off the man and stumbled to his feet, already reaching for the rope ladder dropping from the side of the bird. A bullet whizzed by his ear, and then another, adrenaline surging as he sprinted forward, his hand closing on a white nylon rung.

The gunfire, combined with the chopper blades, was deafening, and the vibrations coming off the rotors almost shook him off the ladder. But he held his ground as the big bird pulled up into the sky, and when he was certain they were clear, he lobbed the grenade at Cortez's men—a parting gift they'd never forget—or remember.

He climbed the remaining few rungs of the ladder and accepted the offered hand into the chopper, flopping aboard like the striped bass he'd caught once as a kid. Wherever he was going, it was a damn sight better than where he'd just been.

He sat up, wiped some blood from the corner of his mouth and turned to face his rescuer, his words of thanks dying at the sight of Cullen Pulaski sitting in the jump seat.

He might have been rescued from the devil, but he was still in hell.

Award winning author
Dee Davis
worked in association management before turning her hand to writing.  Her highly acclaimed first novel,
Everything In Its Time
, was published in July 2000.  Since then, among others, she’s won the Booksellers Best, Golden Leaf, Texas Gold and Prism awards, and been nominated for the National Readers Choice Award, the Holt and two RT Reviewers Choice Awards.  To date, she is the author of twenty-one books and four novellas.  When not sitting at the computer, Dee spends time exploring Manhattan with her husband, daughter, and Cardigan Welsh Corgi.  

Visit Dee at http://www.deedavis.com  or catch up with her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/deedavisbooks  or follow her on Twitter at http://twitter.com/deesdavis

Photo:  Jennifer Berry/Studio 16