Two men led them to a stairway that took them into a basement. The darkness swallowed them, and she lost track of the children. She whispered for them to hang on to the one in front, but she wasn’t sure they heard her. Gripping the shirt of the boy ahead of her, Andre, she held on and kept moving. Crouching low, she stepped down the stairs with aching knees. And when her tunic got in the way again, she hoisted the
folds of the garment, and the cross on her rosary beads clanged on a metal railing.
One of the terrorists must have taken offense. In the dark, a hand grabbed her. He groped her body until he found what he wanted and yanked the rosary she wore. Beads fell to the floor. And she felt the force of his hostility to her faith, but she didn’t resist or give the man any reason to kill her. For the children’s sake, she had to do as she was told.
When she reached the bottom level, she turned a corner and squinted. A dim glow in the basement came from narrow windows at ground level. And a pale gray washed over the cramped space of a storage area for the clinic, where wooden shelves held boxes and other supplies. She peered across the room through sore, watering eyes. In the sweltering heat, a layer of grit covered her skin, and trickles of perspiration crawled down her back and armpits. The smothering stale air and the lingering effects of the tear gas intensified her feeling of hopelessness by making it harder to breathe.
At the first sign of movement at the windows, she ducked and reached for the children, drawing them closer.
“Hold hands. Stay together,” she urged them, keeping her voice calm as she looked over her shoulder.
Glaring lights from outside swept across the windowpanes, casting an eerie silhouette on the men who held them at gunpoint. And even though she suspected the police had the building surrounded, there were only
a few lights on this side of the clinic. Fewer police had staked out the rear. She had no idea what her captors were planning.
If escape wasn’t an option, would they shift gears into a suicide mission? Desperate men resorted to reckless measures. And her gut twisted with a more disturbing thought. From what she’d seen of the Haitian police, all their lives were in danger. And bullets killed no matter who pulled the trigger. Were their captors the lesser of two evils?
In another life, she would have cursed her predicament. Now their survival meant more to her than giving in to her own rage. Every ounce of her energy would be focused on getting the children and the other hostages through this ordeal. And although she found comfort in her objective, she knew these men would test her faith—and her humanity—before this was all over if she survived.
A bolted metal door led to a belowground walkout. From what she’d seen of construction in Port de Paix, a cinder-block wall would give them marginal cover. But once they made it to the top of the outdoor steps, they’d be exposed to gunfire from the police. And she had no doubt their captors would use them as shields.
What would the police do then?
“Oh, God…please,” she whispered, fearing the answer. She made a quick sign of the cross to stop her body from trembling.
The masked men peered out the windows and kept to the shadows of the storage room. They spoke in hushed voices in a heated debate she didn’t understand.
One man pulled another weapon from a pack he carried. She couldn’t make out what it was. Kate could tell they’d assessed the danger, same as she had. And when their leader intervened, she held her breath.
Whatever he decided, it would happen now.
New York City
Sentinels Headquarters
Dressed in suit and tie, Garrett Wheeler arrived in the middle of the night at Sentinels headquarters, not an unusual occurrence in his line of work. He was determined to assess the Haiti situation as soon as possible. Committing resources to an urgent rescue mission of this magnitude would be within his authority to sanction. Yet the political ramifications of deploying a covert team from the United States to handle a hostage rescue in Haiti would require that he keep Sentinels’ group leaders apprised.
His analysts monitored events over the globe twenty-four/seven. And that meant as operational head, he was on call. The influential and wealthy men behind the covert organization owned his ass, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. His involvement had given his life a purpose he never would have imagined. He carried out the Sentinels’ objectives and had become the organization’s only public face so they could operate in
anonymity. And he liked to think he had done his share of shaping the group after he emerged from its ranks to take a leadership role.
Only time and his unflinching diligence would determine his contribution in the long run.
After the ocular-and facial-recognition program scanned a blue light across his face, the private elevator opened its doors and took him to his office on a subterranean level located in an unmarked building on the streets of New York City.
A voice greeted him in the elevator on his way down.
“Good morning, Garrett. I’ve sent the files you requested. They’re on your desk.” The Southern drawl of analyst Tanya Spencer came over a speaker, along with her smiling dark-skinned face on a small screen. “And we’ve been monitoring the situation in Haiti. Satellite images for the region are being sent to you now. Anything else, sir?”
“Thanks, Tanya. I’ll let you know.”
When the elevator doors opened again, the lights to his office suite illuminated a large room with minimal furnishings of glass, black leather, and sterling-silver fixtures. A bank of monitors gave him a glimpse of news, weather, and other hot-spot situations across the globe. And teleconferencing equipment allowed him to make secured contact with members of the Sentinels. At the touch of a screen on his desktop, he could bring up any view he wanted.
Before he got to his usual morning briefing rituals, he smelled fresh-brewed coffee. A service had been set up on a console table on the far wall. He poured a cup
and replayed in his mind the earlier phone conversation he’d had with Joe LaClaire as he settled behind his desk. The call had been recorded, analyzed, and dispatched to him via a Sentinels’ security screening process that wouldn’t allow anyone else to trace it to his location.
Garrett had met Joe LaClaire on more than one occasion through mutual associates. Yet it wasn’t until he discovered LaClaire was a trusted ally of Jackson Kinkaid that he gave him any serious consideration as a player in international circles. LaClaire was discreet and had a reputation for getting the job done in a low-key way, an attribute Kinkaid would have admired.
Their association made sense. Yet the urgent distress call still surprised him. Why would anyone close to Kinkaid contact him? The situation had to be damned hopeless. And other thoughts occurred to him, driven by his suspicious nature. After all these years, why now? Why would Kinkaid contact him out of the blue? The answer could be as simple as the man didn’t know LaClaire had made the call, but what if Kinkaid couldn’t leave the past alone?
What if he had an appetite for payback?
Something else bothered him, too. He hadn’t been able to uncover any real details about how Kinkaid made a living these days although he hadn’t given up trying to find answers. And for a number of years, the reclusive man had dropped off the grid. Gaps of time in his records had gone unexplained. With an operative, this wasn’t unusual. Garrett was certain that what could be found on paper for the man’s tax filings and other
official documents was only a fraction of the story. Kinkaid was rumored to be involved with warring factions of drug cartels in South America, a mercenary working for the highest bidder.
The man had been trained in weapons and combat tactics. He knew how to use force, yet his biggest assets were his intelligence and his preference for subtle mind games and intimidation strategies, something Garrett had always respected and admired. But if Kinkaid was involved with ruthless drug cartels, that meant he had changed for the worse—making him a dangerous man.
“Jackson Kinkaid.” Saying the name aloud spawned dark memories he would have preferred not to think about. He couldn’t afford to indulge in guilt. To do so would make him ineffective at his job.
When it came to Kinkaid, he hated to admit their past was like a festering wound that had never healed.
His wound.
And he wasn’t used to owning up to blame. Over the years, they had kept their distance, both in denial that it would only be a matter of time before their paths would cross again.
“And apparently”—he took his first sip of coffee—“that time is now.”
Regardless of the obligation he felt toward Kinkaid, he would not send a team into a rescue operation on foreign soil without doing his research. That was why he had Tanya Spencer indulge his curiosity with an analysis. And for his part, he thought of only one person to lead a covert hostage rescue in Haiti—and his choice was not purely made on qualifications alone.
Garrett knew that at one time Alexa Marlowe had
had feelings for Jackson Kinkaid. He had no idea if those feelings were returned. She’d never told him, but it had always made him wonder. If there was still an emotional tie between his beautiful blond operative and Kinkaid, he could use that edge, although he had mixed feelings about doing so.
On a personal level, it pained him to use Alexa in such a way. Yet if it became necessary, manipulating Kinkaid was another matter. He’d use any means that would give him an edge.
Garrett took another sip of coffee. If he played his cards right, he could bury the hatchet and sever the obligation he felt toward Kinkaid, plus turn the tables in the process. He much preferred manipulating a top-notch operative into believing he owed him many times over.
He gritted his teeth and pushed through the materials in front of him. He had work to do before he gave the assignment to his number one field agent. His choice to send Alexa had ramped up the importance of his decision. And depending on what came of his assessment, Alexa’s new recruit, Jessica Beckett, might get assigned, too. From the sounds of the situation in Haiti, Jackson Kinkaid was desperate.
And desperate men—with plenty to lose—could be played to his advantage now and in the future.
Port de Paix, Haiti
Kinkaid cut to the rear of the clinic and kept his distance from the perimeter the Haitian police had set. On
a ridge, he ducked into the shadow of a deserted old armory and crouched against a stone wall to catch his breath and watch the action below.
The police had strategically directed lights along the rear of the medical facility. Although it complicated matters, the lights gave him a better view. The clinic where the hostages were being held had a basement. Narrow windows at ground level, two subterranean walkouts reinforced by cinder blocks, and a small loading bay for supplies made possible entry points. The windows were too tight to squeeze through, and the cops had the points of entry covered. He wasn’t about to slip by them unnoticed.
On the side of good news, there were fewer cops guarding the back side of the building. If he got lucky, and the cops suddenly went blind, he might have a chance to find a way in. But the bad news far outweighed the good.
He wouldn’t kill a cop who was only trying to do his duty as ordered, end of story. Yet the feeling wouldn’t be mutual. So long as he carried an AK-47, if the Haitian police caught him, they’d shoot first and ask questions later. Dead was dead. They find his body with the rest of these bastards, and no one would know he was any different. Considering what he did for a living, it would be an easy mistake to make. He’d be fitted for a body bag, no matter what his intentions were. And being the only dead terrorist in a fancy suit wouldn’t matter when it came to a body count in a foreign country.
Kinkaid shut his eyes tight to stop his head from spinning. He took deep breaths of muggy air to over-
come his nausea. His body’s struggle between chills and fever was getting worse. And in his weakened state, he couldn’t afford to waste time. He’d get only one chance at helping Kate. He had to make it count.
Before he made himself into a one-man wrecking crew, he checked his cell phone for any messages from Joe LaClaire. After he came up empty, he heaved a sigh in frustration. Calling Joe had been a long shot. The whole thing sucked. The urgency of Kate’s predicament made any rescue nearly impossible for a man working alone, and he’d be bucking local cops, who weighed success by a high body count and had the photos to prove it.
“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath.
When he hit his speed dial to try Joe one more time, a thunderous blast shook the ground. And the night sky erupted in flames. Kinkaid covered his head as dirt and debris pelted him. When he looked up, he knew what had happened. The terrorists had used a grenade launcher that tore through police lines and cleared the way with deadly precision. Some cops broke cover and ran. Others stayed and fought, even though they didn’t stand a chance. The Haitian officers were outclassed in equipment and training.
The terrorists had rushed out a basement door using hostages for cover. A crush of humanity moved as one. Assault rifles erupted with short bursts of flame piercing the darkness. He squinted through the fires left burning from the grenades, unable to see who was shooting. The gunmen cut a swath through the few gutsy police officers who dared to resist. With brutal force, the ter
rorists showed no mercy as they hid behind women and children.
They were on the move again—and so was he.
Kinkaid tracked the cowards from the shadows on the ridge, weaving in and out of cover as he traversed the rough terrain. Armed with a grenade launcher, the men were more dangerous and better prepared than he had first thought. And coming off a firefight, they’d be wired with adrenaline and a shitload of testosterone. A lethal combo in his line of work. He’d have to be more careful.
And if these men escaped with Kate and the others, the terrorists would be in complete control to carry out their agenda. That was unacceptable.
When blood splattered her face, Sister Kate winced. A scream had wedged deep in her throat though she was too stunned to know if she’d actually cried out. The fierce explosions and the automatic gunfire had muffled any sound to her ears; it seemed as if the only thing she could hear was the pounding of her heart.
One of the gunmen had his arm tight against her neck, choking her. He’d killed a Haitian police officer in front of her. His bullets pounded the young man’s chest, the force of the blows staggering him. Her captor stopped long enough to see the body fall before he trudged on, dragging her with him.
The brief encounter forced a gap between them and the rest of the hostages. It isolated her with the man who had her by the neck until they approached a group of small dwellings. Kate caught movement from the
corner of her eye. Another man in uniform stepped out from behind a shanty and thrust an arm near her head. She heard a series of thuds and a gasp from deep inside her captor’s chest. He arched his back and let her go. Kate turned in time to see that a policeman held the masked man’s body. And until the dead man collapsed to the ground, she didn’t know he’d been stabbed to death.
The uniformed man held a bloodied knife in his hand. After a stunned moment, he ventured a faint smile and stared at her. Another young man.
“Please, Sister, we must get you to safety,” he whispered in French, and waved for her to follow him.
She took a step toward him. It would have been easy to escape her ordeal—to run and not look back—yet something stopped her. The young officer didn’t understand, but when he turned to grab his rifle, a single shot rang out. He came to a dead stop. His body stiffened, and he never turned back. He crumpled to the ground at her feet, his face in the dirt. He was dead.
And for a split second, her eyes settled on his rifle. It was within her reach. So very close. She swallowed, hard. Her throat was parched, and she felt sick. She thought about running again, yet something made her turn.
A masked gunman, the leader of the terrorists, stood only yards from her. He was alone with a gun in his hand. He had killed the young officer. In another life, anger would have driven her to go for the rifle, but instead she took a deep breath and waited for what he would say.
“Get moving.” His voice was low. And although his words had been an order, he remained composed. She almost didn’t hear him.
Kate fell into step in front of him. A mix of emotions made her stomach churn, and tears coursed down her cheek, uncontrollable. She’d had a chance to make a difference, and she froze. Could she have pulled the trigger? If their roles had been reversed, she had no doubt he would have killed her. And yet something in his behavior and his unperturbed reaction to how close she had come to the rifle had confused her.
She didn’t have long to think about what had happened.
She was in the dark again, running with the man who held her against her will. And worse, Kate had lost track of the children. They were too little to be spotted in the cluster of hostages up ahead. She wanted to call out their names but was too afraid to draw attention to them. If the children didn’t keep up, she was afraid these men would kill them on the spot.
“Move faster…or you die,” the terrorist leader yelled to those in front of them.
His voice and the sound of his boots made her cringe. Every time he yelled, she thought he directed his abuse at her. Given the life-or-death extremes of their situation, the man had total control over her and the others.
Yet she needed to know one thing.