He glances over at me, baring his teeth, and a dribble of saliva appears in the corner of his mouth. He hisses, “You’re fucking dead. Dead, do you hear me?”
I don’t reply, not sure what will infuriate him more. I know nothing will soothe, so I remain silent.
That seems to enrage him, and I’m practically thrown out of my seat as he hits the brakes and takes a hard right onto a dirt road. The Rover fishtails and for a moment seems as if it’s going to tip before it rights itself.
We hit a pothole, bounce viciously, but Mejia guns the engine. He drives for about a quarter of a mile into a darker-than-dark forest with no buildings or houses. It’s desolate and uninhabited.
He laughs with glee as he slams on the brakes and puts the car in park.
His hand is back in my hair and he’s got the driver’s door open and he’s dragging me across the console and out of the vehicle. He lets me fall to the ground, and pain shoots through my shoulder as I land on it. It hurts worse than the bullet wound to my leg.
I put my hands to the hard packed earth, attempt to push up, but Mejia’s foot catches me in the abdomen with a fully launched kick. I’m fortunate it didn’t catch a rib, but it seems to knock my spine through my skin it’s so hard, and I lose all my air.
Rolling to my back, my mouth opens and closes like a dying fish, trying to suck in precious oxygen, but it doesn’t seem to be working.
And then Mejia is on top of me, straddling me, his knees pressed tight to my ribs. It’s dark, and I can’t fully make out his details, but his words tell the story. “Don’t have a knife with me that will get the job done,” he says in a rasping voice fueled by madness. “But I am going to make this slow.”
I finally suck in a breath of air, but then it’s cut off again as his hands go around my neck and he starts to strangle me.
CHAPTER 21
Ladd
The sound of the explosion penetrates my subconscious and tosses me right into full consciousness. This sucks at first because the pain in my shoulder is excruciating and I hiss against it.
I know immediately I’m still in Mejia’s office. I remember him raising the gun before I blacked out, I thought to finish the job. But here I am… still alive, for the moment.
There’s another loud noise, not an explosion but what I believe is a flash-bang grenade, and men shout in Spanish. Small bursts of gunfire, and it’s not hard to figure out that Mejia’s compound is being invaded.
But by who?
Salvadorian forces? Police? Did Greer manage to garner help in such a short time? Seems unlikely, yet the sounds of pandemonium are unmistakable. Perhaps another enemy of Mejia as there’s turf competition for traffickers. Someone is attacking, and I need to make sure I’m not caught in the crossfire.
My back is to the office door, and I hold my position as booted feet run by, the sound clear enough I know the door is open. They recede, and I hear a volley of gunfire from somewhere outside of the house.
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I push up to my knees and hold on to the edge of Mejia’s desk with my good hand to haul myself up. Once standing and feeling fairly steady on my feet, I check out the wound in my shoulder and probe it lightly through the light blue material of my dress shirt now saturated with blood. I grit my teeth to keep from cursing against the pain and then crane my neck to look at the back of my shoulder. It’s also soaked in blood, which means the bullet passed clean through.
I lift my right arm—my dominant one—and I’m pleased it still works, although it’s greatly weakened. Regardless, I’m ambidextrous and can shoot a gun just fine with my left hand, if I can find a weapon somewhere in here.
While my first order of business should be to stop the bleeding, it’s actually more important for me to find a gun. Chances of me being confronted by one of Mejia’s soldiers before I bleed out are greater.
I move around Mejia’s desk, my gaze going to the open doorway periodically to make sure no one comes in. I imagine if Mejia were to enter, he’d start shooting immediately.
I pull out unlocked drawers, feel under the desk and chair, but come up empty. I glance around his office for some other hiding place where he might keep a weapon handy, but I don’t even know where to begin. It would take days to search his bookcases. I’m better served trying to find a stealthy way out of here and hope I can melt into the cover of darkness once I’m outside.
Just as I resolve to leave the office and take my chances amidst explosions and gunfire, I hear someone enter. I whirl around, ready to face Mejia.
My jaw drops in shock as I see Kynan McGrath standing there.
And then it all makes sense.
“Of course you’re here in San Salvador rescuing me,” I say dryly.
Kynan doesn’t appreciate my levity. “I’d much rather be in bed with my wife, but here I am. I told you and Greer we should’ve come along.”
“You can chastise later,” I growl as I move around the desk and head toward Kynan. “Give me a gun.”
“Patch job first,” he says. I huff with frustration because all I know is I’m standing here and Greer isn’t, and I must find her.
“We don’t have time.” I start to move past Kynan, but he blocks me.
Reaching into a side cargo pocket, he pulls out a package of hemostatic dressing laced with kaolin to clot the blood. It’s part of our routine emergency kit supplies we keep on us at all times while on a mission, and I’m resigned to allow this because he’s the boss. I use my left hand to pull hard at the opening of my shirt, ripping buttons to give him easier access.
Kynan is efficient as he rips open the package and affixes the dressing to both sides of my shoulder. It takes no more than thirty seconds, but it feels like a lifetime.
“Where’s Greer?” I ask as he reaches into his shoulder holster to hand me his secondary gun.
“She was keeping Mejia occupied at the front gate,” he replies as I quickly check the magazine and make sure there’s a round in the chamber.
“And how many did you bring with you?” I ask. I take the lead and exit the office. The hallway is clear and eerily silent.
Kynan follows me out. “I brought practically everyone.”
“Thank fuck,” I mutter as I increase my pace, gun raised and ready to blow away anyone who gets in my way.
Given the lack of gunfire and shouts, I’m guessing our folks have things well in hand. It would never occur to me to think it was the opposite and Mejia’s soldiers had won the day.
As we turn into the foyer, I see the double doors are wide open. Beyond that, several of Mejia’s soldiers have been rounded up and are sitting on the ground. Malik is busy zip-tying their hands while Hannah and Cash keep guns on them. I assume the others are out cleaning up the perimeter and sweeping the house.
As we step onto the porch, my eyes go down the driveway to the rolling gate, but there’s no Greer or Mejia.
Before I can ask where she is, Rachel, who actually runs the Jameson headquarters in Vegas, comes tearing around the corner of the house in an olive-green, ragtop Jeep. She skids to a halt and yells at me and Kynan, “Mejia has Greer! Come on.”
I don’t hesitate and neither does Kynan. We race for the Jeep and neither one of us would even dare ask to take over driving duties. Rachel is one of our most accomplished agents.