Kynan leaps into the back and I take the passenger seat. Rachel slams the car into gear and peels out in a spray of gravel.
“Why in the hell was Greer the bait?” I demand as Rachel hangs a hard left out of the driveway. “Better yet, why was she here to begin with since you brought the entire cavalry?”
Rachel doesn’t say a word, so I look back at Kynan. He cocks an eyebrow. “You honestly think she was going to sit this one out?”
It’s a question that doesn’t even need an answer because, of course, I wouldn’t expect her to sit this out. Like me, she’s always going to charge into danger. Especially if it’s to protect those she cares about.
But another question occurs to me. “How do you know which way they went?”
Rachel shifts gears and the Jeep leaps forward, the headlights not overly bright, making the drive that more dangerous. “Benji was in a bird overhead, but he lost them in the tree cover. Lucky for us, we have Bebe, and she put a tracker in Greer’s boot heel.”
“Genius,” I mutter as Kynan leans between the seats and hands me a digital tablet with a map of the immediate vicinity. Our vehicle is denoted by an orange triangle, and up ahead is a slow-blinking blue dot. I assume that’s Greer.
The road we’re on is curvy with foliage and brush growing right up to the edge, branches and leaves sometimes smacking against the open window. The area is uninhabited and dark with the overgrowth, shutting out the moonlight. Rachel cranks it up another gear and drives like a maniac, which is fine by me. All of us are required to take high-speed driving and evasion courses, and we’re able to handle any terrain thrown at us.
It’s tense in the silence as I watch the blue dot and I can see that we’re gaining ground.
All of a sudden, the blue dot moves off the road to the right. A driveway? Dirt road not on the map?
Whatever it is, he doesn’t go far, and the blue dot comes to a halt, pulsing ominously as we barrel down on that location.
I know without a doubt it is not a good sign that the car has stopped. It would be more important to Mejia to exact vengeance on Greer before fleeing for safety. Besides, he has no clue he’s being followed. My guess is he’s not able to contain himself and wants Greer to suffer sooner rather than later.
“Go faster,” I order.
Rachel kicks it into fifth gear and slams the pedal to the floor. The Jeep leaps forward but within just a quarter mile, I tell her to slow down as we’re getting close.
I peer into the darkness up ahead. “We’re close. Mejia’s pulled off close by.”
Rachel slows the vehicle as she’s the first to see the narrow dirt road. She takes a precarious right turn onto it. Ahead in the distance, I see Mejia and Greer in the glow of the headlights.
She’s flat on her back and Mejia is straddling her, bearing all his weight down on his hands, which are wrapped around her throat.
Rachel drives right up to them, skidding to a halt, but even as the Jeep is still in motion, I leap out and full-on sprint toward Mejia. There’s no pain in my shoulder. No weakness from blood loss.
Just the most amazing surge of adrenaline I’ve ever had, and it fuels me with an energy I’ve never felt before.
There’s no doubt Mejia knows we’re here. He heard the Jeep, knows the headlights are flooding him with illumination, and can hear me barreling down on him.
Yet he remains solely focused on his task of killing Greer, his teeth bared and foamy spit flying from his mouth as he breathes heavily from the exertion. Just a few strides from him, I see Greer’s eyes are rolled back in her head and rage explodes through me.
I lower my left shoulder and barrel into Mejia with the force of a lightning strike. My hands go around his waist, I lift with my legs, and take three powerful steps to slam him into the side of the Range Rover. His head slams against the glass and he immediately slumps.
I let him slip to the ground, and that should be enough. But a monster possesses me, and I fall on top of him. Grinding a knee into his abdomen, I punch him in the side of his face, again and again with my left fist.
Raising it for another blow, I’m momentarily stupefied that it stops midair. I lift my head to see Kynan standing there, my wrist gripped hard in his hand.
“Enough,” he says quietly. “We need him alive to take down Gayla Newman.”
I glance back down at Mejia. He’s unconscious and bloody, and I don’t remember cutting him open but I must have, because I look to my hand still being held back by Kynan, and it’s covered with blood as well.
And then I hear Greer, coughing and gasping, and the rage dissipates. Ripping free of Kynan, I scramble over to Greer, now sitting up with Rachel’s help. She’s rubbing Greer’s back gently. “You’re okay. It’s over.”
Greer nods in acknowledgment and tries to say thank you, but only a rasping croak comes out.
“Don’t try to talk,” I say as I gently put my fingertips under her chin and tip her head back. Her neck is red, clear imprints of Mejia’s hands that will leave bruises and I consider going back to kill him.
But then Greer’s hand takes mine, removing it from her chin, and gives me a reassuring squeeze. She can’t speak, but she’s saying she’s okay and that it’s enough we’ve captured him.
CHAPTER 22
Greer
I drum my fingertips on the glossy table. I’m in a small conference room where I have been waiting for the past half hour. I’m anxious to get this over with and move on.
It’s been a long two days since we left El Salvador with Hugo Mejia in tow. Ladd and I took our chartered jet straight to Washington, DC. Kynan came along so he and Ladd could work on Mejia.
Kynan had arranged for a doctor to meet us at the San Salvador airport. Aboard the jet before take-off, Ladd and I received medical care for our bullet wounds. Mine needed nothing more than a good cleaning and antibiotic cream, but the doctor stitched Ladd up after thoroughly debriding the wound from both sides. The shot was clean, and after some range of motion testing, it looks like Ladd escaped any tendon or ligament damage.
We were both incredibly lucky.
The rest of the Jameson crew took the other jet back to Vegas, and from there the Pittsburgh agents would fly commercial back home.
Mejia was trussed up in wrist and leg shackles while Kynan discussed the situation with the CIA director, Theo Rasmussen.
It wasn’t the first time the director had been made aware of events, as Kynan had made contact through the president’s office when he and his crew were on their way south to help Ladd and me. The director was not suspicious of Kynan’s allegations about Gayla Newman, but he wasn’t willing to take her into custody without first meeting with us and hearing what Mejia had to say.
There would be some serious debriefing happening, not only by Mr. Rasmussen but also by the directors of the NSA and FBI. Because we were not merely bringing back an international weapons trafficker who was responsible for a massive influx of guns into the United States, but we were bringing back someone who is going to implicate a deputy director of the CIA—in the act of treason.
Mejia proved to be a stubborn son of a bitch when it came to discussing his ties with Gayla Newman. While he’d admitted to Ladd the details of their nefarious relationship when they were at his estate, on the plane, he denied it adamantly.