Glen sliced through the bonds at his ankles and paused, scraping Cash’s hair gently out of his eyes with the hand not holding the knife.
“Did you doubt it?” he asked.
“No.” Cash pulled in a shuddery breath. “Not once.”
Glen rose and kissed his forehead. “Good boy.”
He got the zip ties behind Cash’s back, and Cash groaned as he shook the blood back into his numb hands. His shoulders hurt, and his hips too, and he wondered if he could even move.
“Stay right there,” Glen murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder before walking to the staircase.
John Barron groaned at Cash’s feet, and Cash managed to stand up. He wobbled a little, but he had enough balance to sink to a crouch and start searching Barron’s pockets.
Glen turned around. “Whatcha doin’, little schoolboy?”
Cash grinned fiercely through his split lip. “Keys. Cash. A full written confession. Whatever he’s got.” He pulled a couple of fobs out of Barron’s front pocket and slid them in his own.
Glen nodded as though impressed. His five-o’clock shadow was at seven o’clock, his black tank was sweat-stained, as were his camo pants, and he was covered in sandy soil. Not cool, not calm, and not collected, but damn, he was there.
A sudden movement under his hands caught Cash’s attention, and he jerked back from Barron in time to avoid a knife in his middle.
“Motherfucker!” He stood hurriedly, foot coming out in a hard kick to Barron’s hand. The knife went flying across the room, and then Cash kicked him in the ear, hard enough to knock him out. Again.
Glen picked up the knife—military issue, folding bowie knife—closed it, and handed it to Cash. “Souvenir?” he asked, perfectly calm. Seeing Cash assault the guy who held him captive apparently didn’t bother Glen Echo at all.
“Thanks,” Cash said, accepting the knife. He made sure he slid his fingers along Glen’s wrist as Glen pulled away. “I’ll treasure it always.”
Glen winked. “Just not in bed, I hope,” he said, and at the same moment, Cash yelled, “Look out!”
Barron’s guys were military trained, and the foot kicking out from the darkness of the stairs above meant business. Glen dodged most of the blow, wobbling a little as the toe of the boot grazed his temple. Then he grabbed the boot, leg and all, and yanked, hauling the guy into a tumble to the foot of the stairs.
“Secure him!” Glen snarled, and Cash sat on the guy as he landed, elbowing him in the back of the neck while he searched his pockets. Ah, zip ties, his old friend!
He worked as quickly as possible, binding the guy’s wrists and ankles with the ties while sounds of scuffling and body blows echoed from the stairwell. He’d just barely finished the ankles when another body came tumbling down.
Cash’s legs were on fire from the blood flow returning, but he was getting his balance back enough to dodge out of the way of this one, and then he jumped on top of the guy and started in with the zip ties again.
One more set of grunts and blows, and Glen crouched at the last guy’s feet, holding his hand out imperiously for the zip ties and looking a lot bloodier and worse for wear.
“These guys,” he panted, wiping sweat and blood out of his eyes and onto his shoulder, “these guys were pros. Where’s the local talent?”
“I don’t know,” Cash said. “But I bet they won’t be hard to scare off.”
“I wouldn’t take that bet,” Glen muttered. “Those guys know where the gun towers are, and they know they don’t want to get caught. And it’s still fucking daylight outside.” Well, it was closer to the equator than California, Cash thought grumpily. Odds were good it was daylight a lot later here than where Glen was from.
“What’s the plan?” Cash asked, and both of them double-checked the bonds of the unconscious guards before Glen started going through their pockets.
“Gag them,” Glen said. “Handkerchiefs, dirty socks, anything.”
“Gotcha.”
Socks—he started off by stripping Barron’s because they were probably in pretty good shape, and also Barron was the least conscious of all his buddies. Cash tried to feel bad about that—the final kick in the head was a little low, right? But then Cash would catch himself breathing through his chapped and split lips because his aching nose was too swollen and decided that no, he could cheerfully shove Barron’s sock in his mouth and not feel guilty even a little.
Glen used the time Cash spent tying dirty socks around bad guys’ heads to advance up the staircase, a compact pistol held expertly in his hand.
Cash finished with the last gag and then searched all the guys for weapons. Glen hadn’t needed to tell him that; he was pretty sure if he’d had so much as a penknife before, he would have buried it in John Barron’s throat before the second blow landed.
Glen came tiptoeing back down the stairs and looked at the pile of guns, knives, and Tasers with admiration.
“Nice,” he said on a low whistle, and Cash had to ask.
“Me searching them or them carrying?”
“You searching, of course,” Glen said. “They’re low-life scamming thugs—I expect them to be ready to kill infants and torture puppies. But you’ve got quite an instinct here. I approve.”
“How’s Preston?” Cash asked, standing across from him in the stairwell and peering upward. The trapdoor was still open, and they stood in the shadows between light pools.
Glen sobered. “Damien says he’s fine. A little shook. Apparently Brielle was compliant enough to go with him—but he was pretty upset that they got you.”
“Fuckin’ girl,” Cash said darkly. “I got both the guards down, but I think Brielle’s companion conked me on the head and set one of them free. Someone stuck me with an armload of tranquilizer.” He shuddered. “Feels like Quaaludes. God, I hate Quaaludes—only took ’em a couple of times before I peaced out of that shit.”
Glen rolled his eyes. “Your misspent youth does come in handy,” he said dryly. “Now concentrate. Spence is up top, getting the willing up the mountain and off the island. I was supposed to come down and get you and join them.”
“But what?” That didn’t sound like the plan Glen was working off of now.
“But I think someone spotted them. That’s the only reason these bozos had to come trooping down here. They were upstairs, making sure everybody wandered the lawn in ‘meditation time,’ when I saw Barron sneak away.”
“Where were you?” Cash asked curiously.
Glen raised his eyebrows wickedly. “This place has like six pantries—most of them big enough to fit you, me, and Preston’s dogs. Found one, hid in the bottom, kept my ears open. That easy. Hush!”
Both of them quieted, and Cash heard worried chatter in Spanish above them.
“Where did the honchos go?”
“Got me—but yeah. There are definitely fewer kids out in front.”
“The fuck do they think they’re going?”
“Do we stop them? Do we round them up?”
More of this, but Glen and Cash met eyes—eventually those guys were going to get a move on, and then Spencer’s arm of the operation would be under siege.