Killing Time (One-Eyed Jacks) (29 page)

“Maybe that’s the way he likes it. Men like that are easily led.”

“True, but Lawson can’t do all the leading—not and keep his fingers in his other pies.”

“Like fraternizing with the Juarez cartel.”

“Exactly. His executive officer was Army for four years but that’s it. No one else has any special skills. Not too many sharp tacks in that drawer, either. I can
tell that Lawson knows his top tier is lacking. He tries not to show that he’s frustrated by it. He has to delegate at some point and it’s apparent he’s starting to realize he doesn’t have a lot of go-to guys to carry the load.”

He grinned again. “That’s where I come in. And Gabe and Joe. Military background, school of experience and hard knocks. At least that’s the plan.”

“So fingers crossed.”

“And soon, I hope. We could use more eyes. It’s a big compound. And Lawson is as paranoid as we figured he’d be. He’s stationed guards everywhere. It’s going to be hard—even pulling night recon—so I’m hoping he falls for the bait and lets me contact them.”

She yawned then, and he realized how tired she really was.

“So what about you?”

“Oh, you know how it goes. A captive woman’s work is never done. Didn’t offer much opportunity for recon. But I did figure out their work patterns. They divide the women up into units, then rotate duties every two hours. That way everyone hits the laundry, or garden, or kitchen, or child care duties at some point every day. Makes us well-rounded little robots. When the women change work shifts, I noticed the men changed guard duties as well. So it looks like they run two-hour shifts all the way through.”

“Any dissension in the ranks?”

She compressed her lips, shook her head. “If there
is, they didn’t share with me—not this quickly. It’s going to take a while to gain any trust. I think they’re so browbeaten and brainwashed, they simply move with the herd.” She fisted her hands, then winced.

“What?” he asked.

“Just a blister. It’s really pretty disgusting, how soft I am. I don’t know whether to admire these women for how tough they are, or slap them silly for letting these men use and manipulate them this way.”

He lifted her hand, inspected it in the fading light, then brought it to his lips and kissed her boo-boo, which made her smile in a way that told him he’d surprised her and pleased her.

“It’s the kids that tear me up,” he said. “The girls, especially.”

She nodded, then yawned again and dragged her hair away from her face. “I don’t know what’s going to give me more pleasure: exposing Lawson or giving these people a chance to go back to a normal life.”

“How about you forget about Lawson until morning, because I think I know exactly what kind of pleasure you need tonight.” He got up and flipped off the overhead light, then rejoined her on the bed.

“Oh, Mike—I don’t—”

“Shh.” He pushed himself to his hands and knees and straddled her. “All you have to do is lie there.”

As tired as she was, she gave a pure female shiver when he gripped her hips and pulled her down the bed until she was reclined.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her flat abdomen after peeling the cotton boxers down her hips.

“And this,” he whispered, lightly nipping the point of her hip, then slowly working his way down to the apex of her thighs. “All. Day. Long.”

Her low groan of pleasure made him smile as she opened her legs wide for him and let him have his way. Let him open her feminine folds with his fingers. Let him nuzzle and kiss and lick and suck, until her hips were lifting to his mouth and her hands were clutching the sheets and she was coming apart for him, overwhelmed by passion, victorious in her surrender.

It was close to midnight before Mike slipped out of the cabin, dressed in his night gear: black pants, black long-sleeved shirt, black gloves, and boots. He’d pulled a black mask over his face to minimize any possible glare from a flashlight beam, in the event he alerted a guard.

He hid in the shadows of the cabin, letting his eyes adjust, listening to the rhythm of the camp, familiarizing himself with the sounds, checking his watch as a two-man guard detail walked by, getting a feel for their level of awareness. It was clear they were pretty relaxed, their threat level low. They’d done this drill many times before and were comfortable with the routine. They weren’t anticipating trouble, and he wasn’t going to give them any. Not tonight.

He waited five minutes, then sprinted for the Jeep. Before they’d left Spokane, he’d unscrewed the overhead lightbulb. Opening the passenger-side door only wide enough to give him room to work, he took a knee, leaned back into the door frame, and went to
work on the door with a screwdriver he’d tucked in the glove box.

He had the interior frame off within a few minutes, laid it on the passenger seat, and unstrapped the phone, NV binoculars, and short-barreled M-4 rifle, which he quickly assembled. The magazines and extra ammo came next. He shoved everything across to the driver’s seat.

When a quick glance confirmed that he hadn’t roused any guards, he replaced the inside of the door and shut it quietly. Then crouching low, he rounded the front of the Jeep and went to work on the driver’s-side door. When he’d repeated the process, he gathered up the two handguns along with the rifle and ammo, and crouching low again, sprinted to the cabin and silently let himself back inside.

He’d searched the cabin for hiding spots while he waited for Eva to return after dinner, but hadn’t come up with much. He’d finally pried loose a couple pieces of the pine paneling inside the closet, stuffed the poured insulation down as far as he could, and made a space for the guns and binoculars. It wouldn’t take much digging for someone to find them, but it was the best he could do with what he had.

Before stowing the phone, he turned it on and fired off a quick text to Gabe, letting him know they were in. Then, after pulling the battery and hiding the phone and all the guns but the Makarov, he quietly tapped the boards back in place and closed the closet doors. Checking to make sure Eva was still
asleep, he tucked the Makarov into his waistband and headed back outside.

Sixteen minutes had passed since he’d let himself outside the first time. If duties and details changed every two hours, that meant the next patrol duty wouldn’t be by for over an hour. Plenty of time to do some recon.

His new friend Beaver had pointed out the night watch positions today. “You’ll have to pull your fair share of shifts, so you’d just as well know.” Consequently, Mike knew which areas of the perimeter to avoid.

Using buildings, vehicles, trees, anything he could duck behind as cover, he divided the encampment into five-block grids and started systematically exploring.

First stop, the armory. He wanted to know what kind of munitions and numbers they had stockpiled inside.

The one-story building was approximately fifteen-by-fifteen square. Mike cut between the motor pool and the power plant and approached it from the rear. As he’d suspected, there were no windows on the entire building—the only way in was the front door. His back pressed to the side of the building, he snuck around toward the front, stopped at the corner, and listened.

He could hear the two guards talking; caught the scent of cigarette smoke as it drifted his way on a south breeze.

Obviously he wasn’t going in the front door. He slipped around back again, looked up the building to the peaked roof. Bingo. There was a triangular ventilation grate right where the outside wall met the apex of the roof. Looked about big enough for a man his size to slip through.

He hot-footed it back to the power plant—he’d spotted a ladder on the ground behind it on his way by—and less than five minutes later, he had very carefully propped the ladder against the armory’s back wall and scaled it. But even standing on the top rung, he could barely reach the bottom of the grate. He wasn’t going to be able to remove it and get inside without creating a shitload of commotion.

New plan. He dug a high-power Maglite out of his pocket, flicked it on and, careful to keep the face of the light flattened against the wall to concentrate the beam there, he stuck the end of the light in his mouth. Then, gripping the bottom of the grate, he pulled himself up so he was eye level with the slates in the grate.

With the flashlight still in his mouth, he hiked himself up a little higher, using his boot tips for leverage against the outer wall, and shined the light inside and down, working the beam across as much of the inside of the building as he could see. And holy shit, did he see a lot.

Enough to know there might be trouble afoot.

Careful to keep the beam of light concealed, he tucked his chin to his chest and, feeling the burn
in his biceps, lowered himself back down until his feet touched the top rung of the ladder. Then he switched off the light and shimmied down as fast as he could go.

He’d just hit the ground when he heard voices—close and getting closer. And fuck . . . there was no place to hide. Deer. Headlight. That was him.

He quickly lifted the ladder away from the wall and laid it on the ground. Then he scrambled to lie down full-length behind it. Pressing his back as close to the foundation of the building as he could get, he pulled the ladder snug against him. They would definitely notice a man out of place in the night, but hopefully a ladder leaning against a foundation wouldn’t draw much more than a glance. Even a ladder that wasn’t supposed to be there. It was dark. They were tired, maybe they wouldn’t notice.

Maybe
was a piss-poor plan, but it was all he had.

Willing his beating heart to slow, his breath to even out, he lay still as dirt, flattened against the foundation—
be the foundation
—counting on the ladder to provide camouflage. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so dangerous.

Holding the ladder steady with one hand placed inconspicuously along the bottom edge, he pulled the Makarov out of his waistband but kept it under his shirt.

No sooner had he locked himself in freeze position than the guards rounded the corner, one with an AR-15 slung over his shoulder, one smoking a
cigarette and toting a shotgun. Both seemed bored out of their minds and he’d bet the last thing they were looking for was a problem.

God willing, they wouldn’t find one.

They were even with his feet now, then his hips, and he prayed they’d keep moving . . . but the smoker decided to stop and stub out his cigarette butt, inches from Mike’s face.

He held his breath as a leather boot heel bumped against the ladder as the guard ground the butt into the grass.

Shouldn’t have been a problem. But the back of Mike’s hand, which held the ladder steady, was flat on the ground, his fingertips extending beyond the aluminum slats, and directly under both the cigarette butt and the boot.

He gritted his teeth to keep from sucking in a breath as white-hot pain seared into his fingertip. Then the boot heel ground that ember deeper into his finger, burning through his thin glove and embedding deep into the fleshy part of his fingertip.

Sweat trickled in his eyes as he lay there, fighting the pain and the involuntary urge to jerk his hand away. Jaw clenched, eyes bulging, he willed himself not to move. Swore a litany of curses in his mind to keep focused and stone still. He thought of ice, of Novocain—anything to get him through this. Just when he thought he might pass out or roar and hurl the ladder at the guard’s head, they moved on.

Still holding his breath, Mike slid his hand out
from under the ladder, tugged the glove off with his teeth, and lightly fanned his burned finger in the cool night air.

The guards had moved out of sight, no doubt back to their positions at the front of the building. He waited for several more minutes, then decided it was safe to get up. Carrying the ladder with him, he returned it to where he’d found it.

After checking out the motor pool and the storage building, he ended his recon for the night. He stripped off his mask and the other glove and tucked them in his pants pockets. Then he shucked the shirt, tossed it onto his shoulder, and headed straight for the communal restroom—nothing suspicious about a man making a nighttime run to the head.

Feeling like a weenie—his damn finger still burned like it had been stuck in acid—he ran cold water over his stinging digit until the fire had cooled a little, then headed back to the cabin.

“Where were you?” Eva whispered, half-asleep as he skinned down to his boxers and climbed in bed beside her.

“Working on a Purple Heart.”

“You’re hurt?” Alarmed, she started to sit up. He stopped her by banding an arm around her waist.

“Only my pride.” The damn finger still hurt like hell.
Mikey has a boo-boo
 . . . God, he’d gotten soft. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered, making a place for her against his shoulder. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

He loved the way she snuggled trustingly against
him. Within seconds, her breath had slowed again and she was sound asleep.

It didn’t quite work that way for him. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d seen in the armory. And what the hell it meant. Plus his finger throbbed like a bitch.