Midnight Games: A Killer Instincts Novel (30 page)

“Lorenzo said he tracked me down four months ago.
Me
. I used Julian’s ID in Argentina, remember? That’s what raised a flag. He’s been searching for us since Blanco’s death, which means he probably paid off every passport officer at every airport to alert him when Julian or Paloma resurfaced.”

“And then what? You unknowingly led his men back to your compound?”

“I must’ve. I can’t imagine how else he could’ve found it. The place was buried under piles of paperwork and the address is hard to find.”

Her brows knit together in a frown. “What did Lorenzo mean when he said your ‘company’s training facility’? Where did he think he was sending that hit team?”

“I own a lot of different businesses under Julian’s name. One of them happens to be a private combat school that prepares military recruits for basic training and teaches civilians combat skills. I’ve got two locations—one in Sarasota, one in Mexico.”

“Wait. This company actually exists?”

Trevor shook his head. “On paper, but I’m thinking Lassiter fucked up and assumed the compound was the Mexican location for Julian’s bogus combat school. I can’t think of any other reason why Lorenzo hasn’t questioned what Julian was doing on a compound with a bunch of highly trained mercs.”

Isabel ran her tongue over her bottom lip, which was dry and beginning to crack. The air in the cellar was too damn arid, yet at the same time, moist. And the odor of rotting grapes was beginning to give her a headache.

“It was always about us.” As she voiced the thought again, pain circled her heart. “Beth, Lloyd, Hank . . . they died because of us.”

God, more deaths on her conscience. More deaths to atone for.

“Don’t,” Trevor said firmly. “Don’t blame yourself. This is all on me.”

“No, it isn’t. I refuse to let you carry the burden alone.” Her staunch declaration hung in the room. “If you’re at fault, then so am I. There. I shoulder half the blame.”

He let out a heavy breath. “You are damn impossible at times—you know that? I just
had
to fall in love with the most stubborn woman on the planet. Fine, it’s
neither
of our faults then. Does that sound—why are you looking at me like that?”

Isabel’s heart was pounding. “You’re . . . in love with me?”

His whiskey eyes flooded with emotion. “Duh.”

“Duh?” She gawked at him, torn between laughing and bursting into tears. “That’s seriously all you have to say?”

“This can’t come as much of a surprise, Iz. I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I just hadn’t admitted it to myself until now.”

Isabel bit her lip. Wow. He loved her. She still couldn’t wrap her head around it. Trevor Callaghan loved her.
Her
.

“Oh,” she said.

“Oh? That’s all
you
have to say?”

Her pulse kicked up another notch. “I . . . I’m still absorbing it. I guess I—” She halted as a muffled thump echoed right above them.

“What was that?” she demanded.

Before he could answer, they heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

Trevor’s voice contained a chord of satisfaction. “
That
is the cavalry coming to our rescue.”

There was a chill in the air as D and Morgan approached the patio doors. The others were covering the front of the house and the street; with only four guards to contend with, a two-man show was more than enough. Make that three guards, D amended. Meiro’s wife had been escorted by a lone bodyguard when she’d left the mansion twenty minutes ago.

As promised, Juliet had made quick work of the motion sensors, and no alarms had been raised as the men crept through the shadows of the manicured backyard.

When they reached their destination, Morgan hung back, gun in hand, eyes gleaming with intensity.

D crouched in front of the door, unclipped his pick kit from his belt and tackled the lock. As he inserted a tension wrench into the keyhole, he said a silent prayer that Juliet’s “trickery” had indeed taken care of the security cameras. He was acutely aware of the two cameras mounted on either side of the stone patio. Pointing right at them. It wasn’t losing his anonymity that he worried about, but the element of surprise.

One of the pins in the lock clicked into place. He shifted the hook pick, applied more pressure with the flat wrench, and thirty seconds later, the dead bolt clicked open.

Palming his H&K pistol, D pushed on the door handle and slowly opened the door. A glance at his feet confirmed what Juliet had warned them about. Lasers. Four of them spanning the doorway, a crisscross of beams that went up to his waist.

No way to step over them, but D knew he could clear the top beam if he backed up and jumped over it at a run. He didn’t want to risk making noise, though. They had no idea where Meiro or his guards were. Fortunately, there was nobody in the kitchen.

He glanced at Morgan, who was also examining the laser field.

D clicked his earpiece. “You sure about the lasers?” His voice was almost inaudible.

A snicker sounded in his ear. “You scared, D? Who would’ve thought.” Juliet chuckled. “The alarm won’t go off, boys. Trust me.”

He suppressed his irritation and looked at Morgan again. The boss gestured to the red beams as if to say,
you first
.

Fuck. Fine.

D took a deep breath, uttered another silent prayer, and walked right through the beams.

Nothing happened.

Blessed silence prevailed.

Morgan stepped in after him and closed the door. The two men crossed the dark kitchen, communicating with hand signals as they moved deeper into the house. Shadows and silence greeted them at every corner.

Morgan signaled to the light spilling out from the front parlor, indicating that he would take the upstairs.

D nodded and gestured that he would investigate the main floor.

They went their separate ways, moving silently through the mansion. The rooms were furnished with expensive pieces and tasteful works of art, but the house lacked any personal touches. Apparently Michel Beaumont hadn’t spent much time here—the man had preferred the casino penthouse, just like his son-in-law. Renee Meiro didn’t seem to be around too often either; according to her credit card statements, the woman was traveling most of the time.

D’s instincts hummed as he neared the entryway to a corridor bathed in light. He flattened himself against the cream-colored wall, his weapon pressed to his thigh.

He waited. Listened. Became aware of the sound of soft breathing.

Someone was in that hallway.

Morgan was still upstairs, but the continued silence told D that the boss hadn’t encountered any problems.

He edged along the wall, inhaled a breath, risked a glance around the corner.

One guard. Short, stocky, curly black hair. Cradling an AK to his chest.

The rifle gave D pause. Trevor had reported that Meiro’s bodyguards usually carried pistols. The switch to assault weapons meant Meiro
really
didn’t want his prisoners to get away. And chances were, said prisoners were being held beyond the door being protected by the curly-haired goon.

Well. He couldn’t keep Callaghan and Blondie waiting.

Keeping a steady grip on his H&K, D sprang into action. He experienced a surge of adrenaline as he burst into the corridor and took the rifle-wielding guard by complete surprise.

Pop
.

The suppressor on his gun ensured that the bullet entering the guard’s forehead did so with the softest of hisses.

D caught the guard’s lifeless body before it toppled to the floor. He was just patting himself on the back for one of his most soundless kills when the gunshots rang out.

•   •   •

Isabel had never felt more powerless than she did now, tied to a chair while chaos reigned above her. She had no idea what was going on up there, but judging by the rhythmic
rat-tat-tat
that was making the ceiling vibrate, she assumed Morgan and the others had launched a full-blown assault on the mansion.

She tugged on her bindings, but the thin cables Lorenzo’s men had used to secure her wrists behind her back were too damn tight. As she struggled against them, the cables dug into her flesh and made her wince.

“We have to get out of here,” she said in frustration. “That door could burst open any second, and if those aren’t our people up there . . .”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than a round of gunfire boomed beyond the door. Isabel’s pulse sped up as the doorknob exploded in a spray of wood splinters. The metal knob snapped off and bounced on the concrete floor, and then the door was kicked open and a familiar face greeted them.

“You okay?” D’s coal black eyes revealed no emotion as he stalked toward them with purposeful strides.

Trevor rolled his eyes. “We’re great. Can’t you tell?”

D swiftly sliced their bindings with the sharpest hunting knife Isabel had ever seen. As the blood rushed back to her hands and ankles, pins and needles pricked her flesh. She rubbed her numb wrists and stumbled to her feet. When she heard another muted gunshot, she glanced at D in alarm.

“What’s going on up there?”

He shrugged. “Morgan’s in the middle of a Wild West shoot-out with Meiro.”

“Blanco,” Trevor muttered.

“Huh?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Deal. Let’s go,” D ordered.

The three of them hurried out of the cellar. Isabel was grateful that D took the lead, because she had no idea where they were going. They raced down a narrow hallway boasting exposed ductwork and the scent of mildew, then reached a set of wooden steps that D climbed two at a time. He’d tossed Trevor a nine-millimeter handgun, but nothing for Isabel, who felt naked and vulnerable without a weapon. She stuck close to Trevor as they emerged onto the main floor.

The house was quiet. No gunshots. No voices.

D signaled for them to stop. He crept toward the end of the hall. Ducked out, then gestured for them to follow.

The corridor they entered was bathed in shadows, but there was a light at the end of it, along with something shiny and silver flashing on the floor ten feet away. No, not silver. Glass. And several bullet holes were visible in the wall above the shattered glass.

Those shards would make their escape difficult. D’s boots and Trevor’s leather wingtips hadn’t made a sound against the parquet, but they didn’t stand a chance of staying quiet once they reached those sharp pieces littering the floor.

D must have concurred, because a resigned expression settled on his face. He made a few hand motions to Trevor, who nodded briskly. Isabel knew both men had been U.S. Army at one point—Trevor had served in the Special Forces, D was Delta. She suspected they could carry on entire conversations and formulate complex strategies without ever uttering a single word.

Trevor touched her arm and signaled for her to stay close. He held up three fingers, then pointed to the end of the corridor.

Drawing a steadying breath, she nodded.

Her muscles coiled tight as she waited for Trevor’s count.

He held up one finger. Two.

Three.

D took off first, his boots crunching on the broken glass as he charged forward. Isabel kept her head down and ran. The hallway spilled into a large parlor lit by a crystal chandelier that rocked wildly as if an errant bullet had sent it swinging.

Gunfire erupted the second they entered the spacious entrance. A bullet whizzed over Isabel’s head. A sharp glance to the left and she saw Morgan duck out of a corridor she assumed led to the back of the house.

“Go,” Trevor shouted, practically shoving her toward the front door.

Isabel was two steps from the massive double doors when she was yanked backward.

Lorenzo had popped out of the shadowy living room behind them and was trying to pull her toward him, but although the dress she’d worn to the gala looked damn good, it was the flimsiest garment ever made. The strap in Lorenzo’s grip snapped apart, forcing him to make a mad grab for her hair.

For her
wig
, which was ripped off her head, allowing her to dive out of his grasp. She landed on the floor with a thump just as horrified recognition and sheer outrage dawned on Lorenzo’s face.

He stared at the wig in his hand, then at Isabel, and she knew exactly what he was seeing—her Valerie red hair slicked back and held in place with bobby pins. Her bangs had sprung free from the pins and now fell across her forehead.

“You fucking
bitch
!” Lorenzo’s livid cry bounced off the parlor walls.

She caught a fleeting blur of movement, saw the muzzle of his gun dip down and train on her. Adrenaline sizzled in her blood, but she knew she couldn’t roll out of the line of fire fast enough.

Her heart stopped as she prepared herself for the impact, as she watched Lorenzo’s fingers curl over the trigger.

But the pain didn’t come.

A gunshot blasted and her field of vision turned black. For a second she thought she’d fainted, but then she realized she was looking at the back of Trevor’s tuxedo jacket.

“No!”
she screamed.

He’d thrown himself in front of Lorenzo’s bullet.

Jesus Christ.

Trevor had taken the bullet meant for her.

Isabel watched in horror as his broad body jerked, as he stumbled from the force of impact. She dove forward just in time to catch him, while her pulse shrieked in her head like a banshee and her hands trembled violently.

Five feet away, D lunged at Lorenzo, whose pistol clattered out of his hand. As the two men crashed to the floor locked in battle, Isabel fought back a wave of panic and struggled under the weight of Trevor’s torso. Her arms were wrapped around him from behind, and a glance at his abdomen triggered a new surge of terror.

Blood poured out of the bullet hole in his gut, soaking his white dress shirt, pooling on the hardwood floor. No vest. He hadn’t been wearing a goddamn vest because of the gala, and now . . . now he was going to fucking bleed to death in front of her.

Isabel’s breathing went shallow as she slid her hands down his chest and brought them to the wound. She clasped her fingers together, applied pressure, tried not to weep.

Trevor’s eyelids fluttered, opened, but his eyes were out of focus. “Wasn’t . . . gonna . . . let you die,” he mumbled.

Her heart was beating so fast it was a wonder it didn’t burst right out of her chest. Trevor’s face was so pale.
Too
pale.

She pressed her hands to his belly and her cheek against his temple. “Don’t talk,” she told him. “Save your strength, Trev.”

There was another crash, then a grunt as D managed to grab the gun Lorenzo had dropped. Isabel jumped when a flash of black whizzed in the corner of her eye, but it was just Morgan, limping up to her and Trevor.

Morgan took one look at Trevor’s face and clicked on his earpiece. “Rookie, bring the car right to the front door. Make sure Sully’s with you. We need to get Trev to a hospital. Pronto.”

The mercenary peeled off his black shirt, crumpled it up, and dropped to his knees in front of Isabel and Trevor. “Move your hands,” he ordered.

Isabel barely heard the sharp command. She felt like she was in a daze. Trevor was so cold. And the blood. It was oozing out of his stomach like oil from a leaking car.

“Isabel
.
”

She balked when she felt Morgan forcibly push her hands off Trevor. “No! He’s bleeding out!”

“I know,” Morgan said grimly.

He jammed his balled-up shirt against the wound, eliciting a low groan of pain from Trevor’s lips.

Tears blurred Isabel’s vision. Oh God. He couldn’t die. He
couldn’t
.

Ten feet away, the muzzle of D’s gun was trained on Lorenzo’s head. The big mercenary cocked the weapon ominously, but Lorenzo was too busy glaring daggers at Isabel to pay attention to the gun at his temple.

“You little bitch,” he hissed. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

She felt utterly numb as she looked into Lorenzo’s furious dark eyes. Then her gaze dropped to the man in her arms, the man whose skin was now a sickly shade of gray.

“Did you enjoy playing me for a fool,
Valerie
?” Now he was downright smirking, his attention focused on Trevor. “I hope that son of a bitch dies. I hope he dies in your fucking arms, you cunt. I hope—”

The gunshot reverberated in the parlor.

Shock filled Lorenzo’s face, only for a nanosecond, and then he was gone. Limp body crumpling to the floor, a bullet in his left temple.

Isabel was stunned as Lorenzo’s body hit the hardwood with a loud thump. He landed with his head turned in her direction, offering a clear view of his eyes. They were wide open. Lifeless. A frozen mask of surprise and accusation.

Isabel stared into that vacant gaze for several seconds, then turned to look at D with shocked eyes.

The black-eyed mercenary showed no remorse. “I was getting bored of listening to him talk.”

Isabel had no idea what to say, and no time to process what had just happened. Dead, alive, she didn’t care about Lorenzo Blanco. Not when Trevor was dying in her arms.

A car engine rumbled outside, and suddenly Morgan was reaching for Trevor.

“No,” she growled. “I won’t leave him.”

Ignoring her, Morgan heaved Trevor over one broad shoulder and carried him to the door.