Then it was Julian’s turn.
He watched, waited, felt Bauer’s hand on his shoulder. He was about to move, when footsteps stopped him.
One of Moreno’s men appeared. AK slung over his shoulder, he made straight for the breach, stopping only feet away from Julian. He took his dick out of his pants and pissed into the darkness, urine pooling in the dirt inches away from Julian’s feet.
Nice.
“Hey, cabrón, what are you doing?” someone called in Spanish.
“Taking a leak, man.”
“Come on. Moreno said we need to stay sharp.”
“I can’t stay sharp if I never get to pee.” The kid swore under his breath, shook off his dick, then shoved it back into his BDUs and hurried away.
Julian released the breath he’d been holding and hurried past the breach, followed quickly by Bauer. They’d gone another twenty feet or so when the tunnel came to a dead end. Tuck stopped and signaled to the team to take up defensive positions. Julian knelt beside Bauer, weapon raised and aimed back down the tunnel.
Behind them, Tuck worked with Evers to drill a small hole through the wall and insert the tip of a camera. This was one of the riskiest parts of the plan. If the concrete was too soft, the pressure of the drill might bring the wall down, and they’d find themselves staring out at Moreno’s men. And wouldn’t that just be awkward?
Julian knew they’d succeeded when DeLuca’s voice sounded in his earpiece.
“Good job, guys. We’re getting a clear image, and … Merry freaking Christmas. It looks like they’re trying to pull a McVeigh. There are a half-dozen steel barrels that I’m betting hold fuel mixed with fertilizer. I’m also seeing what looks like C4—probably meant to detonate the barrels. There’s easily enough explosives there to bring down the entire building.”
Shit.
DeLuca went on. “There are a half-dozen men on the other side of that wall, all armed with AKs, all looking up the stairs. None of them are looking down the tunnel.”
Well, that was their mistake.
Most of the time, SWAT and HRT tossed a few flash bang grenades into a room to disorient the enemy before moving in. But they couldn’t risk detonating the explosives or giving away their presence to Moreno upstairs. The perpetrator Rossiter had dumped naked in the alley had spilled his guts when he’d regained consciousness and told the FBI that Moreno had a remote detonator in his pocket.
One press of a button would end them all.
The plan from here depended on stealth. That’s why they were all carrying suppressed MAC-10s loaded with subsonic 9mm rounds. They needed to take out the basement crew and disarm the explosive device—or ED—without alerting Moreno to their presence.
Tuck turned, and they followed him in order, heading back the way they’d come to the break in the wall. Julian felt Bauer’s hand against his shoulder—a silent signal that he was ready. Julian reached forward, gave Cruz’s shoulder a squeeze. And so it went up the line to Tuck. HRT was ready and in position.
Julian’s muscles tensed for action.
Tucker stepped through the wall into the other tunnel, and the rest of them followed, moving as one toward Moreno’s men and their “Christmas present.” They came up silently behind them, took all six out with six suppressed shots, dropping them before they had time to react.
Julian searched the bodies, looking for cell phones, IDs, anything that might be a detonator, while Tuck and Bauer got down to work disarming the ED and the rest of the HRT guys secured the area, taking up defensive positions on the stairs and back down the tunnel.
“You ever seen anything like this?” Evers asked, kneeling down beside Tuck.
It was one hell of an impressive bomb.
“Yeah. We saw shit like this all the time in Iraq.” Tuck sounded cool, almost casual. “Why? You nervous, farmboy?”
“You guys come here to talk or to work?” Bauer muttered.
Despite the gravity of their situation, Julian found himself grinning.
12
Chapter Twelve
23:05
Nick watched the balcony through the scope of his M4, his gaze drawn again and again to the door of Room 335. If it was true that men made their own hell on earth, then he’d certainly found his.
He’d watched Pepe drag Holly into the room and shut the door, and he’d sat there and done nothing to help her, Hunter’s voice in his earpiece, reassuring him that Holly knew what she was doing.
Of course, she did. She was resourceful, dangerously smart, and fierce as hell in her own way. She’d trained hard at close-quarters combat since joining Cobra, sparring with some of the best trainers in the business. She had surprised him on more than one occasion. Hell, she’d surprised everyone.
Still, Nick hadn’t been able to lose the sick feeling in his stomach. He might have felt better about her chances if he hadn’t had personal experience going up against her. She’d fought him hard, but Nick had gotten the upper hand.
Well, at least for a while.
A few minutes later, one of Moreno’s men had stepped out of the elevator, rifle in hand, and had entered the room, and Nick’s blood had gone cold. In a contest of Holly versus Moreno, he’d pick Holly. But Holly against two men?
He had promised DeLuca that he’d put HRT’s objectives ahead of protecting his own wife. That had been the price he’d had to pay to work in tandem with HRT and not sit out the conflict on the sidelines. But watching that door shut, knowing Holly was alone with two killers, had made him regret that promise.
Yet, even in his desperation, he’d known he couldn’t rush in to help her, not without risking the life of every hostage in the building. All Moreno had to do was push a button, and they would all die. He’d forced himself to stay where he was, their argument ringing through his head, filling him with regret.
Then the door to the room had opened again, and Moreno had stepped out, rubbing his throat and walking like he had a stick up his ass. He was followed several agonizing minutes later by his henchman. But there’d been no sign of Holly.
They’d been alone with her long enough to do whatever they’d wanted to do to her, long enough to...
No, he couldn’t go there.
He couldn’t help but go there.
If Moreno had hurt her—if he’d raped her—Nick would do whatever it took to help her heal. If she never wanted to have children, he’d be disappointed, but he’d adjust. Life without kids was one thing. But life without Holly ...
When will you be ready?
I don’t know.
Yeah? Well, maybe you need to rethink your priorities.
He shouldn’t have pushed her so hard. He shouldn’t have let her walk away without working it out. God, he was a bastard!
Focus on the job, Andris.
Nick shifted his gaze back to the balcony, the chatter in his earpiece telling him that HRT had made it through the tunnel, taken out the bastards in the basement, and were hard at work defusing whatever explosives Moreno had stashed there.
One thing was certain.
Moreno and his men would not survive the night.
* * *
23:06
Pepe paced the ballroom, uncertainty leaving him itchy, making his palms sweat, fueling his rage. There was less than an hour to go to the deadline, and it was starting to unravel. His control was starting to unravel. That puta de mierda had crushed his balls and almost strangled him. Well, he could take care of her. But what was he supposed to do about his dead men?
He shouted into his phone. “You want me to believe that one man did all of this?”
“It’s the truth.” Kimble sounded so calm, so sure of himself.
“More government lies!” That’s what his gut told him.
And yet his explanation was the only thing that put all the pieces together. The AK shells in the loading dock and on the roof. The white dress shirt on Gonzalo. The fact that SWAT hadn’t yet put a bullet in his head.
“If SWAT had entered the buil
ding, you would know,” Kimble reassured him, almost as if he could read Pepe’s mind.
Pepe rubbed his aching throat. The slut had almost crushed his windpipe. He’d make her sorry soon. “You tell the bastard to turn himself over to me. If he won’t, I’ll pick six hostages and execute them to make up for the deaths of my men.”
“I’m not in communication with him. I don’t have—”
“You’re the FBI!” Did they think Pepe was an imbecile? “If you know he’s here, you must know who he is, and that means you can find a way to reach him.”
“I understand that you’re angry about what he’s done, but you need to keep your eyes on the big picture here,” Kimble advised him, his tone of voice patronizing. “Your cousin is on his way. Don’t do anything to jeopardize your success here tonight.”
Pepe stopped pacing, fury making his face hot. “Don’t fuck with me! If you harm my cousin—”
“Oh, I’m not threatening him. No harm will come to your cousin—none at all,” Kimble assured him. “However, if you start shooting hostages, you would be putting yourself and your men at risk.”
That was a threat.
Did the carechimba not take him seriously?
Pepe spoke so that everyone in the ballroom could hear him. “If you go back on your word, if you try to rescue the hostages, they will all die.”
Kimble didn’t react to this at all, as if nothing Pepe said could shake him. Had Pepe lost his respect? “I heard you loud and clear the first time you said that, and we’re willing to work with you—provided the hostages remain safe.”
“Are you going to contact the bastard are not?”
“As I told you, we don’t—”
“Go to hell.” Pepe ended the call, glanced around at the terrified faces.
Mamagüevos. Malditas putas.
Cocksuckers. Fucking whores.
They could all fuck off and die.
Pepe needed to do something to regain Kimble’s respect, something to show that he was in control, not the FBI, not Kimble, and certainly not this fucker who had killed his men. “Six of my men are dead, and the FBI won’t give me the man who killed them. Tavo, pick six people, take them into the hall, and execute them.”
When Tavo hesitated, Pepe grabbed the fat man who’d complained that he was having chest pain and dragged him toward the door. “Five, Tavo. Now!”
“What are you doing? Y-you can’t kill me! I’m Charles Baird. I’m the newspaper’s publisher!” The man tried to pull away, but he was weak and soft.
“In a moment, you will be nothing.” Pepe locked his arm around the asshole’s neck, hauled him toward the door, some of his itchiness fading.
“I can tell you who killed your men!” the man shouted, his voice high-pitched from fear. “I can tell you who he is! That’s what you wanted from the FBI, right?”
Pepe stopped, released him. “How do you know this?”
The man looked up at him, his pale face sweaty. “His wife works for me.”
“His wife?” Pepe found himself smiling. He didn’t need help from the FBI if he had the whoreson’s wife. “Who is she?”
The man turned and pointed. “Sophie Alton-Hunter.”
At the sound of her name, a pretty woman with reddish-blond hair got to her feet and turned to face him, the fear in her eyes confirming the truth.
“Her husband is captain of Denver’s SWAT team,” the fat man offered. “He came to the party with her but disappeared when the shooting started.”
Captain of Denver’s SWAT team? That was something Kimble hadn’t shared.
Pepe patted the man on his shoulder. “Your cowardice has saved your life.”
Nearby, Tavo was dragging a screaming older woman toward the door.
“Let that one go, Tavo.” Pepe pointed to the SWAT captain’s wife. “Take her.”
Tavo waded into the crowd and grabbed the woman, who, to her credit, did not scream or struggle.
“Take me!” shouted a man—the man who’d brought the slut. “She’s a mother. She has two little children. Take me instead!”
“I’m sorry,” Pepe told him, not feeling sorry at all. “You are of no importance.”
Tavo brought the woman to stand before Pepe.
She looked boldly at him despite her fear, but said nothing.
“I remember you.” Pepe smiled. “You arrived with a tall man with brown hair. You were laughing about something. Where is he—your husband?”
“I-I don’t know.”
He stroked her cheek. “I believe you. How could you know? You’ve been here, helping your pregnant friend, while he has been off killing my men. He left you behind and saved only himself.”
Her chin came up at this insult, but she wisely said nothing.
“Tavo, hold your pistol to her head.” Pepe slid out his cell phone. “I’m just going to take a little photo.”
Tavo did as he asked, the redhead giving a little gasp when the barrel pressed against her temple. Pepe snapped the photo, then sent it in a text message to Kimble. Not even ten seconds had passed before his cell phone rang.
Pepe laughed to himself, the situation once again firmly in his grasp. He didn’t give Kimble a chance to speak. “You didn’t tell me the bastard killing my men was Denver’s SWAT captain. As you can see, I have his wife. If he does not turn himself in to me, I will put a bullet through her pretty head. He has five minutes.”
* * *
23:10
Holly twisted her wrists, trying to loosen the bonds that held her arms behind her back and bound her to this chair. No way was she going to die because some freaking jackhole had tied her up with her own pantyhose. He’d put some effort into it, too, then told her in broken English that Moreno planned to strangle her just like she’d tried to strangle him—but only after he and his men had gotten tired of her.
Then the jerk had surprised her by offering to help her—if she would give him a blow job. She’d seen in his eyes that he was lying. But even if he’d been telling the truth, her answer would have been the same.
“If you stick your dick in my mouth,” she’d said sweetly, “I’ll bite it off.”
That had earned her a slap across the face, but it had been worth it.
Did he think she was an idiot? She had no doubt Moreno would kill her. She’d done the unforgivable and gotten the better of him. She’d hurt him, humiliated him. Yes, he would kill her—but not before he’d made her suffer.
That’s why she wasn’t going to be here when he got back. Any second now, the knots that held her fast would give way, and she would get out of this room.
She stopped, rested her arms, panic starting to build in her belly.
“Hey, guys,” she said to SWAT and HRT, “how about a rescue?”
They couldn’t hear her, of course. The listening devices she’d received in the first aid package had all been planted in the Grand Ballroom.
She fumbled with her bonds again, trying to make the stretchy fabric yield just ... a ... little ... more... But the bastard had pulled all the stretch out of it, the nylon or whatever it was biting into her skin, cutting off her circulation.
Nick.
She had no idea where he was, no idea whether he and Cobra were involved in some way tonight. But she knew her husband. He wouldn’t want to sit on the sidelines and watch. He’d do everything he could to get to her.
He loved her.
The thought brought tears to her eyes—and made her angry.
She was not going to die at the hands of Commander Asshat.
She rested again, then tried once more, wondering how a brand of pantyhose that always seemed to get runs when she needed them to look perfect could possibly withstand all this twisting and pulling when she needed them to tear. Clearly, it was time to switch to a different brand.
Damn it!
This wasn’t working.
She decided to try breaking the wooden back of the chair. It was an antique, which meant it must be fragile, right? She dug her h
eels into the carpet and, pushing hard against it, moved from side to side and slammed it back against the wall.
Ouch!
She’d gotten her knuckles.
Next, she tried to stand, thinking she’d open the door with her head, then move as quickly as she could to another room, chair and all. It took a couple of tries, but she managed to get to her feet.
“Yes!”
She’d gone a couple of steps toward the door, when one of the legs hit the chest of drawers, throwing her off balance. She crashed to the floor, landing painfully on her side.
Freaking perfect!
She was about to try getting back on her feet again, when the door handle turned with a click. Adrenaline shot through her, but there was nowhere for her to go, no way for her to fight, nothing to do but survive whatever happened next.
And she would survive. She had so many reasons to live.
The door swung wide, and she found herself looking up not into Moreno’s face, but that of the jackhole.
He smiled, chuckling to himself. “I make the knots tight, yes?”
In the next instant, a hand covered his face, and a knife slashed across his throat, his eyes bugging wide as blood spilled down his neck and onto his chest.
“Nick!”
He threw the man’s body aside and stood there in full tactical gear, a rifle on his shoulder, the K-Bar knife still in his hand. He bent down, cut her bonds, then sheathed the blade, and helped her to her feet, his arms encircling her, drawing her tight against him. “God, Holly.”
“Good … timing …” Holly squeezed the words past the lump in her throat, clinging to him, his body, or at least his body armor, hard against her.
“Are you okay? You look like hell.” He glanced at the side of her head, touched a gloved finger to the bruise on her cheek, his gaze going hard. Then he saw something on the floor. He bent down, held up her panties. “Did he … hurt you?”
She knew he wasn’t just asking about bruises. “He didn’t get time to do more than knock me around. I kneed him in the nuts.”