Betrayed (Hostage Rescue Team Series Book 9) (21 page)

But if it was her on the hunt, Georgia would double back and wait for the right moment to take out her targets.

“I’m going after him,” Miguel announced, and began moving toward the back of the truck, heading for the trees.

“I’ll go with you,” she said. They were all wearing neutral earth tone colors, nothing that would stand out in the woods, except that there was no camouflage to break up the solid blocks of color. Moving was risky. But they couldn’t afford to let this shooter go.

He turned his head to nail her with a hard stare. “No. Stay here behind cover.”

“Fuck that, I’m not letting you go by yourself.” He was good but he was still mortal, and they’d be safer together.

“We’ll follow you at intervals,” Rycroft said, his gaze pinned toward the area of forest where the shots had originated from.

Miguel’s lips compressed into a thin line but he didn’t argue further, turning his attention back to the trees. “Stay behind me,” he told her.

Georgia didn’t answer, watching for any signs of movement in the forest. He crouched behind the rear bumper and looked back at her. “You ready?”

When she nodded he took off in a blur of movement, disappearing into the trees moments later. She waited a few heartbeats, then followed.

Her running strides ate up the distance between her and the trees. She swallowed a yelp when a tree trunk she passed exploded in a hail of splinters.

Diving to the ground, she kept her head down.
Shit, that was close.
A few inches to the right, and that round would have slammed right into her chest.

Flat on her belly, she took a look around, spotted Miguel hidden behind a group of trees not far from her, his gaze locked on her. Even from her position she could see the fear there.

She did a quick thumbs up to reassure him, began leopard-crawling to the right, stopping close enough to see him easily but not so close that she would accidentally give away his position if the shooter had seen her move.

Glancing his way again, she read the brusque hand signals he gave her. He would go right while she moved left and crept forward, hopefully circling around the shooter.

She signaled back that she copied and began moving left as she crept forward, careful to disturb the undergrowth as little as possible. The surge of adrenaline flooded her system, a high she’d learned long ago how to control.

It felt good to be on the offensive again, and this time, with Miguel at her side, she had the best backup in the business. If the shooter was still in the area, they’d find him.

Five against one, asshole,
she thought with grim satisfaction.

Whoever he was, this son of a bitch was going down.

****

You just fucked yourself.

Nico couldn’t control the burst of fear that shot through him as he realized his fatal mistake.

He’d missed Georgia by mere inches, and it might have cost him everything.

He should have made his escape the moment that black pickup had swerved in front of the SUV. Now there were five potential hunters out here targeting him, including Bautista.

Just the thought of his idol lurking in these woods sent a wave of terror crashing over him.

He should have run for it when he’d had the chance. There was no way he could take out five trained shooters without giving away his position and one of them nailing him before he got them all. Now his only chance was to disappear into these woods before one of them found him.

With effort he cleared his head.
Think it through. Melissa’s counting on you
.

But he was suddenly terrified that he’d never see her again.

No. He knew what to do.
Take control. Clear your head. You’re still in this fight. You can still win
.

Pushing the fear aside, he fell back on his training.
Stay low. Move slow. Use the cover around you to conceal your position
.

The scent of the damp earth hung heavy in the air. He used his elbows and knees to propel his body along the ground, pausing behind sturdy tree trunks to get his bearings and listen for any telltale signs that someone was nearby.

But the forest was eerily quiet, only the creak of the branches in the slight breeze filling the silence.

He crept northward, knowing he needed to make the best use of the cover available to him on his way to his rental. If he could just reach it, he could have a head start. Even a minute might make the difference between living to fight another day and taking a bullet.

The quiet snap of a branch somewhere in the brush behind him froze him in place. His gaze shot toward it, his heart pounding at what it meant.

The high-power scope of his rifle showed nothing. No rabbits or squirrels that might have disturbed the underbrush. No recognizable outline of a person hidden in the dense tangle of branches.

But he knew someone was there. Knew they probably had him in their sights.

He was the prey now. And the hunters were nearly on top of him.

I’m not fucking dying this way.

He was too good at what he did, and he wasn’t leaving Melissa this way. She needed him, would be devastated if he died and she’d never understand what he’d done, or why. It wasn’t too late. If he was careful enough, patient enough, he could still get Bautista and maybe one or two others.

He had to. He’d been waiting for this moment for so long, the chance to take control of his destiny, his future. He fucking deserved that chance after everything he’d gone through in his shitty-ass life.

Nico swallowed, gathered his resolve as he planned his strategy. If he was lucky he could take Bautista out and still get away.

Even as he thought it he knew it was impossible. Not with five of them out there.

The uncertainty clouded his brain, interfered with his concentration. His life was at stake here, and not just because of the people hunting him now. If he failed in this mission… He’d be a liability.

One his uncle would have no choice but to eliminate.

Shoving the chilling thought aside, he grimly turned and propped the barrel of his rifle on a low, fallen log, set his eye to the scope.

Just give me a damn target.

Calling up an image of Melissa’s face for courage, he held onto it and sent up a silent prayer.
God help me.

He wasn’t going down without a fight.

****

Movement at her four o’clock.

Georgia froze, waiting, her attention locked on a bush that was starting to lose its leaves. The damp ground was cold beneath her, the chilly air coating her bare arms below the sleeves of her T-shirt, but she hardly noticed, focused on her target.

A branch close to the bush twitched and shivered, sending more leaves to the ground. She homed in on it. Through her scope she made out the shape of a man’s leg as it slid along the forest floor. Camo pants, not black ones, like Miguel had been wearing.

The shooter.

Taking aim, Georgia consciously calmed her heart rate as she lined up the laser dot. She breathed out, waited until all the air had escaped her lungs before squeezing the trigger.

The report rang out a split second before she heard a pained grunt, saw a flash of movement as her target dropped flat to the ground. Allowing herself to breathe normally once again, she waited, knowing Miguel and the others would have heard her shot.

She waited there for a minute.

Two.

Four.

Then the target moved.

She tensed, eye to the scope, ready to fire again, but the leg slid out of view behind a group of tree trunks. But she’d hit him. She knew she had. How badly wounded he was, she didn’t know.

Time to move in for the kill.
Or capture, if he was still alive and unable to shoot back. Either way, he was going
down
.

Pushing to her feet, she slung her rifle across her back and ran, pulling her sidearm from the holster strapped to her hip.

Miguel suddenly appeared beside her, materializing out of the brush like a ghost. It startled her. No one snuck up on her when she was on her game, ever. Yet he had.

“I got him but he’s not down,” she called out in a whisper.

“I know. Now stay back,” Miguel ordered her, racing past to intercept the threat.

Stay back? Screw. That.

Ignoring the ludicrous command, Georgia ran headlong after him.

He was much faster than she was, pulling a few dozen yards away within the first few minutes, and soon was swallowed by the screen of trees that separated them. She blamed her recent bout of sickness. Gritting her teeth, she chased after him, annoyed at how quickly she became out of breath.

A shot rang out, the report echoing through the silent woods.

Miguel.

Heart in her throat, she put on a burst of speed and ran, dodging trees, logs and bushes. It was maybe only another minute before she reached him but it seemed to take forever, her only thought that he might be hurt, or pinned down.

Leaping over a fallen log blocking her path, she veered around a large boulder—

And skidded to a sudden halt at the sight before her.

Miguel stood unmoving at the edge of a small gulley, pistol aimed at someone lying at the bottom of it. A burst of relief hit her but the rigid set of his back and shoulders told her instantly that something was wrong. When she drew close enough to see his face, her heart stuttered at his expression.

The look on his face was one of utter disbelief. And betrayal.

She glanced away from him, to the man lying on the ground before them. Young, maybe in his late twenties. Dark hair, golden brown skin, clean shaven. Still alive, though from the looks of it, not for long.

He was half-sprawled on his stomach, rifle cradled in the crook of one arm. His eyes were half open and his lips were parted, a rivulet of frothy blood bubbling out of his mouth to drip into the bed of fallen leaves beneath him.

Either she or Miguel had hit him in the lung. More blood dripped from another wound in his upper thigh.

She must have hit him in the leg then. Miguel had been the one to actually take him down. That might have annoyed her at any other time, but she was more worried about his reaction.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him quietly.

He refused to look at her, a muscle jerking in his jaw.

Running footsteps came from behind them, breaking the taut silence. Georgia turned to see Briar, Rycroft and Wallace appear through the trees, racing toward them.

“You get him?” Rycroft called out.

“Yes,” she answered. But they wouldn’t be able to get any information out of him now. He’d be dead within minutes.

Rycroft stopped beside Miguel and took in the situation with a single glance. “Still alive.” He took a step into the gulley.

“Not for long.” Miguel’s wooden tone and his stiff expression as he stared at the man worried her.

Rycroft handed his weapon to Briar. “I’ll take his fingerprints while you guys pull security. Let’s see if we can find out who our mystery shooter is.”

“Nico Montoya,” Miguel answered in a flat voice, still staring at the body.

Georgia looked at him sharply as Rycroft stopped in his tracks.

“You know him?” Rycroft asked, frowning.

Miguel drew a deep breath before tearing his gaze from the dying shooter and looked at Rycroft. The haunted look in his eyes hit Georgia like a punch to the gut. “He’s Diego Perez’s nephew,” he answered, the words clipped. Cold. “And I trained him.”

Without another word he turned and walked away, back toward the road, leaving Georgia and the others staring after him in stunned silence.

Seated in front of a desk in an office at the small airport, Bautista forced himself to look at Rycroft as the man came in and sat on the edge of the desk.

“So. Perez,” Rycroft said.

He resented the calculating gleam in those gray eyes when Rycroft said the name, even though he knew Rycroft was a pretty decent guy. Less than an hour ago Rycroft’s team back at NSA headquarters had managed to trace the phone calls to and from the cell they’d found on Nico’s body.

At first Bautista had assumed that Perez had been using Nico as his new enforcer to fill the void after Bautista had “died”. That he’d somehow gotten wind of the things Georgia had uncovered during her investigation, and sent Nico after her.

But it turns out that was only partly right.

He’d sent Nico after
both
of them.

Bautista didn’t know how Perez had found out he was alive. Maybe through the cartel network, after the NSA had leaked intel about him surviving. He didn’t care how. All he knew was, the evidence was right in front of him. Transcripts of the traced and unencrypted texts from several burner phones, sent over by some analyst at the NSA. And it was irrefutable.

Put them both down.

Those words jumped off the page, sending a wave of cold through him. Perez had said that same phrase to him numerous times while he’d served as Perez’s enforcer.

The targets had always been bad men. Killers and rapists, drug and human traffickers, thugs like the ones who had taken his
abuela
from him. Perez had never asked him to go after anyone who didn’t deserve to die, and each time Bautista had done the job like a good and loyal little lackey.

They’d shared meals at Perez’s dining room table together. Gone on fishing trips together. Spent the holidays together.

But his former boss and mentor had crossed an unforgivable line when he’d targeted an innocent like Georgia, wanting to silence her simply because she could expose his involvement in the murders of Frank and Janaia, who were also innocents.

And then he’d made a fatal error by targeting
him
.

Bautista shook his head at himself. He’d been close with the whole Perez family. Had been treated like an adored relative, had always assumed he’d meant far more to Perez than just a hired thug.

Apparently he’d been dead wrong about that. And it
hurt
.