Don't Let Go (16 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Solomon intended to be the first SEAL to jump from one of the four UH-60s onto the roof of the American embassy. The helos rose into choppy air off the aircraft carrier in the south Caribbean, accompanied by two Cobra gunships, both armed to the teeth.

In the waters far below, Gibbons and Teddy were withdrawing from the port city of Maiquetía, slipping away in an SDV, a tiny submarine. They’d reported the successful arming of explosives at the ammo dump, setting off a chain reaction. The result had been just what the SEALs had hoped: A contingent of Populist troops had pulled out of Caracas to investigate, leaving it marginally safer to swoop down on the embassy and pluck the Americans free.

But Solomon had been a SEAL long enough to know that even the best-planned missions could turn into clusterfucks.

Not a soul, for instance, had expected bad weather. The pilots had advised that the mission be delayed, but pressure from the White House saw it ordered, anyway.

As they bumped through the unstable atmosphere, Solomon eyed his men in the glow of the helo’s interior lighting. Only Harley looked perfectly at ease, lolling on the bench across from him, his eyes half-closed.

He envied the sniper’s laid-back attitude. Then again, as far as he could tell Harley’d never been in love—not the way Solomon was. Now that he’d admitted to his condition, he would stop at nothing to ensure things worked out right. How would he react upon coming face-to-face with Jordan? Would he kiss the shit out of her or throw her over his shoulder and run like hell? He’d have to carry Miguel if he did that, of course. He knew for a fact that Jordan wasn’t going to let go of the boy.

Not after all she’d done to get him back.

Within the warehouse’s central office, Lucy slipped an empty CD into the server’s X-drive and saved the documents she’d been viewing. The information was a detailed accounting of the weapons stored in this warehouse and where they’d come from. It was all she needed to prove that a Shia splinter cell called The Party of Liberation was arming the Populists and helping them take back the country.

Replacing the first CD with a backup copy, Lucy saved the information a second time. She then snapped both CDs in fireproof, shatterproof cases, slipped them into a wide pocket on her pant leg, and erased her activities from the computer log.

Pulling out a wad of bills, she tucked it in a prearranged location for the janitor—a local groomed by the CIA to serve as informant—to find tomorrow. She checked her watch.

Her quest had eaten up four hours—far more time than she’d anticipated, no thanks to the two guards whom she’d had to incapacitate, bind, gag, and drag into an abandoned railcar, clear across the parking lot.

Leaning over to power down the server, Lucy detected a wail that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. That wasn’t a child’s cry, was it?

She dove for the floor and listened. It came again, accompanied by the intimidating sound of tramping boots. She crawled briskly toward the office door, keeping her head below the windows overlooking the interior of the warehouse.

A loud crash signaled the arrival of interlopers. Lucy leapt to her feet and, keeping low, raced toward the stairs, along the elevated metal walkway that ran the circumference of the building.

It was too late now to take the stairs. She’d be seen if she tried.

Putting her back to the wall, her heart beating fast, she peered toward the bay doors, which were being wrestled open.

Bright, halogen lights flickered on, and Lucy shrank back farther.
Damn it!

A dozen soldiers, dressed in the uniform of the Elite Guard, swarmed into the building toting submachine guns. Lucy shuddered with frustration. If the Elite Guard, trained by U.S. Navy SEALs, hadn’t betrayed the Moderate government, these would be the good guys securing a warehouse belonging to the Populists and stocked by terrorists. Instead, they were probably here to arm themselves. Given their shouts and orders, she could tell they were looking for someone—probably her, since Jordan stumbled suddenly into view, as pale as a ghost and fiercely clutching a wailing Miguel.

Shit! Shit! Shit!
Lucy thought, figuring her odds. With the lights on and the soldiers splitting off to search the warehouse, it was only a matter of time before they caught her. She had to get rid of the CDs before that happened.

She inched along the wall, searching for someplace, anyplace, to stow the cases.

The elevated walkway was riveted to solid, vertical beams. Feeling a space between the beams and the wall of corrugated metal, she wedged the CD cases in the crevice. Then she marked the beam with a line of chalk she always carried in her pocket.

With the CDs hidden, she counted to three, prayed she wouldn’t get shot, and made a run for the exit.

Of course, she never made it. She hadn’t expected to.

“
¡Alto!
” yelled a voice, and she froze, putting her hands high in the air. The next moment, she was being divested of her weapon, manhandled, and forced to march into the center of the warehouse, where Jordan looked up from the crate she was sitting on, still cradling Miguel.

The reproach in Jordan’s eyes hit Lucy like a punch in the gut. “Sorry,” Lucy muttered.

Jordan was not among the ten or so Americans being herded up the steps to the embassy rooftop. Solomon seized the nearest embassy worker by his shirt collar. “Where is Lucy Donovan?” he yelled, in order to be heard over the thundering rotors of four helicopters and the firepower of two Cobra gunships raining bullets onto the streets surrounding the compound.

“She’s not here,” the man shouted back. “She never made it in. I told her to go back to her apartment.”

Solomon roared out a swearword. “Did she say anything about a woman with her?” he asked, catching the man before he headed up the stairs.

“Er—” The man had to think. “Yeah, actually. She had an American woman and a kid with her.”

Solomon cut a look at Gus, who stood at the bottom of the steps urging the civilians to move out briskly. “Atwater,” he growled over the interteam radio. He’d counted on Jordan to be here, but she was still with Lucy—
God damn it!

“Senior Chief?”

“I’m going with you to find Lucy Donovan. Don’t disappear without me.”

According to the CO, Lieutenant Atwater had orders from the Chief of Naval Operations himself to find Lucy Donovan and bring her home. Either the woman had relatives in high places, or she was more than just a secretary.

Gus just narrowed his eyes.

Solomon turned and hustled the last civilian out the rooftop door, into the gale-force winds of the MH-60s. The 20mm Gatling gun spewed fire from the Cobra gunships to create a deafening roar.

“Twenty seconds to lift off,” Solomon shouted into his mouthpiece. “Echo Platoon, pull back.”

Eight SEALs darted out of the shadows from their various positions to scramble back into the helos.

Solomon opened his mouth to tell Harley that he was staying behind, when Gus jumped into the helicopter.

“Aren’t you staying?” Solomon asked him.

“Negative. New orders,” he said, patting the satellite phone strapped to his chest.

Solomon’s stress level soared. He wanted to remain and find Jordan, only they didn’t have time for a leisurely conversation. With two thumbs up to the pilots, he jumped aboard and closed the hatch.

The men held a collective breath until the four helos were safely out of range of any stingers. Solomon snatched off his helmet and moved closer to Gus, so the others wouldn’t hear. “What the hell is going on?”

“Just got a call,” said Gus gravely. “Lucy used her cell phone two hours ago. The GPS in her phone puts her location in Maiquetía, close to the ammo dump.”

Solomon gaped in horror. “Jesus,” he whispered, envisioning what that meant. Populist troops were descending on Maiquetía in great force, thanks to the explosions Gibbons and Teddy had set off. “We’ve got to get them out.”

Gus was reaching for the ICS headset. “Trident Actual, this is Trident 1,” he barked into the ICS, using the call sign for the Command HQ. “Request in-extremis redirect for Trident 1 and 2 to GPS coordinate 10 degrees, 36 minutes North, 66 degrees, 58 minutes West. Over.”

“Trident 1, this is Trident Actual,” the reply came through crisply, but with hesitancy in the CO’s voice. “State your intentions. Over.”

“Trident Actual, this is Trident 1. Purpose is to retrieve my recovery target, who was not at the embassy, over.”

A lengthy silence followed Gus’s request. The commander’s reply came with hesitancy. “Trident 1, we have an AWAC over those coordinates reporting a large hostile presence. Use alternate LZ. Trident 2, return with birds 3 and 4 to rendezvous. Over.”

“Will do. Over.” Gus took off the ICS headset and shared a grim look with Solomon.

“What the fuck is Lucy Donovan doing in Maiquetía?” Solomon demanded. Not expecting an answer, he turned toward the other three SEALs: Harley, Haiku, and Vinny. “Change of plans, gentlemen,” he announced. “We’re going to take a detour.”

Even with a bruised and swollen lip and a rib that hurt when she breathed, Jordan found something to be grateful for: Miguel wasn’t witnessing her interrogation.

Perhaps because he was Venezuelan, the soldiers had spoken to him gently. They had tempted him with chocolate and carried him off, calling out for her. He was somewhere in the building, but his cries had subsided. She was certain he would not be harmed.

But she and Lucy were a different story.

The soldiers had separated them, dragging Lucy up the stairs to a glassed-in office. Jordan’s wrists were bound. She was made to sit on a crate that left splinters in her thighs. Fearing for her life, she did her best to answer the questions fired at her by the wiry, thick-mustachioed
capitán
. He seemed like a reasonable soldier, refined, with a dignified air about him. Surely she could convince him of her innocence.

But as the harassment dragged on, she realized with dismay that her answers weren’t sticking. He didn’t believe her. Shock and exhaustion numbed her thoughts, and she started to stammer. An unexpected slap left her ears ringing and her heart frozen in disbelief.

This can’t be happening to me.

“Explain again. Why are you in Maiquetía?” he demanded. She viewed his lean, handsome features in a different light. He was a ruthless killer.

“We were headed to the port, to get on a boat,” she whispered, horrified.

“But you were sitting in a parked car,” he pointed out.

“Waiting for my friend,” she insisted, hoarsely, “to get directions.” That had been her story from the first: that she and Lucy were Americans fleeing the country. They’d gotten lost and stopped to ask the way.

“Speak up!” he snapped, popping her on the mouth so hard that her teeth cut her upper lip.

“Please,” she begged, tasting blood, “I’m telling the truth. All I want is to adopt Miguel.”

“Tell me what your friend was doing here, and I’ll release you.”

“I don’t know!” she cried.

“You’re lying.” He slammed his knee into her ribs and turned away, snatching up her backpack. Fear gripped Jordan’s vocal cords as he drew out Miguel’s dossier. She gasped for breath, dreading the possibility that he might destroy it. Then all her work, all her efforts, would be for nothing—no thanks to Lucy, who’d put them in this position. Damn her!

Yet, as furious with Lucy as she might be, Jordan was terrified for her. She couldn’t see what was happening to the woman behind the glare on the office glass, but the officer questioning Lucy had stepped out for water, and there’d been blood on his knuckles.

The wiry officer hunkered suddenly by Jordan’s knees and yanked her hair, pulling her chin up. “Tell me your true purpose here,” he threatened, predictably, “or I’ll destroy these papers.”

Fury exploded within Jordan. With a roar of maternal rage, she attacked him, striking out with her feet. She kicked viciously, spilling him onto his backside. Then she leapt up and kicked him again, as hard as she could, payback for her bruised rib.

But he was a trained fighter. In one deft move, he swept her feet out from under her, sending her somersaulting.

Jordan’s head struck the cement floor, so hard it sounded like a gunshot.

They’d found the chalk in Lucy’s pocket.

“What is this for?” demanded the barrel-chested officer grilling her. He held it up to her face, so close that she could smell it, mingling with the copper scent of her own blood, even without cracking her one good eye. The other was swollen shut.

He yanked her ponytail, causing her scalp to burn, when she didn’t immediately answer. “What’s this for?”

“Playing hopscotch,” Lucy retorted, wincing inwardly at the unlikely excuse. It was the first thing to pop into her head.

“Hopscotch?” he scoffed.

“With Miguel.”

The answer made him pause. “Go ask the kid if he played hopscotch with this woman.”

“Yes, sir,” said the second soldier, slipping out.

The lieutenant leaned over Lucy, expelling his foul breath across her face as he murmured, “I will enjoy hurting you when I hear that you are lying to me.”

“I’m sure you will,” she retorted, inviting a vicious slap. It was nothing compared to what he was going to do once he realized she was lying.

Swimming in a cold sweat, she remembered the line she’d drawn to mark the spot where she’d hidden the discs. What were the odds that they’d see that thin, pink line?

Please, God, don’t let them see it
. As long as the CDs remained hidden—as long as she remained alive to retrieve them—this punishment was worth the cost.

The office door reopened. Lucy swallowed down the sour taste of dread in her mouth.

“The boy says she plays hopscotch with him,” volunteered the soldier, shrugging.

Lucy glanced at him in amazement. Either Miguel was inventing fantasies—
and
talking, which he’d refused to do for her, or the soldier was taking pity on her. He was younger than his superior officer, quiet and watchful. The name stitched above his pocket read
SANTIAGO.