Last Chance To Run (31 page)

And that Len
Rikker
was no international spook but one of Puno de
Hierro’s
assets.

Among
Mendelson’s
multi-faceted enterprises, he brokered resources for terrorist operations. Josh’s team had tracked the German for twelve days and finally gotten a break when the weapons shipment
Mendelson
needed as currency for another deal had gone missing.

Thanks to Josh’s team who’d stolen it.

That team now waited to move in.

No government would admit to employing mercenary soldiers like Josh’s team, but most countries tapped similar off-the-record elite operatives for missions that couldn’t be run through the usual channels, or couldn’t be acknowledged under any circumstances. The CIA would normally turn to one of its own elite military units to extract a captured agent, but they wanted this sterile.
 

A hands-off operation with none of their assets involved.
 

Sabrina
Slye
, who headed up Josh’s team, had questioned the “why” behind the agency’s decision to send in her team, but the powers-that-be weren’t in the habit of answering to anyone.
 

Much less a
merc
.
She’d turned down the mission until someone way up the CIA food chain – a man she wouldn’t name – had asked her personally to bring home their agent.
 

And to do it soon, before
Mendelson
disappeared again.
 

He often moved his high-value assets daily.
 

Sabrina had freedom to execute her operations with full autonomy since her people were considered expendable resources that no government agency would admit hiring and sure as hell wouldn’t lift a finger to save.
 

A young man rushed up to Josh and pointed as a Mercedes rental rolled up to the curb.
“Your car, sir.”

Right behind
Mendelson’s
sleek black limousine.

Josh continued toward the end of the walkway lit by landscape beacons. The bodyguards took position on each side of the limo’s open passenger door where Chelsea paused.

Mendelson’s
lips tilted with amusement.
A pit viper’s smile.
“I have arranged a driver for you.”
 

A driver who matched
Mendelson’s
bodyguards in size – and grim expression – sat behind the wheel of Josh’s Mercedes.

As expected.

If he refused the driver, the deal would fall apart. Everyone involved knew that. But this was all about power plays so Josh spun the tables with one of his own. He made a show of looking at his watch. “Your window of time to complete our meeting is running out.” 

In other words, the weapons shipment Josh was supposed to be handing
Mendelson
in trade would not remain in the area indefinitely.

Mendelson’s
gaze turned black as his soul. He ignored Josh and waved Chelsea into the car.

Chelsea glanced back with what Josh could only describe as regret in her gaze and gave a tiny shake of her head that no one could have seen but Josh.

She was definitely leaving, and saying goodbye.
 

Didn’t she know by now that he could help her with whatever was wrong? He had until he closed the deal with
Mendelson
to stop her from leaving. She wouldn’t go without her money after coming this far.
 

Now that Josh had been given an unwanted driver, calling his team on the satellite phone hidden in the driver’s door panel of his car was out.

Always have a backup plan.

With a subtle movement, he twisted the platinum cufflink at his right wrist, which functioned as a tracking device. That single twist sent a signal that he was mobile but not alone.
 

Activating his left cufflink in a similar way alerted the team to move in.

Their five-member team had been together for six years, but Josh, Sabrina and Dingo Paddock went back to Josh’s days as a kid in a New York City group home, another name for an orphanage.

Once the limo with
Mendelson
and Chelsea moved off, Josh’s Mercedes pulled up next.

His driver said not a word during the forty-five minute ride, with the Mercedes boxed in between the limo and a silver Hummer. A moonless night wrapped the windows, blacking out any view of the rolling countryside he’d seen earlier, covered in autumn’s golden wash.
Colors just as vibrant as a year ago when Josh and Chelsea had spent a weekend
in a stone cottage an hour from here.
They’d made love under a beech tree where coppery leaves floated down around them.
 

Sabrina had warned him and Dingo to never get attached, and Josh hadn’t before now. Too many years spent alone, watching for death around every corner, had left him numb inside. Or so he’d believed until the first time Chelsea had laughed.

Then she’d made
him
laugh, a genuine from-the-chest laugh he hadn’t experienced since he was a kid.
 

And now she intended to disappear.
 

Then he’d spend every day wondering if she’d survived. That was classic Chelsea. She’d never ask for help if it meant putting someone else at risk.

Too bad.
Josh refused to let her face a threat, whatever it was, alone.
 

His driver slowed as the Mercedes passed guards at the entrance to a property. The stone entryway suggested a house was hiding beyond where the headlights pierced the night.

Mendelson’s
limo, Josh’s Mercedes and the Hummer continued along a curved drive until a two-story stone structure took shape. Temporary lights had been set up, illuminating the yard. Ivy climbed the attractive farmhouse, probably built in the 1700s.

As soon as Josh exited the Mercedes, one of
Mendelson’s
bodyguards from the Hummer met him at his car door. “Lift your arms.”

Of course.
The pat down.

Josh lifted his hands. When the guard finished, Josh emptied his pockets, showing he had no phone or anything that could be used for communicating or killing.

The guard ordered, “Follow me.”

Josh’s neck twitched with more unease. Chelsea hadn’t gotten out of the limo yet.

He fell into step, taking stock
of the few security he could locate
outside the lighted area. Smoke trickled from a fireplace at one end of the house, the smell of burning hardwood riding on a light breeze. Two men with rifles posted on the rooftop. More were positioned around the perimeter, some barely visible in the shadows.

Ten, so far, counting the limo driver, who had to be armed.
 

But another five to ten could be hidden.
 

And not just hired muscle, but deadly operatives.

Josh recognized at least two from the Russian mafia.
Mendelson
had spared no expense, but was it to insure the safety of his prisoner, or that this weapons shipment did not get waylaid?
 

Sabrina and her three-person team could handle inserting past fifteen, maybe twenty guards, depending on how the security was spread around the farmhouse.
 

At the entrance to the house, another guard—visible guard number eleven – opened a heavy wooden door that swung on black, wrought-iron hinges. The glass lamp on a hall table supplied enough light to see the quaint foyer and a stairway against one wall.
 

Dried flowers and other potpourri piled in a glass bowl might have
freshened
the air, but it couldn’t combat the stale odor of recently fried fish.
Probably cooked by
Mendelson’s
men.

Were the owners away from the property?

Or dead?

The guard at the door nodded and the bodyguard led Josh up the stairs to a narrow room with tall ceilings and an old-world feel. Dark bookcases were laden with rows of leather-bound books. Two mahogany chairs with tufted green upholstery sat sedately on a Turkish rug, and the scent of pipe tobacco lingered.

A homey picture, which did nothing to loosen the tight muscles in Josh’s neck.
“Tell
Mendelson
he has five minutes.”

Heavy footsteps approached then
Mendelson
said, “I am here, Mr. Taylor,” on his way into the room.

Without Chelsea.
Shit.

Josh’s shoulders constricted further, but he’d stay on task until he had reason to change course. “I’m here. You’re here. But my client’s asset is not.
 
We doing
this tonight or not?”
 
Tell me you’re waiting on Chelsea again.

“The asset is being brought up for validation.”
 
With that partial answer to Josh’s question,
Mendelson
went to a small marble-top table. A flask of liquor and two short-stemmed glasses had been placed on a tray of inlaid wood as though in anticipation of this meeting in a gentleman’s study.
 

There should be a reality show on the eccentric behaviors of wealthy international criminals.
 

Mendelson
poured two glasses of the amber liquid. “I prefer a good cognac, but when in Rome...” He shrugged and offered the second glass to Josh. “Brandy?”

Josh would rather drink the devil’s piss than share anything with this bastard. “Sure.”

Moving to one of the chairs that faced the doorway,
Mendelson
took a seat. “Sit.”

“I’m not interested in games,
Mendelson
.”

Mendelson
snapped his fingers and one of the bodyguards entered, sans tuxedo jacket and sporting an HK MP7 submachine gun, held loosely on a sling over one shoulder, but ready to use.

Josh got the message. He rolled his eyes as though the whole thing merely annoyed him, but sat in the other chair.

Where was Chelsea? She wouldn’t have disappeared yet when she hadn’t been paid his half of the fee.
 

He clicked through possibilities. Maybe
Mendelson
had paid his fee and Josh’s, and sent Chelsea away?
 
 

The sound of multiple footsteps pounding up the stairs reached the library, along with something being dragged. Two guards entered, turning sideways to carry the CIA agent, Len
Rikker
, between them, each gripping an arm. Gaunt from five weeks in
Mendelson’s
not-so-tender care, and bloody in too many places to count,
Rikker’s
head hung forward.
 

Josh stood and took a step toward the prisoner who had a scar at the hairline. One confirmation of the CIA agent’s
ID.
  “Lift his head.”

A guard grabbed
Rikker’s
mop of scraggly brown hair and jerked his head back, raising
Rikker’s
swollen face into view. Josh studied the eyes and jaw line long enough to give the impression he would walk away if they tried to pawn off the wrong man on him.
 

Mendelson
said, “Satisfied?”

“Yes.”

While
Mendelson
ordered the prisoner returned to his locked room in the basement, Josh used the distraction to twist his left cufflink twice, sending a message to move in and that the prisoner was underground.
 

With the prisoner out of the room,
Mendelson
put his glass down. “You may have your man as soon as you deliver my missiles. You have thirty minutes.”

Sabrina and the team required twelve minutes to get inside the secured area undetected and in position to infiltrate the building to find
Rikker
. “I’ll need GPS coordinates and a sat phone to call in my transport truck.”
 
His nonexistent truck.
 

“Give the phone number to my man
– ”
Mendelson
angled his head at his guard.  “He will call with coordinates.”
 

The guard unclipped a satellite phone from his belt and eyed Josh who rattled off the number. Sabrina had someone sitting at a predetermined location two hours away with a disposable phone, and ready to leave the minute he finished the call.

When the guard ended the call, he told his boss, “Done.”

A grin spread across
Mendelson’s
face, one that sent worry skidding along Josh’s spine. He knew with that extra sense operatives develop that something had changed, even if everything seemed to be on schedule. He lifted his drink, killed the balance and set the glass back down, determined to find Chelsea. “Let’s get this done. Where’s Chelsea?”