Summer's Night (10 page)

Chapter 17

"What the fuck is taking so long?" Loco spit into the communication link.

Night, kitted out in solid black, complete with gas mask, edged closer to the cement foundation. All five men wore the same camouflage, blending in with the moonless night sky. Each sat on pins and needles awaiting the signal from the sole female in the group.

Night hated sending her in first, his primitive protective instincts shouting that she needed to stay behind, well out of harm's way, while the men shielded her. His logical mind knew better. When he read her bio days ago, he realized she could handle just about anything they or anyone else threw at her. Her small stature and pretty features obviously misled more than one man into believing she would be soft and vulnerable. In reality, there was little soft or vulnerable about her. Women warriors were rare in the time of his ancestors, but Lark would fit that very image, eagerly accepting her assignment, slinking her way through a small tunnel and even narrower ventilation system.

"Soon. Hold your positions." Night whispered into the microphone located inside his mask. All of them exuded patience and none would break, but that didn't always make the waiting easy.

A female voice broke in with rapid-fire speech. It took Night a moment to realize she jabbered away in Lakota, the words a bit muffled due to her mask. He responded firmly, asking in the same dialect for her to repeat. She did.

Their targets had picked up on the communication frequency his men used, even now tracking the team through the links. Lark managed to crawl through the system to the control area, overhear the men talking in Spanish about their discovery, and relay back to him in Lakota.

Shit.
Switching to Navajo, Night threw out orders, demanding immediate action. They had to move now or be located with powerful rifles probably fit with night vision capabilities, ones more than capable of tearing a man to pieces.

Lark's voice carried across the channel once more.

She's jammed them.

Once more, he translated, surging ahead as he relayed messages to his men.
She needs to learn Navajo, damn it. Translation takes too long.

"Poison apple initiated." Lark muttered between pants in Lakota.

Night's mind automatically changed the words between languages, alerting the men. Rifles at the ready, they swarmed the entrances, throwing open doors and firing at anything that moved.

A rifle boomed from several yards away. Dillon, the master sniper, having positioned himself in a small trench earlier, now fired at random to cover the advancing group.

Rifles barked as men yelled. Night moved from shadow to shadow, heading for the innermost sanctuary of the building, praying with each step that the anesthesia gas Lark released worked. If it failed, things would go to smithereens real quick. Sneaking through one door, he followed the barrel of his gun, only to find men sleeping through the noise of defensive fire. Some lay across desks, others flat on the floor.

With a sigh of relief, he tapped on the keyboard turning off all alarms and opening all entrances, the beauty of getting into the control center while the program remained open, not having to waste valuable time trying to circumvent a password in order to achieve the same results.

As the noise level began to diminish, he pushed flash drives into three of the computers, downloading their contents. While that task occurred, he snatched up a laptop, slipping it into his jacket for ease of transportation. He scooped up the drives, dropping them all into his pocket, and glanced at his watch. Five minutes until wake up.

Frantic yelling drew his attention, sending him racing for the opposite side of the room and through a doorway. The sight, through a large glass upper story window, nearly stopped his heart.

A hundred yards away and a story down, none other than the leader of the drug cartel, Ravini stood in an atrium area, hugging a large rock column, his handgun aimed at Loco, furious and agitated, flanked by two guards, both with weapons aimed at his man. Loco stood empty-handed with one hand held up in the air, the traditional sign of surrender. His other arm hung lank, as if injured and immobile, but Night's acute vision noticed Loco's hand inching toward his back, obviously seeking his backup pistol.

The gun never wavered as Ravini aimed at Loco's face, still shouting obscenities and threats, the words flowing to Night, muffled and soft through the thick glass before him.

Furiously considering options, Night noted the large columns partially covering the two guards, while Ravini stood far enough out from the makeshift wall for him to hit. He would have to break the glass, put down a hail of bullets, which would still not leave him enough time to save Loco. A bitter taste entered his mouth as his stomach clenched. He gripped the barrel of the rifle and prepared to bang the butt end against the glass, hopefully shattering it quickly in order to give him the tiny opportunity he needed.

Just as the older man began to squeeze the trigger, loud pops sounded, bullets ripped through the ceiling tiles, pummeling into Ravini and sending him crashing to the expensive marble floor. The shorter Hispanic men at his sides fell just as quickly, their weapons dropping harmlessly. Blood splattered and stained the formerly glossy white floors, the raw carnage leaving no doubt they were dead.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Night watched Loco snatch up his rifle and continue on, pausing for a moment to give a short salute to the ceiling.
Lark.
He owed her big time.

Checking his watch, Night yelled for a retreat, setting explosive charges as he went. Nothing could remain of this structure or another man would step up to the plate, taking Ravini's place within days, using the guards and computer systems already in place, making the whole transition seamless and way too easy. In order to stop this bunch, they had to destroy anything and everything associated with Ravini. Sure, other drug lords could and would move in on his business, but at least this head of the mythological hydra would be severed forever.

Bursting out the back door, he hollered at Lark in Lakota, urging her to get out of the vent system immediately as the timer ticked down. Shadows began to emerge from the structure, one by one, each identifying themselves with a code name as they headed toward the pre-set rendezvous.

Dillon would keep an eye out for tails or hunters, protecting their backs as they worked to leave just as quickly as they came.

Cussing to himself, Night frantically scanned for Lark, watching for a small-framed female to appear from an exit, any exit. His breathing escalated as he hurried to put space between him and the building. "Lark. Get out now! If I have to go back in there and drag your ass out…"

"Coming. Damn it," she answered in English in between pants. A moment later, she flew out the cave entrance, well out of range of any flying debris.

A huge explosion rocked the area, the ground trembling under the power. Chunks of the fortress flew through the sky, falling to the earth like pumpkin placed in a catapult. The walls gave before the whole building collapsed upon itself, sending a huge cloud of dust rising into the air.

* * * *

"Damn, I'm beat." Cale stretched out his long legs in the cramped quarters of the middle row in the SUV.

Dillon wiped at his eyes. "That so wasn't pretty. A stealth bombing would have been tons better."

Night shook his head, agreeing with Dillon for once. Trudging into a cobra's hole after the vile creature proved dirty, difficult, and downright deadly. He hated to do it himself and even more to put his men through that. Someone had to do it, but the next nasty drug lord he would gladly leave to another team.

He'd checked each and every one of his team members, ensuring they were unhurt before they'd all climbed back into the rental vehicle and headed for home. They looked a bit ragged but none the worse for wear despite the action and close calls. Even Lark seemed to be fine, her black clothes nearly gray with dust from the ventilation system.

"I have something for you." He pulled out the laptop and flash drives, passing them back to her.

She took them with a small grin. "My supervisor will be singing your praises for a month of Sundays." He watched as she methodically stuffed each one into her backpack with steady hands. If adrenalin rode her hard, he couldn't see it.

"By the way, nice work back there." She'd impressed him more than once, holding her own and then some, thinking for herself and essentially saving Loco in the process. He'd worked with many people less capable than she. Not many combined her skills, intelligence, and bravery in a compact package.

Her face colored with the compliment. "Thanks."

"It would have helped if you spoke Navajo, though. Lakota worked, but it took too damn long for me to translate." He bit the inside of his cheek, wanting to see her reaction before he let on about the teasing.

She snorted, curling up in the backseat. "I do believe your page of Navajo words lacked the ones I needed. In retrospect, I don't recall the majority of them being of any assistance in that particular situation. I figured they employed someone that spoke German and English, which left me with Lakota."

"Hey. She nailed Ravini and his thugs cleanly through the ceiling tiles before they could shoot me. That counts for a lot in my book." Loco's gaze met hers in the rearview mirror. His lips turned up.

"The least I could do for a fellow soldier." She shrugged, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"Marine." The guys corrected in unison with a chuckle.

Chapter 18

Night stalked into the neighborhood bar, his scuffed and worn boots making not a sound as he stepped from the doorway up to the serving bar despite wet soles from the many puddles outside. He turned to face the room, a habit he couldn't quite leave behind from his years of military training. The deep red windbreaker splotched with rain easily covered his concealed handgun while a knife rested in a sheath around his lower leg. He glanced over the room, sizing up each man and their level of intoxication.

Few patrons inhabited the bar at that time, just after opening. Most of the crowd presumably would show up a bit later, after work and perhaps a bit of time at home to clean up.

He picked out his target easily and immediately, the black hair, so like his own stood out amongst a crowd of men with lighter locks. Although the older man kept his cut short, the blue hue caught in the dim light as the man sat nursing a small glass full of dark liquid at the end of the same bar.

"What will it be?" The gray-headed bartender inquired, tossing a towel over his shoulder.

"Nothing yet." Night didn't bother to look at the barkeep, instead stared at the man who stood responsible for so many of the bad things in his life, up to and including the events of the last few days.

Night strode closer, fighting down the growing rage held for this man. His father. In all honesty, he never remembered the man or being struck by him, but his mother's expression when she spoke of the incident told him more than enough. To this day, she still feared him, an innate terror created by years of threats and abuse. How she pulled together enough strength and courage to leave in the first place, he would never know. He thanked the powers that be every day that she did. The alternative would have been a violent death at the hands of her husband way before her time.

He fingered the solid gold nugget in his pocket, an heirloom passed down generation to generation from mother to daughter and father to son after being found in the Black Hills centuries before. He marveled once more at its smooth texture. His great, great grandfather fashioned the chain attached to the rock, transforming it from a simple chunk of precious metal to a piece of priceless jewelry.

For years he'd dreamed of this moment, practiced what he would say to the man who'd caused so much pain and havoc in his and his mother's lives. Then he'd realized how much time he'd spent planning and plotting, giving energy and power to a man he wished to never know and promised himself he would rise above, becoming a much better man than the one that sired him. He'd done just that and more, thanks to his mother showing him the unlimited potential he carried, challenging him to step up and be the man he dreamed of being, molding him into a better man.

Summer.
After this final stop, he planned on rushing home to her, holding her tight in his arms, and telling her how he felt about her. His mind replayed her smiling face, the warm affection, and sheer inner strength she carried. He missed her and couldn't wait to see her once more.

Get this unsavory task over with and I can see her again.

Sliding on the bar stool next to his father, Night took a deep breath. "Whatcha drinking?"

"Whiskey," his father answered flatly, staring straight ahead as if living in his own world.

"How many have you had?" If the man already leaned toward intoxicated, confronting him at this time might prove an absolute waste of time. That was why he arrived early, hoping to catch him in some semblance of sober.

"Not enough." His father turned to pin him with his deep blue eyes. Eyes that matched his. "What business is it of yours?" His gaze flicked from the bar to Night's face, narrowing in concentration. "Do I know you?"

"You should but you don't. Mother and I left you twenty-eight years ago."

The older man's eyes widened as he sucked in a breath. "My son. Could it really be?"

"I may be your biological child, but nothing you've ever done makes you my father." Years of resentment broke through. "You did nothing but drink and abuse mother and me. Hell, you didn't even bother to try to find us, support us, or face up to your obligations. You're not my father, just another man who refused to stand up to his responsibility."

His father flinched but remained mute, not bothering to explain or counter the accusations.

Night reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the gold nugget necklace. Resting his hand on the bar in between them, he slowly opened his fingers, watching his father's face intently for a reaction. It took several moments before stunned shock registered on the older man's face.

"Where'd you get that?" The low words panted out between excited, nearly agitated breaths.

"That's not important. A few days ago you blabbed to a hardened criminal, a man in hock to the drug cartels about this very necklace. Not only did you tell him it existed, but how much it should be worth, the name of its owner, and where to find it. He showed up at the house, broke in, and took a woman hostage in order to get his hands on this." Night bit off each word, struggling once more with the fury the event incited.

"I didn't. I couldn't…" The man shook his head, his hand on the whiskey glass trembled. He paused as if trying to sort out a puzzle in his head.

"You did. Drunk up to your gills, you sat at this very bar, and spewed all kinds of stuff to the wrong man. The man who prodded you for answers got everything he needed out of you. It's a miracle the women are still alive considering the guy's past and his desperation."

A flicker of remorse flashed across the man's features before he took a big swallow of the amber liquid. "But nothing happened?"

Night clenched his fist, shoving the gold back into his pocket, concealing it from any prying eyes. Anger raced through his blood at the apathy from his own father. "I guess you didn't hear me. He broke into the house, threatened mother, and kidnapped another woman, nearly raping her before she was rescued. I would call that considerably more than nothing."

"They caught the guy. So, it's over." He swished the whiskey in his glass before emptying the contents into his mouth.

Night stood up, looking down at his father. He expected concern perhaps regret and remorse, an apology or questions about the health and well being of his mother. Instead, he received barely any reaction at all. As if the man truly didn't care what happened to his ex-wife and child. Maybe he blamed them for the lot in life he created for himself? That might explain his nonchalant attitude. But to literally wipe them from his life and not care if they ended up brutally murdered in their own house? That smacked of deep down hate or abject selfishness, unlike anything he had ever seen. How his mother could love this man, he would never understand. Time must have changed him greatly because this empty shell didn't qualify as human in his opinion.

As a boy, he'd bounced between hating his father and wishing he would return, become a part of his life, admit his mistake and become the father of his dreams. Now, as he stood there, those old feelings welled up, cementing once and for all that the dream relationship proved to be an illusion all along. It took a strong, caring man to push past his struggles in order to place his family at the top of his priority list. The man he looked at didn't possess the courage necessary.

Grinding his teeth, Night glared. "You gave him the information, making you just as responsible for the break in and whatever other consequences followed."

His father blinked, his jaw tightening. "I didn't do anything wrong. You won't be pinning some piddly crime on me. I didn't steal nothin'."

Leaning in, Night got right in the man's face. "You're an accomplice. Running at the mouth, even when drunk, makes you liable for what happens. This is your one warning. If anything ever happens again, I will hold you personally responsible." Standing up, he refused to release the other man's gaze. "Next time, I'll hunt you down and hold you accountable."

"Who in the hell are you to threaten me? I'll kick your arrogant ass for daring to speak to me like that. I didn't do nothin', you bastard!" He stood on not quite steady legs, taking an extra moment to gain his balance. "Here. Now. I'll teach you. No one talks to me like that!"

"I just did." Night lifted his chin, throwing out a challenge. He might have been a scared three year old the last time he felt his father's fists but he was a fully grown man now, one who could take on an abuser and a child beater and win easily.

"Gentlemen. Take it outside," the bartender ordered, his gruff voice matched the frown on his face. "That or I call the cops right now."

His father glared at the man before sitting back down. "Give me another whiskey."

Night leaned in to whisper in the old man's ear. "I have the ability and free rein to take justice into my own hands whenever and wherever I see fit. Anything and anyone that threatens my family will find their way to Hell…eventually."

That said he spun on his heel, long strides leading toward the front door of the bar. He glanced back once to see the man just as he found him, sucking down yet another drink as if nothing ever happened. With a shake of his head at the sheer waste of life, he stepped back out into the wet night.