I did not know this. Don’t really care. But I am curious. “If your son was an attorney, I assume he was on the up-and-up. What was he doing at your weapons depot?”

  Mejia’s eyes glint with malice. “My son advises me on all legal affairs, but that day, he was there to pick me up. We were going to lunch in one of the nearby villages. There’s an amazing little café that puts all the restaurants in the capital city to shame. It was our tradition to go once a week, and that was taken from me.”

  I don’t know if Mejia is telling me this to gain sympathy or perhaps it’s to explain why he wants vengeance so deeply, but I refuse to feel sorry for this man. His son was not innocent—he came through that door firing at Greer and me. But I don’t bother to say that. There’s no sense inflaming him.

  “Did you kill him, or was it Greer Hathaway?” Mejia asks.

  There’s no way in hell I would ever say it was Greer, not only because it’s untrue but because I would never put her in danger. Greer could’ve been the one to put the bullet between his eyes, and I would still take the fall for her. But I dare not tell him right now that I did it, as I have a sneaking suspicion that pistol will be used sooner rather than later.

  Instead, I try to throw him off. “What’s the deal with you and Gayla Newman?”

  Mejia blinks in surprise, but I can read the guilt on his face. “I have no idea who this person is.”

  I casually cross one leg over the other, making it look as if I have not a care in the world. I laugh at Mejia’s response, shaking my head in amusement. “That’s a lie. Gayla Newman, as I know you are well aware, is the CIA’s director of operations for Central and South America. She has a personal vendetta against Greer Hathaway and sent her here to gather intel on you, not to take you down, but to use it as a way to eliminate Greer without any suspicion falling back on her.”

  Mejia praises me. “Interesting theory.”

  “Not a theory. We have proof, and that is in the appropriate authorities’ hands as we speak.” Now that is a lie. We’re still digging, but I’m stalling.

  Mejia is silent for a moment and then he shrugs. “What do I care if you know the truth? You’re going to be dead sooner rather than later. Yes, Gayla Newman has gratefully accepted bribe money from me to look the other way. And she asked a favor of me to take out Agent Hathaway. We concocted this little mission to get her down here on her own to gather intel, have her steal from me, and thus make my retribution look legitimate. That should have eliminated the problem. But then you came along and thwarted us. Killed my son.”

  “I could argue that Gayla Newman killed your son,” I say softly. “She started all this.”

  “And I’ll end it,” Mejia promises. “I will eliminate you both, and I will not think about either of you again after that. But first, I’m going to make each of you suffer for my son’s death.”

  “It was me who killed your son,” I say. I have no clue if Greer is on her way here, and I sincerely hope not, but if I can convince Mejia I’m the one he really wants, maybe Greer has a chance out of this.

  Mejia reaches out and picks up the gun, and he aims it at me across the desk. His hands are steady, his eyes shrewd and calculating. “I’m glad you admitted to killing my son, Mr. McDermott.”

  Mejia pulls the trigger, and pain explodes in my right shoulder. The force of the slug knocks me over in the chair and I roll to my back. I attempt to get up, but Mejia is there holding the gun loosely in his hand. He lifts a leg, brings his foot down onto my wound, and presses hard with his weight. My vision blurs from the pain, and I can feel my energy seeping away.

  Mejia becomes distorted and darkens into shadow, but there’s just enough clarity before I pass out to see him raising the gun to point at me once again.

  CHAPTER 20

  Greer

  Mejia’s country estate glows with foundational lighting as I approach a rolling fence at the edge of the driveway. Once he gave up his address, Bebe found property and elevation maps, and we learned it was surrounded by tall fencing. This presented the first hurdle in our rescue plan—how to breach the perimeter.

  For me, it will be easy. I’m alone, and Mejia will most likely let me in himself.

  For the others, there will be stealth involved, but once they infiltrate, it’s going to get crazy.

  Kynan’s powers and influence are beyond imagination. Bebe mentioned quite casually that he had sprung her from prison and had her record expunged. While this was mind-boggling, I was rendered speechless when he pulled up on speed dial the director of the FBI, and after only a five-minute conversation, he had an official sanction by said agency allowing us to go in and rescue Ladd. This is important because without such government backing, any loss of life that comes out of this would be heavily repudiated by the Salvadorian government, and retaliation in some form would be forthcoming. That might still happen, but with the United States government supporting our mission, it will eventually be smoothed over. They’re not going to deny us our right to rescue an American citizen held against his will, but they’ll be miffed they weren’t included on the mission.

  While Kynan brought an array of weapons, explosives, and other high-tech gadgetry, he also secured a military helicopter. One of his men, Benji, is a pilot. The chopper is partly for overhead surveillance and distraction, but also to give the appearance our forces are larger and better equipped than Mejia’s. If we can get his men to lay down their guns without a fight, that will be best for all.

  I’m driving the rented Range Rover we picked up at the airport, and my palms are slick against the wheel as I stop outside the gate. I roll down the window, press a button on a call box staked into the ground, and listen to it crackle a moment before a man’s voice—Mejia’s—comes across. “Ms. Hathaway… I see you made it.”

  He must be watching on the security feed as I smile up into the camera mounted on the edge of the fence post. “Just as I promised. Now send Ladd out, and I’ll come in.”

  “You don’t make the rules,” Mejia admonishes. “I do.”

  The box goes silent before I can respond. No static hissing, no more talking. Turned completely off and I have no clue what that means.

  I get out of the Rover and in the glow of the headlights, I move closer to the fence to check it out. It’s manually operated, so someone is going to have to come down from the house. If there’s a God, it will be just Mejia and Ladd, but somehow I doubt that.

  Glancing at my watch, I know Kynan’s team is in place. They had wanted me to wear an earpiece so I could be part of the communications, but I knew I’d be getting physically close to Mejia, and I don’t want him to have any clue that I’ve come with support. So I’m going in deaf to what the rest of the team will be doing once they enter.

  While we have a carefully orchestrated plan, anyone who knows anything about these types of ops knows you must have contingency plans. Something will inevitably happen that you didn’t see coming, and you have to adjust on the fly. Having everyone able to communicate with one another is essential, but I’ll be in the dark during much of the mission.

  Movement up at the house no more than thirty yards away catches my eye—the mansion’s front door is opening. Mejia steps out with two armed guards, but no Ladd. The door remains open, but no one else comes out, and I watch warily as Mejia heads my way. Interestingly enough, the two guards stay on the porch, which says they don’t view me as a threat.

  When Mejia enters the radius of my headlights, he’s wearing a smug smile. He knew I’d show up, and here I am.

  He stops about five feet from the fence separating us, and I’m an equal distance away on the other side. “Where’s Ladd?” I demand.

  “I told you, you don’t make the rules,” Mejia replies easily, stepping up to the gate latch. It has an electronic panel on it, and he enters a series of numbers prompting a lock to open. As he rolls the gate slowly to the side, I take a step back.

  Not because I think I’m in imminent harm’s way, but because I want him to think I’m skittish. I want him to think I’m docile and not here to fight.

  But man, am I here to fight.

  “Come,” he says, motioning with his hand.

  I don’t move a muscle. “We agreed you would take me in exchange for Ladd.”

  “No,” he growls in annoyance. “I never agreed to that. You offered it, but I never accepted. I merely gave you my address, and you assumed I’d trade.”

  “That’s a shame,” I reply, reaching behind my back and pulling out the gun I’d tucked there. In a two-handed grip, I level it right at his head. “Now, bring Ladd out.”

  Mejia’s eyes glitter with malice in the glow of the Range Rover’s lights, and he shakes his head slowly—a denial of my request.

  And then I feel something hard press against the back of my head.

  The barrel of a gun, and I know one of Mejia’s men was out here in the shadows, ready to intervene if I pulled a gun.

  “Put that weapon down before you get hurt,” Mejia orders, and then laughs at himself. “I mean… you’re still going to get hurt, it just won’t be out here.”

  I refuse to lower the gun, keeping it trained on Mejia’s face.

  “We can play this little game if you want,” Mejia snarls from deep within his chest. “But it delays you finding out what happened to Mr. McDermott.”

  Fear jettisons throughout by body, making my bones feel brittle with hopelessness. His tone… it suggests…

  I can’t even think about it, but my hand shakes slightly. Mejia and I stare at each other and within his eyes, I see he’s holding something back.

  Something he’s dying to tell me but won’t while the gun is on him.

  I need Ladd more than I need to put a bullet in Mejia’s brain, and besides that, I’ve got a gun at the base of my own skull that could quickly decide my fate.

  I lower my weapon.

  “Toss it away,” Mejia orders.

  My hesitation costs me a hard jab to the head with the barrel of the gun behind me, but I dare not turn to confront the man. He could have an itchy trigger finger, so I toss my gun to the side.

  “Now, if you will join me, Ms. Hathaway,” Mejia says, once again motioning me to walk through the open gate.

  I don’t hesitate because Ladd is somewhere on these grounds, and my job right now is to keep Mejia distracted. I take a few steps and glance over my shoulder, but whoever had the gun on me has melted into the shadows. I feel sorry for him, actually, because the area around the fence line is swarming with Jameson agents who will be in the process of breaching as I’m moving toward Mejia.

  When I reach him, he doesn’t lead me to the house as I expected but just stands there with a Cheshire grin. I’m annoyed at what must be a cat-and-mouse game that delights him, and which I don’t want to play.

  “Where’s Ladd?” I growl. “I want to see him now.”

  “You do?” he asks slyly.

  “Yes. Now.”

  “As the lady wishes.” I get a flash of teeth, his expression almost gleeful, and he pulls his phone out of his breast pocket. With a flick of his finger, he pulls something up on his screen before turning it to show me.

  A man, lying on his side on an ivory and blue rug. His back is to the camera, but I recognize the clothes Ladd wore tonight. I recognize his short salt-and-pepper hair and the build of his body.

  There’s a pool of blood under him, coming out of a wound in his back, and my heart hammers.

  “I took great pleasure in killing him,” Mejia says with pride, slipping the phone back into his pocket before I can study it further. “I had hoped to torture him first, but I just couldn’t seem to help myself.”

  His words penetrate… took great pleasure in killing him… and a rage so great builds inside me, the only way to expel it is to scream. I let loose a bloodcurdling wail of despair and fury, and it just goes on and on. It’s so intense, Mejia takes a wary step back, and something within me triggers.

  He feels like prey, and I feel like a lion that wants to destroy him.

  I leap forward, throwing my fists at him. All my training and martial arts knowledge goes out the window as I swing wildly, trying to land any punch I can get. I connect a few, hear him curse at me, but it’s a tinny sound, as if my ears are filled with cotton. My blood pressure feels dangerously high, as if my arteries might blow, and yet I can’t stop the outpouring of rage and grief as I scream again.

  “You fucking son of a bitch!” I shriek as I manage an open-palmed slap to his cheek. Mejia is on the defensive, holding up his arms to shield his face, so I launch kicks that he has to turn sideways to deflect.

  And then a grenade explodes along the fence line to the left of the house—a planned explosion to shock and awe, and the signal to Jameson to start their assault. I knew this was coming and yet, I’m so anguished over the prospect that Ladd is dead—or very grievously injured—that it startles me to inaction. A roundhouse punch halts in midair as I watch a burst of dirt and debris spread out from where the grenade impacted and it’s enough for Mejia to react.

  He punches me hard in my temple, and I go reeling. I catch myself from falling all the way to the ground, but the blow is debilitating, and my legs wobble.

  Another grenade goes off in the back of the house, and there’s a rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire coming from all angles it seems. Men shouting, cursing… some screaming in pain, and I pray those aren’t Jameson people. Flash-bangs go off inside the house, lighting up windows, and then magnificently, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the military helicopter on loan from the government and piloted by Benji hovers above the tree line and angles toward us, nose tilted down. A huge spotlight shines from it and sweeps the front of the house until it stops on me and Mejia.

  He’s not as rattled as I am after the concussive hit to my head, and before I can think to run back for my gun, Mejia has one in his hand. He leaps at me, throws an arm around my neck, and hauls me against him. Putting the barrel to my temple, he looks around wildly, and I can almost feel the confusion emanating off him.

  “What the fuck is going on?” he screams, looking up at the helicopter. It’s low enough to whip my hair and kick up dust.

  I’m still pulsing with so much rage at this man for what he did to Ladd that my laugh is maniacal. “I brought a few friends with me, asshole. And if there’s a God, a bullet has your name on it.”

  “You bitch!” he yells as he walks backward, dragging me with him. I may have had him on the defensive just moments ago, but I’d caught him purely by surprise. Now I’m firmly in his grasp with his arm practically choking me, and he’s much larger than I am. I claw at him, but to no avail.

  Through the gate opening he pulls me, muttering curses. “I killed that asshole McDermott far too fast. I’m going to take my time with you.”

  That sounds gruesome indeed, and renewed energy surges within. I kick backward at Mejia, catching him in the shinbone with the heel of my boot and he howls with pain and rage. I rip a backward elbow punch at him, but he turns quickly to avoid the trauma to his ribs. I struggle to pull free, and Mejia surprises me—instead of pulling me farther through the gate, he spins fast and then releases me. I fly toward the Range Rover, my arms windmilling to find balance, but I’m moving at such a velocity that I can’t defy gravity. I almost face-plant into the gravel, dozens of tiny rocks cutting through my pants, shredding my knees and my palms as they make contact.

  I try to push up quickly, knowing I can’t flee and my best chance is to launch myself at him, but then a gunshot cracks the air, and something punches the back of my leg toward the outside of my thigh. It knocks me to the ground.

  Instinctively, I touch the area, feeling like I got hit with a baseball bat, but my hand comes away wet with blood and I realize the psycho just shot me.

  Mejia pounces before I can attempt to stand, jerking me upward by my arm. I hiss from the pain in my leg, but that’s actually reassuring. It feels superficial, like a million tiny nerve endings in my skin and fascia have been seared by the bullet’s path. The amount of blood is nominal as I look down, and I realize the son of a bitch barely grazed me. I put weight on my leg, and it’s strong.

  I don’t think Mejia deliberately gave me only a scratch. I think he’s just a terrible shot.

  Mejia’s hand goes to my head. He grabs a hunk of my hair in his fist and puts his gun to the back of my head.

  “Get in the car,” he screams, even as the helicopter lowers. I wonder if they put someone in the chopper with Benji who can take a shot at Mejia, but nothing happens so I guess not, or they don’t have clear aim.

  “Get in the car!” Mejia yells again, using his grip on my hair to force me toward the Rover. I’m still reeling from the very real possibility that Ladd is dead, and I’m sapped of strength from my furious assault on Mejia earlier and dizzy from his punch to my head. While the bullet wound isn’t serious, it drains the last of my fight.

  He easily manhandles me to the driver’s door and shoves me inside the car. He jabs me in the neck with the gun, ordering me to crawl over the console to the passenger seat. My leg throbs as I struggle to do as he commands, because I have no doubt that if I do not, he will shoot me and make a run for it. At least if I go and he has the promise of a future to fulfill his revenge, I can stay alive a little longer.

  I look up at the house and see flashing lights from gunfire and flash-bangs. Mejia enters the car and pulls the driver’s door shut, and it cuts off most of the exterior noise. The helicopter is still overhead, and as Mejia puts the Rover in reverse, I lean forward in my seat and look up through the windshield. It’s too dark to see detail, but the spotlight is still shining on us.

  Mejia peels out of the driveway onto the road, slams the car into drive, and shoots forward with a squeal of tires. He rockets down the dark road, but I can hear the helicopter following us. I can see the striations of light the beam makes in the roadway before us and to the sides of the car as we speed along.