But to Mejia’s benefit, the road enters a heavily forested area where the trees are dense and overgrown on either side. There’s no way the helicopter will be able to stay on us with any accuracy. We pass by several side roads, so I know at any time, Mejia can turn away from the path we’re on.

  Benji isn’t going to be able to track me from above.

  I’m not worried, however.

  Bebe was smart enough to implant a tracker in the heel of my boot so I won’t be lost to Jameson, and I know Mejia isn’t smart enough to consider such a thing.

  It’s little consolation as I look over at Mejia. He’s muttering and cursing, his breath coming in heaving pants. He’s lost it, and I wouldn’t put it past him to drive us headfirst into a tree.

  He glances over at me, baring his teeth, and a dribble of saliva appears in the corner of his mouth. He hisses, “You’re fucking dead. Dead, do you hear me?”

  I don’t reply, not sure what will infuriate him more. I know nothing will soothe, so I remain silent.

  That seems to enrage him, and I’m practically thrown out of my seat as he hits the brakes and takes a hard right onto a dirt road. The Rover fishtails and for a moment seems as if it’s going to tip before it rights itself.

  We hit a pothole, bounce viciously, but Mejia guns the engine. He drives for about a quarter of a mile into a darker-than-dark forest with no buildings or houses. It’s desolate and uninhabited.

  He laughs with glee as he slams on the brakes and puts the car in park.

  His hand is back in my hair and he’s got the driver’s door open and he’s dragging me across the console and out of the vehicle. He lets me fall to the ground, and pain shoots through my shoulder as I land on it. It hurts worse than the bullet wound to my leg.

  I put my hands to the hard packed earth, attempt to push up, but Mejia’s foot catches me in the abdomen with a fully launched kick. I’m fortunate it didn’t catch a rib, but it seems to knock my spine through my skin it’s so hard, and I lose all my air.

  Rolling to my back, my mouth opens and closes like a dying fish, trying to suck in precious oxygen, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

  And then Mejia is on top of me, straddling me, his knees pressed tight to my ribs. It’s dark, and I can’t fully make out his details, but his words tell the story. “Don’t have a knife with me that will get the job done,” he says in a rasping voice fueled by madness. “But I am going to make this slow.”

  I finally suck in a breath of air, but then it’s cut off again as his hands go around my neck and he starts to strangle me.

  CHAPTER 21

  Ladd

  The sound of the explosion penetrates my subconscious and tosses me right into full consciousness. This sucks at first because the pain in my shoulder is excruciating and I hiss against it.

  I know immediately I’m still in Mejia’s office. I remember him raising the gun before I blacked out, I thought to finish the job. But here I am… still alive, for the moment.

  There’s another loud noise, not an explosion but what I believe is a flash-bang grenade, and men shout in Spanish. Small bursts of gunfire, and it’s not hard to figure out that Mejia’s compound is being invaded.

  But by who?

  Salvadorian forces? Police? Did Greer manage to garner help in such a short time? Seems unlikely, yet the sounds of pandemonium are unmistakable. Perhaps another enemy of Mejia as there’s turf competition for traffickers. Someone is attacking, and I need to make sure I’m not caught in the crossfire.

  My back is to the office door, and I hold my position as booted feet run by, the sound clear enough I know the door is open. They recede, and I hear a volley of gunfire from somewhere outside of the house.

  Gritting my teeth against the pain, I push up to my knees and hold on to the edge of Mejia’s desk with my good hand to haul myself up. Once standing and feeling fairly steady on my feet, I check out the wound in my shoulder and probe it lightly through the light blue material of my dress shirt now saturated with blood. I grit my teeth to keep from cursing against the pain and then crane my neck to look at the back of my shoulder. It’s also soaked in blood, which means the bullet passed clean through.

  I lift my right arm—my dominant one—and I’m pleased it still works, although it’s greatly weakened. Regardless, I’m ambidextrous and can shoot a gun just fine with my left hand, if I can find a weapon somewhere in here.

  While my first order of business should be to stop the bleeding, it’s actually more important for me to find a gun. Chances of me being confronted by one of Mejia’s soldiers before I bleed out are greater.

  I move around Mejia’s desk, my gaze going to the open doorway periodically to make sure no one comes in. I imagine if Mejia were to enter, he’d start shooting immediately.

  I pull out unlocked drawers, feel under the desk and chair, but come up empty. I glance around his office for some other hiding place where he might keep a weapon handy, but I don’t even know where to begin. It would take days to search his bookcases. I’m better served trying to find a stealthy way out of here and hope I can melt into the cover of darkness once I’m outside.

  Just as I resolve to leave the office and take my chances amidst explosions and gunfire, I hear someone enter. I whirl around, ready to face Mejia.

  My jaw drops in shock as I see Kynan McGrath standing there.

  And then it all makes sense.

  “Of course you’re here in San Salvador rescuing me,” I say dryly.

  Kynan doesn’t appreciate my levity. “I’d much rather be in bed with my wife, but here I am. I told you and Greer we should’ve come along.”

  “You can chastise later,” I growl as I move around the desk and head toward Kynan. “Give me a gun.”

  “Patch job first,” he says. I huff with frustration because all I know is I’m standing here and Greer isn’t, and I must find her.

  “We don’t have time.” I start to move past Kynan, but he blocks me.

  Reaching into a side cargo pocket, he pulls out a package of hemostatic dressing laced with kaolin to clot the blood. It’s part of our routine emergency kit supplies we keep on us at all times while on a mission, and I’m resigned to allow this because he’s the boss. I use my left hand to pull hard at the opening of my shirt, ripping buttons to give him easier access.

  Kynan is efficient as he rips open the package and affixes the dressing to both sides of my shoulder. It takes no more than thirty seconds, but it feels like a lifetime.

  “Where’s Greer?” I ask as he reaches into his shoulder holster to hand me his secondary gun.

  “She was keeping Mejia occupied at the front gate,” he replies as I quickly check the magazine and make sure there’s a round in the chamber.

  “And how many did you bring with you?” I ask. I take the lead and exit the office. The hallway is clear and eerily silent.

  Kynan follows me out. “I brought practically everyone.”

  “Thank fuck,” I mutter as I increase my pace, gun raised and ready to blow away anyone who gets in my way.

  Given the lack of gunfire and shouts, I’m guessing our folks have things well in hand. It would never occur to me to think it was the opposite and Mejia’s soldiers had won the day.

  As we turn into the foyer, I see the double doors are wide open. Beyond that, several of Mejia’s soldiers have been rounded up and are sitting on the ground. Malik is busy zip-tying their hands while Hannah and Cash keep guns on them. I assume the others are out cleaning up the perimeter and sweeping the house.

  As we step onto the porch, my eyes go down the driveway to the rolling gate, but there’s no Greer or Mejia.

  Before I can ask where she is, Rachel, who actually runs the Jameson headquarters in Vegas, comes tearing around the corner of the house in an olive-green, ragtop Jeep. She skids to a halt and yells at me and Kynan, “Mejia has Greer! Come on.”

  I don’t hesitate and neither does Kynan. We race for the Jeep and neither one of us would even dare ask to take over driving duties. Rachel is one of our most accomplished agents.

  Kynan leaps into the back and I take the passenger seat. Rachel slams the car into gear and peels out in a spray of gravel.

  “Why in the hell was Greer the bait?” I demand as Rachel hangs a hard left out of the driveway. “Better yet, why was she here to begin with since you brought the entire cavalry?”

  Rachel doesn’t say a word, so I look back at Kynan. He cocks an eyebrow. “You honestly think she was going to sit this one out?”

  It’s a question that doesn’t even need an answer because, of course, I wouldn’t expect her to sit this out. Like me, she’s always going to charge into danger. Especially if it’s to protect those she cares about.

  But another question occurs to me. “How do you know which way they went?”

  Rachel shifts gears and the Jeep leaps forward, the headlights not overly bright, making the drive that more dangerous. “Benji was in a bird overhead, but he lost them in the tree cover. Lucky for us, we have Bebe, and she put a tracker in Greer’s boot heel.”

  “Genius,” I mutter as Kynan leans between the seats and hands me a digital tablet with a map of the immediate vicinity. Our vehicle is denoted by an orange triangle, and up ahead is a slow-blinking blue dot. I assume that’s Greer.

  The road we’re on is curvy with foliage and brush growing right up to the edge, branches and leaves sometimes smacking against the open window. The area is uninhabited and dark with the overgrowth, shutting out the moonlight. Rachel cranks it up another gear and drives like a maniac, which is fine by me. All of us are required to take high-speed driving and evasion courses, and we’re able to handle any terrain thrown at us.

  It’s tense in the silence as I watch the blue dot and I can see that we’re gaining ground.

  All of a sudden, the blue dot moves off the road to the right. A driveway? Dirt road not on the map?

  Whatever it is, he doesn’t go far, and the blue dot comes to a halt, pulsing ominously as we barrel down on that location.

  I know without a doubt it is not a good sign that the car has stopped. It would be more important to Mejia to exact vengeance on Greer before fleeing for safety. Besides, he has no clue he’s being followed. My guess is he’s not able to contain himself and wants Greer to suffer sooner rather than later.

  “Go faster,” I order.

  Rachel kicks it into fifth gear and slams the pedal to the floor. The Jeep leaps forward but within just a quarter mile, I tell her to slow down as we’re getting close.

  I peer into the darkness up ahead. “We’re close. Mejia’s pulled off close by.”

  Rachel slows the vehicle as she’s the first to see the narrow dirt road. She takes a precarious right turn onto it. Ahead in the distance, I see Mejia and Greer in the glow of the headlights.

  She’s flat on her back and Mejia is straddling her, bearing all his weight down on his hands, which are wrapped around her throat.

  Rachel drives right up to them, skidding to a halt, but even as the Jeep is still in motion, I leap out and full-on sprint toward Mejia. There’s no pain in my shoulder. No weakness from blood loss.

  Just the most amazing surge of adrenaline I’ve ever had, and it fuels me with an energy I’ve never felt before.

  There’s no doubt Mejia knows we’re here. He heard the Jeep, knows the headlights are flooding him with illumination, and can hear me barreling down on him.

  Yet he remains solely focused on his task of killing Greer, his teeth bared and foamy spit flying from his mouth as he breathes heavily from the exertion. Just a few strides from him, I see Greer’s eyes are rolled back in her head and rage explodes through me.

  I lower my left shoulder and barrel into Mejia with the force of a lightning strike. My hands go around his waist, I lift with my legs, and take three powerful steps to slam him into the side of the Range Rover. His head slams against the glass and he immediately slumps.

  I let him slip to the ground, and that should be enough. But a monster possesses me, and I fall on top of him. Grinding a knee into his abdomen, I punch him in the side of his face, again and again with my left fist.

  Raising it for another blow, I’m momentarily stupefied that it stops midair. I lift my head to see Kynan standing there, my wrist gripped hard in his hand.

  “Enough,” he says quietly. “We need him alive to take down Gayla Newman.”

  I glance back down at Mejia. He’s unconscious and bloody, and I don’t remember cutting him open but I must have, because I look to my hand still being held back by Kynan, and it’s covered with blood as well.

  And then I hear Greer, coughing and gasping, and the rage dissipates. Ripping free of Kynan, I scramble over to Greer, now sitting up with Rachel’s help. She’s rubbing Greer’s back gently. “You’re okay. It’s over.”

  Greer nods in acknowledgment and tries to say thank you, but only a rasping croak comes out.

  “Don’t try to talk,” I say as I gently put my fingertips under her chin and tip her head back. Her neck is red, clear imprints of Mejia’s hands that will leave bruises and I consider going back to kill him.

  But then Greer’s hand takes mine, removing it from her chin, and gives me a reassuring squeeze. She can’t speak, but she’s saying she’s okay and that it’s enough we’ve captured him.

  CHAPTER 22

  Greer

  I drum my fingertips on the glossy table. I’m in a small conference room where I have been waiting for the past half hour. I’m anxious to get this over with and move on.

  It’s been a long two days since we left El Salvador with Hugo Mejia in tow. Ladd and I took our chartered jet straight to Washington, DC. Kynan came along so he and Ladd could work on Mejia.

  Kynan had arranged for a doctor to meet us at the San Salvador airport. Aboard the jet before take-off, Ladd and I received medical care for our bullet wounds. Mine needed nothing more than a good cleaning and antibiotic cream, but the doctor stitched Ladd up after thoroughly debriding the wound from both sides. The shot was clean, and after some range of motion testing, it looks like Ladd escaped any tendon or ligament damage.

  We were both incredibly lucky.

  The rest of the Jameson crew took the other jet back to Vegas, and from there the Pittsburgh agents would fly commercial back home.

  Mejia was trussed up in wrist and leg shackles while Kynan discussed the situation with the CIA director, Theo Rasmussen.

  It wasn’t the first time the director had been made aware of events, as Kynan had made contact through the president’s office when he and his crew were on their way south to help Ladd and me. The director was not suspicious of Kynan’s allegations about Gayla Newman, but he wasn’t willing to take her into custody without first meeting with us and hearing what Mejia had to say.

  There would be some serious debriefing happening, not only by Mr. Rasmussen but also by the directors of the NSA and FBI. Because we were not merely bringing back an international weapons trafficker who was responsible for a massive influx of guns into the United States, but we were bringing back someone who is going to implicate a deputy director of the CIA—in the act of treason.

  Mejia proved to be a stubborn son of a bitch when it came to discussing his ties with Gayla Newman. While he’d admitted to Ladd the details of their nefarious relationship when they were at his estate, on the plane, he denied it adamantly.

  Kynan and Ladd grilled him relentlessly, but I didn’t partake because I was too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put my wit up against Mejia’s. It was not just my near-death experience at his hands—which has left purple mottling around my throat, as well as a dull ache that has yet to subside—but it’s also the fact that Ladd and I have so many things left unspoken.

  We certainly can’t talk about those things now. And we won’t be able to finish the conversation we started on the streets of San Salvador when we reach DC. I’m going to have to wait to see if what I thought could be the start of something wonderful is real or a figment of my imagination, and I know the longer I wait, the more doubt I’ll have.

  I resolve that I’m not going to listen to those nasty doubts that continue to tell me I’m not worthy of Ladd’s love. He’s forgiven me. He’s taken responsibility for his own failures. I have nothing to worry about.

  While I brooded about that, Kynan and Ladd got through to Mejia and secured his agreement to cooperate. He finally agreed to testify against Gayla Newman, although nothing was promised in exchange for such testimony. Kynan, though, was slyly brilliant and posed various scenarios in which the government might show favor toward Mejia if he cooperates. Kynan said perhaps Mejia could get assigned to a prison in the southern half of the United States, making it easier for his family to travel to visit him.

  Or, he suggested, the government could grant visas for them to move close to the prison.

  Kynan filled Mejia’s head with such fantasies that he was ultimately convinced he was better off cooperating. Of course, all that’s up to the US Attorney to work out a deal but given the high-profile official Mejia can help take down as a traitor, he’s probably going to get some perks.

  We were met at the airport by US Marshals who took Mejia into custody. He would be booked and arraigned for his crimes, afforded all fair due process granted by the laws of our country, even for international weapons traffickers. The United States is claiming jurisdiction because Mejia has directly funneled weapons into California to arm the Vecindario 18 gang members, although I’m sure other countries will line up to take a crack at him.

  Kynan, Ladd, and I were taken to a hotel where Theo Rasmussen waited for us, along with his FBI and NSA counterparts. There was no way we could meet at CIA headquarters without tipping off Gayla Newman. Inside a luxury suite, we spent the better part of a day laying out everything that happened, from start to finish. Rasmussen left us and was going to meet with Mejia.

  But before Rasmussen exited the hotel suite, he personally asked me to stay in DC for a few days. “I think you’ll want to be present when we arrest Gayla Newman,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.