Hands tightly bound,Dylan sat with his back in the rear corner of the van, ignoring the taunts from Ruiz’s men and the pain in his right side, his mind on his breathing—and his botched mission.
He wasn’t used to failure. It had never been an option, and it wasn’t an option now. But if he didn’t escape with Gabriela soon, he would have blown everything. He would fail Cobra. He would fail Gabriela. He would fail his country.
Unless he found a way out of this, his face would be all over the news soon, creating a crisis for Cobra, which might go bankrupt from lack of Pentagon business, and for the US government, which would deny knowing anything about him.
“We’re supposed to take them back across to San Antonio and wait. Sánchez is coming in one of his helicopters and bringing reporters. After the press conference, who knows what they’ll do to him.”
“Watch what you say in front of the prisoner,malparido.”
“He’s a gringo. He probably doesn’t understand Spanish. Besides, what can he do? He’s beaten, outnumbered, helpless as a little girl.”
Dylan said nothing, but the bastard wasn’t wrong. He’d taken a kick to the side where his body armor didn’t protect him, leaving him with bruised ribs that made it painful to breathe. There were at least twenty armed hostiles—five in the back of the van alone. And he and Gabriela were separated. He’d seen her get into a Land Rover with that bastard Ruiz.
Despite the gravity of the situation, he almost smiled. She was amazing, harnessing her very real fear of Ruiz and the cartel and transforming into fear of Dylan and the desperate relief of a freed prisoner. The bastards had bought it—for now.
Still, they would interrogate her. If they believed she knew about the drug-smuggling at the mission, they would kill her. If they discovered she was a US citizen, not a Venezuelan, they would kill her. If they learned she was an Agency officer, they would rape her, torture her, and then kill her in some barbaric way.
Torturously cruel killing was the Andes Cartel’s specialty.
That’s what they’re going to do to you—after they parade you around in front of the cameras.
What he needed was a miracle.
Except that he didn’t believe in miracles. What most people called miracles were either the result of hard work or freakish good luck. Right now, there wasn’t anything he could do, and he seemed to be fresh out of luck.
From outside, came a flash of light followed by a clap of thunder, rain spattering the van’s roof. Or was that hail?
Another flash of lightning.
Crack.
The van turned, the road beneath the tires no longer rough dirt but smooth asphalt. They must be getting close to the Venezuelan border.
Flash.Crack.
“¡Coño!” One stared upward. “Está cayendo un palo de agua.”
It’s a downpour.
Had they said Sánchez was arriving in a helicopter?
The storm would slow him, too. There was no way a pilot could fly in this. That would at least buy them some time—provided the storm lasted more than a few minutes. The moment it let up, Sánchez would be airborne again.
“Did you see the nun?” said an ugly bastard with acne scars. “Fuck! A chick like that should never be allowed to be a nun. You know what I’m saying? Those tits and that pussy are going to waste.”
The men laughed, one making wanking gestures with his hand.
“I bet he fucked her.” One of the men kicked at Dylan, struck his boot. “Did you fuck her, asshole?”
“You shouldn’t talk that way about a Sister,” Acne Man joked. “You’ll go to hell for that.”
“Just for that?”
More laughter.
Flash.Crack.
Acne Man spoke again. “If Don Sergio thinks she’s lying or that she knows something, we might all get a chance to stick our dicks in her.”