Page 76 of Seal of Honor
Bile rose in Jacinto’s throat. He’d never had the stomach for murder, which was part of the reason he’d called Rorro in the first place. Bryson Van Amee had seen both of their faces, knew at least his name if not Rorro’s, and had to die tomorrow after they got the money.
“What did you do to Van Amee?” he asked, remembering the man’s black eye.
“Had a little fun.”
Jacinto held back his wince. He was always torn between disgust and sorrow when it came to his young cousin. Rorro seemingly had it all: money, intelligence, movie star good looks, privileges and opportunities other children in Colombia would kill for—but all that glamour hid horrible secrets, ones that made Jacinto’s dysfunctional home life look like a fairy tale. Little wonder the kid turned out as loco as he was.
“I told you,” Jacinto said as gently as he could manage. “You cannot have him until after we get the money.”
Rorro flopped a hand in the air. “He tried to escape. I had to punish him.”
“What?”
“Last night. No, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my fault.”
It most certainly was his fault, but Jacinto wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Did he get far?”
“Only to the patio.”
At least he hadn’t made it off the property, onto the street where anyone could have spotted him.
Jacinto shot a look at the dead man. “You’re staying in tonight, Rorro. I mean it. We can’t risk him trying to escape again.” And the clubs downtown would be much safer with the little shit tucked away at home. “This will be all over tomorrow.”
Rorro flashed a smile that was all boyish charm, a hint of the kid that Jacinto had once adored like a little brother. “Then we’ll leave here?”
“Yes,” Jacinto said. “We’ll leave.”
He felt only the tiniest prick of regret for lying as he walked inside the house and started upstairs. He had no intention of going anywhere with his psycho cousin. Once this was over, he wanted to be able to sleep soundly at night without the fear of ending up with his throat slit open like that desgraciado in the hot tub.
Jacinto stepped into his bedroom and shot home the deadbolt lock on the door. He then moved to the small, barred window that overlooked the backyard—what was left of it after Rorro’s landscaping disaster. His eyes scanned every inch of the property, ensuring there were no signs of an attempted escape by Bryson.
As he scanned, his gaze landed on an unfamiliar vehicle parked down the road—more than a block away, but still too close for comfort. He squinted, studying the nondescript van, but its tinted windows made it impossible to tell if anyone was inside. It was parked with a casualness that suggested it wasn’t there for nefarious reasons. Yet something didn’t sit right in Jacinto’s gut. The longer he stared at it, the more his unease grew, until he could taste the sour wash of fear in his throat.
FBI?
He needed more men guarding this place.
Time to call in some favors.
CHAPTER 27
Gabe passed out on her three times. Once after he landed the helicopter in the clearing, but she’d managed to rouse him enough to get him to the nearest town. They were lucky enough to land near a pilot’s house, and he’d seen their hard landing. He’d already been on his way to investigate when they stumbled out onto the road in front of his car, where Gabe again lost consciousness.
Between Audrey and the pilot—whose name she never did catch—they managed to get Gabe into the car. The pilot wanted to drive him to the nearest hospital. He seemed confused when she insisted they had to get back to Bogotá tonight but asked no more questions when she offered the roll of money she’d found in Mena’s desk if he’d fly them the rest of the way to the city.
Gabe woke again, groggy and disoriented, as the plane made its final descent to a private airfield in Bogotá. Audrey had to guide him, practically carrying his weight as they staggered to the waiting car she’d managed to order through an app on her phone. Gabe lost consciousness again as soon as he collapsed onto the backseat, head lolling against the window. His skin was deathly pale under the harsh cab lights. The driver, a grizzled old veteran with scars from a past Audrey didn’t dare pry into, took one look at Gabe and began muttering prayers under his breath. And when she gave him the address of the safe house, he looked at her like she was crazy.
“He needs a hospital,” the driver insisted, glancing warily at Gabe’s unconscious form in the rearview mirror.
Audrey shook her head firmly.
“No hospitals,” she said, her grip tightening on Gabe’s hand. “Just take us to the address. Please. And hurry.”
The driver grumbled but complied, accelerating through the city streets as Audrey watched Gabe with a sense of growing desperation. His breath was shallow and ragged, his skin clammy to the touch. Audrey had seen men die before; she had a sickening feeling that she was watching it happen again.
“This isn’t on me,” the driver growled as they pulled up outside the nondescript building that served as the team’s HQ. “You’re the one killing him, lady.”
She’d hoped to find Quinn and the rest there waiting for them, but no such luck. The place was dark and silent. She stared at Gabe in dismay. How was she going to get him inside?
