Page 10 of Seal of Honor
The kid nodded but didn’t look up from his computer.
“Jesse Warrick will function as our medic. Anyone gets hurt, we defer to him. If you need anything, Jesse, let Quinn know, and we’ll get it for you.”
Jesse tipped the brim of his Stetson back with one knuckle and patted the bulging bag on the seat next to him. “I travel with my own supplies, thanks,” he drawled. “But I do want access to medical records, and everyone needs to have a physical exam in the next twenty-four hours so I have a baseline reading should one of ya get hurt.”
“Done.” Gabe studied the group. “We’ll rely on Jean-Luc as our translator. Anyone else fluent in Spanish?”
“Mine’s passable,” Jesse answered.
“All I remember from Spanish class is un burro sabe mas que tu,” Marcus said, and Jean-Luc snorted a laugh.
“‘A donkey knows more than you?’ Nice, Marcus. If we need to insult the EPC into submission, we’ll know who to call.”
“All right, gentlemen,” Gabe said. “Enough joking around. We have a little over four hours until we land. Read up and catch whatever sleep you can, because once we’re on the ground, we’re on the move.”
CHAPTER 4
BOGOTÁ, COLOMBIA
“Nice digs,” Jean-Luc said from the passenger seat of the rented 4Runner. “Nice neighborhood.”
Gabe ignored him and leaned on the steering wheel to study Bryson Van Amee’s apartment building and the surrounding neighborhood. It was nice. Affluent. Clean. Full of sprawling parks and red brick buildings with a subtle British flair to the architecture. A million steps up from the barrios he’d seen during his past two trips to Bogotá. Of course, then he’d been assisting the Colombian Army in hunting for the brutal leader of a drug cartel, not searching for an unfortunate American businessman caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I don’t think the snatch happened inside his place,” Gabe said, “but it won’t hurt to check it out.” He needed to get a feel for the kind of person Van Amee was. A survivor, he hoped, or else they’d be dragging a body back to the States.
“Security guard on the front door,” Jean-Luc pointed out. “Cameras, too. IP-based, which means they probably store their footage digitally.”
“How do you know?” Gabe had seen the cameras, but as far as he knew, there was no way to tell whether they were IP or analog just by looking.
“My brother-in-law owns a security company in New Orleans,” Jean-Luc said, raising a pair of binoculars and focusing on the closest camera. “I help out with installations when he’s short-staffed, and… oui, I recognize that model. It’s a Hikvision IP camera. I can call him to double-check, but I’m pretty sure. We should ask to see their footage.”
Gabe shook his head. “I don’t want to risk tipping anyone off that we’re looking.”
Jean-Luc lowered the binoculars and grinned. “I like the way your mind works, mon capitaine. Very James Bond.”
“No,” Gabe corrected, “very practical. Van Amee’s limo driver, Armando Castillo, reported him missing when he didn’t show for his scheduled pick-up. Building security had no clue anything was wrong until Armando raised the alarm.” He scanned the building, looking for faults in its security. At first glance, he didn’t find many. A guard here, a camera there, angled just right. Not necessarily unassailable for a trained operative, but a newly formed, ragtag terrorist faction would have a rough time of it.
“Leads me to believe the EPC has someone on the inside,” he continued. “How else would they know who to hit and when?
They had to have surveillance on him.”
“I’ll call Harvard, see if he can hack into their network.” Jean-Luc raised his phone to his ear, spoke for a moment, gave the camera’s brand name and apartment’s address, and nodded. “Harvard says it’s a go. He’ll have the footage for us in an hour.” He slid his phone back into the pocket of his button-up shirt, which he wore open over a Pink Floyd T-shirt. “So, we have time to kill. You want us to sneak a peek inside?”
“Not yet. I’m going to recon the block first. You stay here and keep eyes on.” Gabe climbed out of the 4Runner and grabbed one of the radios Harvard had given him before they left the safe house. “Anything suspicious, radio me. Don’t go in by yourself.”
“Aye-aye, mon capitaine. But, uh…” Jean-Luc reached into the backseat. “Shouldn’t you take your cane?”
“Goddammit.” He snatched it from Jean-Luc’s hand. The only reason he had the fucking thing was Jesse Warrick, after getting a load of his medical history and doing a physical, insisted he use it more. Since he told his men to defer to the medic, he couldn’t very well go against his own order.
“Goddammit,” he said again, and Jean-Luc laughed as the car door shut.
* * *
Nothing.
Not that Audrey had expected a glaring neon sign with an arrow that said, Find Bryson Here, but, well, at least one clue would be nice. The apartment was disgustingly tidy, so like Bryson. No ruffled pillows, no dust on the rosy hardwood floors, no leftover dishes in the sink or crumbs on the marble counters. The coffee pot appeared unused, and the fridge sat mostly empty. Also not a surprise. Brys couldn’t cook worth a damn, somehow managing to burn everything he toasted, nuked, or fried up in a skillet. Like the time he’d tried to make Mama’s famous casserole shortly after their parents died to cheer her up and ended up with half of Savannah’s fire department on the front lawn.
Audrey smiled a little and ran a finger along one of the unused frying pans hanging above the kitchen’s center island. Yes, they had their issues. He was money and power-obsessed. She wasn’t. He was concerned with his image, worried about what others thought of him as a man and them as a family unit. She couldn’t care less. Although he didn’t understand her, he loved her in his own way.
