Chapter One
‡
A s the last man dropped to the ground inside the compound, Jackson Keller glanced around, confirming what the first man over the wall had whispered on the radio.
This mission looked like a complete FUBAR—Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.
The compound deep in the Sierra Madres echoed like the hold of an empty ship. Scraps of paper whispering on the flagstones, and the whistling wind that pushed them along, made the only sounds inside the ten-foot-tall stucco walls as his team continued to stealthily infiltrate the drug lord’s family home.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” he whispered into his mike. “Watch for tripwires, booby traps.” Not that he expected them. Diego Guzman wouldn’t like to come back to a shell of a home.
The moon was blanketed by thick clouds. A security light on a tall pole provided the only illumination. Not a light shone in the windows of the mansion facing the deep valley. From the debris littering the ground and the fact satellite had shown that not two hours ago the cobblestone parking area had been filled with SUVs, Jackson knew the compound had been abandoned in a hurry. Still, his team would have to clear it room-by-room on the off-chance they scored any intel to give them Diego Guzman’s current whereabouts.
The team spread out, taking up their predetermined positions around the main house. Along with Deke and the team members who’d penetrate the front entrance, Jackson ran up the steps of the veranda and pressed his back against the wall next to the massive, oaken front door and pointed at Deke, telling him silently he’d be the first to breach. He waited as Deke tried the door handle. The latch lowered.
Deke took cover against the wall opposite Jackson, quickly pushed in the door, and ducked back a moment in case it had been booby-trapped. Nothing. He stepped inside.
Jackson followed, his weapon raised, his gaze turning to the living room he passed, his night-vision goggles taking in the rich furnishings drugs, kidnappings, and extortion had bought. A plush sectional that would have filled his whole apartment, a large-screen television that covered an entire wall, a well-stocked bar. He continued through the foyer toward the stairs. Everyone had their task—he and Deke would search the upstairs bedrooms, the rest of the team would spread out to cover the ground floor.
Following Deke, he climbed the staircase with its ornate, wrought-iron balustrade.
Deke paused at the top of the stairs and headed to the right.
Jackson took the left. In his ear, he heard his team announce, “Clear… Clear… Clear,” as they searched below stairs. He tried the first door, opening it, leaning away then peering around the corner before stepping inside. Quickly, he checked closets, the bathroom, then under the bed. “Clear.”
He checked another room then went to the next door. Inside, moonlight filtered through gauzy curtains. Circling the room, he ducked into the bathroom to the right, checked the shower stall, the linen closet, and then quickly reentered the bedroom, heading toward a large, king-size bed with a canopy and more panels of thin lace. He pushed aside the curtain with the nozzle of his weapon and froze. A figure huddled with her back against the headboard, a sheet pulled up to cover her breasts. A manacle attached to a chain encircled one wrist.
Jackson flipped up his goggles, pulled his flashlight from his utility belt, and shone the light over the woman.
Wildly curly, matted blonde hair hung loose around her shoulders. Large eyes narrowed against the harsh beam, but even with her features scrunched as she moved as far from him as the chain would allow, he could tell she was beautiful.
Into his mike, he said, “Second floor, bedroom on the east end; I’m gonna need a translator.”
The woman frowned. “I speak English.”
Accentless English. American. And in a voice that was slightly husky. “Cancel that. But we have a live one. Deke, you clear
‡
A s the last man dropped to the ground inside the compound, Jackson Keller glanced around, confirming what the first man over the wall had whispered on the radio.
This mission looked like a complete FUBAR—Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.
The compound deep in the Sierra Madres echoed like the hold of an empty ship. Scraps of paper whispering on the flagstones, and the whistling wind that pushed them along, made the only sounds inside the ten-foot-tall stucco walls as his team continued to stealthily infiltrate the drug lord’s family home.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” he whispered into his mike. “Watch for tripwires, booby traps.” Not that he expected them. Diego Guzman wouldn’t like to come back to a shell of a home.
The moon was blanketed by thick clouds. A security light on a tall pole provided the only illumination. Not a light shone in the windows of the mansion facing the deep valley. From the debris littering the ground and the fact satellite had shown that not two hours ago the cobblestone parking area had been filled with SUVs, Jackson knew the compound had been abandoned in a hurry. Still, his team would have to clear it room-by-room on the off-chance they scored any intel to give them Diego Guzman’s current whereabouts.
The team spread out, taking up their predetermined positions around the main house. Along with Deke and the team members who’d penetrate the front entrance, Jackson ran up the steps of the veranda and pressed his back against the wall next to the massive, oaken front door and pointed at Deke, telling him silently he’d be the first to breach. He waited as Deke tried the door handle. The latch lowered.
Deke took cover against the wall opposite Jackson, quickly pushed in the door, and ducked back a moment in case it had been booby-trapped. Nothing. He stepped inside.
Jackson followed, his weapon raised, his gaze turning to the living room he passed, his night-vision goggles taking in the rich furnishings drugs, kidnappings, and extortion had bought. A plush sectional that would have filled his whole apartment, a large-screen television that covered an entire wall, a well-stocked bar. He continued through the foyer toward the stairs. Everyone had their task—he and Deke would search the upstairs bedrooms, the rest of the team would spread out to cover the ground floor.
Following Deke, he climbed the staircase with its ornate, wrought-iron balustrade.
Deke paused at the top of the stairs and headed to the right.
Jackson took the left. In his ear, he heard his team announce, “Clear… Clear… Clear,” as they searched below stairs. He tried the first door, opening it, leaning away then peering around the corner before stepping inside. Quickly, he checked closets, the bathroom, then under the bed. “Clear.”
He checked another room then went to the next door. Inside, moonlight filtered through gauzy curtains. Circling the room, he ducked into the bathroom to the right, checked the shower stall, the linen closet, and then quickly reentered the bedroom, heading toward a large, king-size bed with a canopy and more panels of thin lace. He pushed aside the curtain with the nozzle of his weapon and froze. A figure huddled with her back against the headboard, a sheet pulled up to cover her breasts. A manacle attached to a chain encircled one wrist.
Jackson flipped up his goggles, pulled his flashlight from his utility belt, and shone the light over the woman.
Wildly curly, matted blonde hair hung loose around her shoulders. Large eyes narrowed against the harsh beam, but even with her features scrunched as she moved as far from him as the chain would allow, he could tell she was beautiful.
Into his mike, he said, “Second floor, bedroom on the east end; I’m gonna need a translator.”
The woman frowned. “I speak English.”
Accentless English. American. And in a voice that was slightly husky. “Cancel that. But we have a live one. Deke, you clear
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