“Damn, Kinkaid. That’s what you call a signal?” Garrett fell back with the rest of his team, praying that Alexa and Hank had gotten away clean. “You sure know how to send up one helluva flare.”
Kinkaid had always been a gutsy operative. Garrett should have trusted him when he said to wait for his signal. If anyone died because he gave the order to attack too soon, that would be on his head, not Kinkaid’s.
2:47
A.M.
Estella struggled to see over the men who stood in front of her, despite the pain it took for her to move at all. Flickering torches were the only light in the stone cell. And men’s voice echoed loudly as they yelled their encouragement to Pérez. They wanted him to kill the American. She screamed, “No!” and thought no one heard her, but she’d been wrong. In the noise and confusion, it took her a moment to realize that Ramon had come to her. He leaned close enough to speak in her ear.
“If you know what is good for you, you will keep your mouth shut and stay put.”
He raised a knife, and she flinched. It had been the knife he used to cut her, but this time he used it to cut her down. She collapsed in his arms, too weak to stand on her own. Her arms were numb, and every muscle in her body ached. She didn’t want to touch him or feel his hands on her again, but she had no choice.
“Can you stand?” he asked. Ramon smelled of sweat and dirt and blood.
She only shook her head. She didn’t think he would hear her. Ramon held her for only a moment before he shoved her aside to lean against a wall in the shadows. He raised a finger of warning for her to stay put before he joined the rest of the men.
Where would she go? She had no one to help her and no place safe to run.
Estella dropped to the floor and crawled away from the men, so she could see. She watched Ramon’s boss come at the American, Jackson Kinkaid. The man was weak. He could barely stand or even lift his arms, but when Pérez came at him with his knife, the American lunged for the big man. She knew the agony he felt to fight. And her pain was only a fraction of what he had endured.
Both men fell to the floor of the cell, kicking up dirt as they wrestled for the knife. The circle of men moved tighter around Pérez and the American until they blocked her view. Estella couldn’t see any more.
She was trapped, and there was nothing for her to do but watch the American die. Tears streamed down her face. She could not blame the brave man for wanting revenge. Pérez had killed his wife and child.
It took Estella a moment to realize that she was already doing the only thing she could. She prayed for both of them.
3:05
A.M.
Kinkaid grappled for the knife Pérez had in his sweaty hand. All Pérez had to do was give in. If he ordered his men to kill him, his fight would be over, but the big man never opened his mouth. He was too stubborn, something Kinkaid had counted on.
But he was no match for the fat man, not in his condition.
Every time Pérez rolled on top of him, he cut off his air. Kinkaid shoved the man aside and used his weight against him. And he kept both hands on the knife. The blade cut into his skin. And with the adrenaline racing through his system, he used his rage to keep fighting. His lungs burned, and every muscle in his body was betraying him. He had nothing left.
“To d-die . . . f-fighting. It is g-good.” The drug kingpin felt Kinkaid’s hands give way. And when he saw the blood draining down his arm, he knew Kinkaid was losing his fight. One last time, he rolled over him. And the sharp tip of the blade hung over his eye, with Pérez putting his full weight behind the knife.
“G-glad you . . . think so.” Kinkaid felt the sting of the blade cut into his cheek. In seconds, his warm blood rolled down his skin and filled his ear.
He was staring up at the last thing he would ever see—the red-faced, sweaty, drug-dealing bastard who had murdered his wife and child. Pérez looked like a madman. His eyes were bulging from his skull, and his jowls were trembling with his exertion. Kinkaid shoved at the man, using his legs to topple him, but that wasn’t working. He had no more strength left.
“It w-would be . . . easy.” Pérez whispered as he struggled to make one last thrust. “Just let . . . g-go. You will . . . die quick.”
The drug-cartel leader’s face blurred above him. The tip of his blade hovered over his one good eye. If he let go, Pérez would drive the knife into his brain. The drug trafficker was right. He’d be dead in seconds.
“No, don’t. Please!”
Kinkaid heard a faint voice, mixed with the shouts of Pérez’s men. The angry shouts echoed in the cell and nearly drowned out the girl’s voice, but eventually Kinkaid heard Estella.
“No, please don’t kill him.” She was the only one who was on his side. And she had the guts to cry out, even in the face of an angry drug-cartel boss and his men.
Her voice gave him the strength he needed to hold on. All he had to do was last a little longer, but when a deafening blast erupted and shook the ground and walls around him, he knew the cavalry had arrived. When the first missile hit, he saw the brilliant flames light up the night sky through the barred window in the cell. And he heard stone walls topple. Dust filled the room, and Pérez’s men yelled and ran for cover.
“What’s happening? What was that?”
One blast had them scrambling, but the second and third blasts had them running to save their miserable lives, scurrying like vermin into the dark.
Pérez eased up on his grip long enough for Kinkaid to breathe. Air rushed into his burning lungs as Ramon Guerrero and Miguel Rosas emerged from the shadows.
“We are being attacked. If we don’t leave now, we will be trapped. We’ll die here.” Guerrero’s voice cracked.
“Give the order, and I will kill this man,” Rosas yelled as he pulled his gun.
Kinkaid couldn’t let that happen, not now. He heaved against the drug boss one last time, shoving him into his men. In the confusion, he grabbed for the hilt of the blade and twisted it, bending the man’s fingers back. The weapon slipped from Pérez’s hands before he had a chance to fight for it.
“Kill him. Do it now!”
The drug dealer screamed his order as he crawled away like the coward he was, but he didn’t get away fast enough. Kinkaid gripped the knife and thrust it hard into the fat man’s leg. Blood spurted from the wound before the cartel boss clutched his leg to staunch the bleeding. When he cried out, Guerrero rushed to him and grappled with the man, lifting his weight off the ground.
“We have to go. Now!”
The night sky lit up with more explosions. And when the sound of automatic gunfire erupted, Rosas aimed his weapon. Kinkaid had nothing to defend himself with except the knife in his hand. On his knees, he grabbed the tip and threw it at Rosas. The blade spun end over end until it struck the armed gunmen’s flesh with a meaty sound. It embedded in his chest, hilt deep.
Wide-eyed, Rosas staggered back, his jaw slack, staring down at the knife protruding from the center of his body. The hilt of the blade pulsed, moving in time with his still-beating heart. And as blood blossomed from the fatal wound, it saturated his shirt with a deep crimson. The man dropped to his knees, still aiming the weapon at the prisoner.
Kinkaid held his breath. If Rosas had the strength to pull the trigger, he’d be dead before the bastard took his last breath.