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“Coye?” The name finally slipped past his lips.
Jack glanced over his shoulder again at the brother, then turned back to Mick.
“It’s bad, Mick,” he told him. “Real bad. I don’t know…”
Jack didn’t know how the younger man could survive his injuries.
“What the hell happened here?” Jack demanded. “Why were you hit?”
“… were getting ready to board,” Mick groaned as he shuddered in pain. “… Didn’t feel right… grabbed Coye… told him run…” He seemed to wheeze the words. “Didn’t make it…” His teeth clenched as his body jerked in what had to be agony. “The others? My men?”
He stared up at Jack, desperation gleaming in his gaze. He knew the truth.
Jack shook his head anyway. “I’m sorry, Mick…”
“Fuckers…” Mick wheezed, blood dripping from his face to the sheet beneath him. Or was it blood mixed with tears? “Told you… didn’t feel right… saw shadows… another team maybe.” He fought to swallow again, to breathe for long seconds. “Get the fuckers… Jack,” he groaned. “For my men… Fuck…” His back bowed, then suddenly he crashed back to the gurney.
“Move! Move!” The medic pushed past Jack, lifted the bed, and, once the retractable legs and wheels were in place, all but threw it into the back of the ambulance.
The bed carrying Coye had already raced away, and before the doors had even closed on Mick, that one was tearing from the clearing as well.
Jack ran his fingers through his hair and turned back to the wreckage, staring around again in disbelief.
A pilot and three men had died here, and he doubted they even knew what had hit them.
“Explosives or missile?” Jack asked, turning to Ian as the other man stepped to him.
Where Kira was, Jack didn’t have a clue. He was damned glad she wasn’t here, though.
“We think it was explosives,” Ian told him. “One of my bodyguards has explosives training, and that’s his guess anyway… Fuck, didn’t expect this tonight,” he sighed.
Who could have expected this?
Except Mick. He’d said his balls were itching and he didn’t like it. Something was off about the op being offered, he’d said.
“He has enough enemies—it could have been personal,” one of the men standing behind Ian said, though Jack could hear the doubt in his voice.
“Mick said there were shadows. Perhaps another team,” Jack muttered.
“Another team?” Ian questioned him.
“Could this be connected to the cartel?” Jack asked. “I know he uses mercs for transport sometimes.” He couldn’t see Mick transporting drugs, but sometimes the Fuentes Cartel moved things other than drugs.
“I’ll ask,” Ian stated, but his tone was doubtful. “My contact messaged a warning that the team was going to be hit, but not why. I haven’t heard anything further yet.”
Were they hit because Mick had talked to Jack?
“What the fuck does Crossfield think he’s doing ordering this?” Jack growled. “This team had friends. Loyal friends. If we’re not damned careful we’ll have half a dozen teams in the area ready to commit carnage on their behalf.”
“Only if Mick dies,” Ian stated, but Jack could hear the worry in his voice. “Let’s pray my people can keep him alive.”
“Why order this hit?” Jack could feel the icy bite of rage threatening to overwhelm him. “What was in it for them?”
“I don’t think they did.” Ian’s answer had Jack staring at him in disbelief.
“Why?”
Ian grimaced. “Neither sent a message, made a call, or received one. They didn’t slip off to the men’s room or talk to anyone that wasn’t at the table. They didn’t show signs of recognition when the team either entered or left. We can’t trace where, how, or why the order went out to strike this team.”
