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"I'll get Blackfish on the phone." He pulled his cell out of the back pocket of his jeans and scrolled through the contacts. "You two work on diagraming the compound so we can nail down a plan that will get us in and get Tamara and Essie out."
"Listen to you, sounding like a team leader," Elisa said, peeling off the dress to reveal a snug black T-shirt and pants underneath.
"Got a problem with that?" he retorted.
"Negative." Marko shook his head and shot Elisa a dirty look. "Stop busting his chops just because you always get nervous before a mission and need a release."
She flipped him off. "Stop acting like you know everything about me."
"More than you wish I did, sweetheart," Marko said before handing Isaac a list of illegal firearms that he'd spotted in the Crest Society's armory.
The insults and banter were the familiar sound of a team getting ready for battle. He'd heard it a million times before. It was a mix of nerves, adrenaline, and bravado, along with big dose of fuck-yeah-let's-do-this. He'd missed it—needed it—more than he'd ever allowed himself to admit.
Finally, he found the number he was looking for and hit dial.
The DEA agent in Fort Worth answered on the first ring. "Blackfish."
"Hey Clay. We need to get word to the ATF guys. They aren't backup. We have more than enough firsthand information about the Crest Society's armory that says they're going to want to go in with us."
"Talk."
He did and it felt good. They would get Tamara and Essie, and they'd do it as a team.
* * *
Tamara
The Crest Society compound was surrounded by a tall chain link fence, the kind usually found around prisons, which seemed fitting. Bryson, the waiter from the diner, turned out to be the driver of the sedan. He'd gone the entire 30 mile drive without saying a word to Tamara. Fine by her. The silence gave her time to get her icy defenses back up.
By the time the guards stopped them at the gate, her back was ramrod straight and her eyes as bored as a teenage girl listening to a lecture from her parents. After a quick look in the car, the guards waved them though. They looked mean with their semiautomatic rifles, but they obviously weren't trained and didn't expect even the tiniest bit of resistance from her or they would have searched her.
It was just the kind of mistake that Isaac and the others would take advantage of when they arrived.
That thought kept her calm as Bryson drove through the compound. He passed four rows of buildings and single-story homes lined up one in front of the other and headed to a two story log cabin next door to a rustic chapel. Another set of armed guards were stationed outside the cabin's front door.
Both men were built like brick houses, but only one came down the steps. He opened up her door, watching her with the cold empty stare of professional muscle. She stepped out, but the guard blocked her path.
"Turn around," he said.
She did and he patted her down like he'd been trained to do it. Vivi had started to teach her some of the basics and Tamara recognized the technique. Looked like Jarrod kept his paid muscle closest to him. The man was a crazy jackass, but he wasn't dumb.
The guard stepped back. "You can go in now."
Even though her stomach was doing that fluttery thing that it always used to before she went on stage, she kept her movements smooth as she strode up the three steps to the porch. The other guard knocked on the front door.
"Send her in," came the muffled reply.
The guard opened the door, revealing a small, empty foyer. The smell of bacon, cigars, and musty books wafted out. It wasn't overwhelming, but it was more
than enough to make her already nervous stomach do a quick flip-flop. For half a second, she was frozen to the spot outside the door. But then an image of Essie in a wedding dress flashed in her mind, and then Tamara was walking—strutting—into Jarrod's house with one of the guards following close behind.
The living room was right off the foyer. Jarrod was in front of a fireplace. Standing tall and confident in his crisp white shirt, dark tie, and conservative haircut, he looked like an accountant or a school board president or some other trusted figure. The guise suited his purpose well and he played it to the hilt, giving her a big smile and reaching out to her for a handshake.
"Well, if it isn't Miss Iceberg Lettuce. Or was it Miss Myron County?" he asked, as if it wasn't a dig at all.
Whatever his game was, she wasn't playing. She tugged her hand free of his two-fisted grip. "It doesn't matter. Where's Essie?"
Some of the shine went out of his blue eyes. "In the next room."
