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Grabbing him under his armpits, I drag him back around a corner and sit him against the wall. “Dmitri, Dmitri.” I lightly slap his face. “Is there another way out?”
I listen to the static of my two-way to see if the guard below had called for backup. Lots of noise. People checking in, but most of it has nothing to do with me.
Turns out, the real problem is at the gate. The ranch is under attack. Two guards have been shot three from a distant hill. Hell of a shot by the sound of it.
Warmth rolls into my chest.Justice. My mother taught me that a man shouldn’t keep his woman waiting, so I better get moving.
I pat Dmitri on his shoulder. The Russian is as good as dead, even if he were to get the best and most immediate medical attention. “Rest,” I tell him. And as the child long ago once told me, I add, “There is more.”
Dmitri’s eyes flash open, clear, and he focuses on me. “Kill. Walid.”
His eyes drop to half-lidded, and freeze. The once-real human, the broken and tortured body, become nothing more than an empty reminder of too much pain and anger.
I close his lifeless eyes.
The two-way squawks to life beside me, and the guy with the Southern accent says in a voice a hell of a lot less cheerful, “I’m handling that mess in the mines.”
Shit. He’s coming for me. Ready or not.
Ready.
* * *
Crouchedbehind Dmitri’s body by the only exit, the one that leads down and then up, I’m debating if the sudden silence from the alarm is a good or bad thing.
Actually, I’m sure it’s bad. It likely means the guards have organized. They definitely changed frequency on their two-way, leaving me no more insight. I have no idea how many men are in the camp and how many of those they’re sparing to send down here.
I have two semiautomatics, full clips, taken from the torture guards, and a good ambush position. I’ll wait for them to come through that damn door before shooting. At least, that’s the plan.
Too bad my fight-or-flight reflex sings so loudly it’s getting harder and harder to stay put. Waiting isnotfun right now. It feels the opposite of proactive, but it’s not the opposite of smart. If I try to go down those steps, the steps that lead to some kind of elevator—I heard the thing creaking to a stop a minute time ago—I’ll be killed.
Forcing myself not to respond to the nerves that are bullying me tofight- fight-fight, I let out a calming breath, empty my mind, then aim my weapon.
The stone wall swings open with awhoosh.
Wait for a visual. Justice is here; it could be her. It might. Wait.
It isn’t.
A huge guy with a baseball hat steps out of the opening, weapon down. I almost press the trigger but stop when a woman’s voice speaks up from behind him. “Don’t shoot.”
I know that voice. The big dude turns to the side as if to push someone back, but that person shoves him in the ribs, then steps in front of him.
“Gracie?” What the hell is she wearing? “You’re rescuing me in your underwear?”
Gracie shrugs. “All the cool kids are.”
She eyes me—shirtless, pants ripped. Guess I’m not exactly styling.
Gracie elbows USA in the ribs again and says to me, “Don’t shoot this idiot. He’s with me.”
I lower my weapon and climb out from behind Dmitri’s dead body. “What’s going on?”
Gracie jerks a thumb at the big guy. “This is USA Ballcap.” She gazes up at him. “I don’t trust him.”
The big guy grins down at the feisty redhead and sparks fly. Temperatures rise. Global warming increases. He reaches a hand toward me. “I’m better known as Agent Leif McAllister of the FBI. You can call me Dusty.”
The FBI working in Mexico? And he has a Southern accent. Sure. Why not? It’s not like this day could get any weirder.
