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Holy fuck.
It’s them.
Blake was there. Right? She had to be. My daughter was currently traveling on the same road I was, a kilometer and a half away from me.
We’re so close, baby. Almost there. Stay strong a little while longer.
I glued my eyes to the screen and spotted an incoming message from a new user. The others were Coach, Ramirez, and Willow, but no names were visible, only digits.
“Translation comin’ through from Mercier,” Elliott went on.
“That’s my man.” Crew seemed to struggle to sit still. “How’s this for a corny pickup line—I may have shot you with my Glock, baby, but you got me with Cupid’s arrow.”
I snorted softly.
“That shit needs to be on a card,” Ryan laughed.
“Right?!” Crew bobbed his head to music that wasn’t there.
Elliott shifted in his seat. “Okay, we’re closing in. They’re heading toward the N-260, which puts us right on the French border.” We were going straight up into the mountains again, in other words. “They mention El Port, a small town on the way, and Petrov confirms everything is ready to start their operations.”
“So it’s not another safehouse,” Ryan deduced.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Elliott confirmed. “Last but not least, they have a warehouse.”
I took a deep breath.
Daddy’s almost there, Blake.
* * *
The sun had started to set when we passed El Port and continued up another mountain. We knew exactly where Carillo and Gajero were with their people. We had satellite images of a vineyard and an adjacent warehouse in the middle of nowhere, on a slope a few klicks away from us, and much like in Andorra, we couldn’t approach on the main road without being seen. Butunlikein Andorra, the mountains here weren’t as sharp. The terrain wasn’t as rough.
Crew led the way to a valley, from where we’d hoof it.
“Five minutes,” he said, killing the headlights.
Ryan and I started gearing up. We reached for our combat vests in the back and put them on. Then we grabbed our helmets and attached the mounts for thermal vision and night vision.
“I assume we’re a go as soon as it’s dark,” I said.
“Yes.” Elliott scrubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the screen. “Finally—let’s see…” He’d just received a wall of text from someone. “Bad news and good news. Security’s pretty fucking tight—they have cameras covering every angle of the property. Good news—Willow’s in.”
“Can she turn the cameras off?” Ryan asked.
Elliott hummed, still reading. “Unfortunately not. She can, however, cut the power, but she thinks they might have backup generators.”
“How many cartel fuckers are we dealing with here?” Crew asked next.
“Well, we know Carillo has eight men, including Petrov,” Elliott said. “And Gajero arrived with four vehicles, two of which are vans—Mercedes Sprinter. So a minimum of…let’s say…four drivers, Gajero himself, possibly four or five guards…? Maybe more. I don’t know until we get an estimate on the cargo. If the vans are filled with hostages, we could be talking twenty-five hostiles altogether.”
“And we have seven men ready for combat, so they’re clearly outnumbered,” I said.
“Man, I wish I’d said that,” Crew whispered to himself. “That was so badass. You’re badass, Joel.”
I wasn’t badass. I was a father ready to risk everything for the safe return of his daughter. But realistically speaking, the Carillo numbers didn’t scare me. Ryan and I would take care of most of them before the battle even began.
Combat wasn’t about numbers. A single man could defeat hundreds if he had the right weapon. And we did. We just had to ensure Blake, Marisa, and any other possible hostages didn’t get hurt in the mayhem.
