Chapter Fourteen
Jesse felt naked without a weapon, and he imagined the others did, too. Still, the four of them moved toward the hotel as a unit, fast and quiet, sticking to the shadows.
This was such a bad idea. Any leader worth his salt would turn his team around and take the time to come up with a more cohesive plan that wouldn’t get everyone killed. But as much as his brain said that was the right move, his heart kept dragging him forward. He kept picturing Connor—not as he was now, but as a newborn with chubby cheeks and a shock of thick tawny hair. He remembered the awe, the fear, and the overwhelming wave of love when Connor was first placed in his arms. He’d promised that tiny human he’d always take care of him, but somewhere along the way, he’d lost sight of that simple promise. He’d keep it now, though. If it was the last thing he did, Connor would safely walk away from this night.
Lanie held up a fist, indicating they should stop, and they all dropped to crouches behind the foliage ringing a children’s playground. “Do you hear that?”
Jesse focused his senses outward, and…yes. He heard it. Beyond the gentle creaking of the empty swings swaying in the breeze was a faint rumble of an outboard motor coming closer. “I’d wager that’s not our reinforcements.”
Lanie shook her head. “Tuc said it’d be hours before he’d have men here. He’d have called if that ETA changed.”
Jesse gazed up at the hotel. They’d backtracked on the beach to come at the building on an angle, out of view of the panoramic windows in the lobby. What he could see of the fourth floor was dark. Connor was probably still sleeping, unaware of the danger he was in. “Then we need to move faster.” He broke cover and sprinted across the open playground. Behind him, Lanie and one of the guys were both cursing him out, but the time for stealth was gone. He still had no plan for how to get inside. Figured he’d take a page out of Jean-Luc’s book and make it up as he went.
By the time he reached the main building, he found a group of sleepy and confused guests huddled around like a bunch of spooked cattle. Someone in the back of the group called his name.
Danny.
His heart doubled-timed as he changed directions to meet the FBI agent. He found Danny and Marcus playing cattle-dogs to the guests’ cattle. “Where’s Connor?” he asked first thing.
Both Danny and Marcus looked grim.
Marcus set a hand on his shoulder. “We can’t get up to the fourth floor without detection. There’s no terrace.”
Jesse scanned the group. “That’s how you got these people out?”
Danny jerked his chin upward, and Jesse shifted to look up. On the third floor terrace, Gabe, Quinn, and Harvard were lowering people to the second floor, from where they could then take a wide stone staircase to the ground.
But the math didn’t add up. It took two people to lower one, so no matter how it worked out, one of the guys would get left behind. “Why aren’t you up there with them?”
“Our room’s on the second floor.”
“So how are they gettin’ down?”
Marcus scowled. “I pointed that out to them.”
“And?”
“They’d ‘find a way.’”
Uh-huh. That sounded like Gabe and Quinn. And he was gonna be right there with them when they did. He pointed back the way he’d come. “Lanie, Seth, and Ian are by the playground. We have incomin’ Tangos. Get these people someplace safe.” With that, he left them and took the steps two at a time to the second floor. Once he was below Gabe and Quinn, he whistled softly through his teeth to get their attention.
Harvard’s head popped out over the railing. “Jesse?”
“Lift me up.” He motioned with both hands to make sure he was understood.
“No fucking way,” Quinn hissed, his shaved head appearing next to Harvard’s. A second later, they lowered another woman. Jesse caught her, and pointed her to the stairs, then refocused on the guys. “You’ll work faster with another set of hands.”
All he got in response was another set of feet headed in his direction. This time belonging to a thin man with salt-and-pepper hair and a pock-scarred face. Again, he helped the man down and pointed him toward the stairs.
Fuck this. There was no time to convince them of his plan.
Jesse gauged the distance to the third floor. He was tall enough that if he climbed up on the rail, he should be able to stretch and grab the bottom of the railing above. Once he did, they’d have no choice but to pull him up.
He hauled himself up on the railing, and heard Quinn cursing a blue streak overhead.
Gabe’s face appeared next. There seemed to be more lines of strain in it than there had been earlier in the evening. “Warrick, don’t. That’s an order.”
“Sorry, boss. I’m gettin’ to my son.” He straightened slowly, suddenly grateful for a childhood spent playing in haylofts and climbing trees. His boots were steady on the rail.
Two muscular arms reached toward him. Gabe and Quinn. He had a split second to wish Gabe had let Harvard do it—Gabe shouldn’t be straining himself—but then he focused. He clasped their arms in a snug grip and used his feet to push up.
And all hell broke lose below him. Gunshots. Screams. People scattered, even as Marcus and Danny tried to keep them calm. He glanced down and saw men in ski masks rounding up the crowd. Overheard, there was a grunt of pain and the dull thunk of a body hitting the floor. He looked up again. Two unmasked Tangos had coldcocked Harvard and now held their weapons on Gabe and Quinn.
“Drop him,” they ordered.
Gabe gazed down at him, and his grip tightened. “I’m not letting you fall, Jesse. They’ll have to shoot me.”
Jesus Christ, no. Sickness surged into Jesse’s throat as he glanced back and forth between the gunmen and his friends. They were not going to die because of him. He looked down at the ground. The fall was survivable. Probably. But he’d probably break a bone or two or seven.
The gunmen were still ordering Gabe and Quinn to release him, but they were fast losing their patience. It was only a matter of time until one or both pulled the trigger. Another glance at the ground and his heart kicked with panic. Okay, not a good idea. He closed his eyes, sucked in a breath and blew it out slowly. Then he met Gabe’s gaze.
“Save Connor.”
“Jesse—”
He released his hands. Both Gabe and Quinn hung on, but their grips slipped on his sweat-dampened skin. He used his legs to swing his body, forcing them to let go, and hopefully giving himself enough momentum to hit one of the nearby palm trees instead of plummeting straight to the ground. At least then he’d have a chance of walking away.
Quinn lost his grip first, but Gabe held on, his knuckles whitening, Jesse’s skin burning under his palm with each swing.
“Let me go.”
“Not a fucking chance,” Gabe repeated Quinn’s earlier words. But then he didn’t have a choice because one of the Tangos finally pulled the trigger.
Jesse fell.