CHAPTER TWELVE

Stephanie wrenched her arm out of the mercenary’s grip.  With a none-too-gentle shove, he pushed her into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.  With a quick look around, she took in the surroundings, noting the overabundance of frilly bedding and the canopy over the four-poster, king-sized bed.  The room itself was twice the size of the guest room she’d used, so this was probably the master suite, belonging to Tabby’s parents.  More obvious, Mrs. Donnelly had handled the decorating, because there wasn’t anything masculine in the entire room.  Her husband apparently indulged her feminine taste, at least here in their vacation home, because she couldn’t picture Albert Donnelly living amidst such feminine frippery on a routine basis. 

She noted the wall of closet space and shrugged.  These guys seemed too thorough to have missed anybody hiding in there, so it was kind of a moot point, but it would have been nice to have some of that closet space in the guest room. 

Wrapping her arms across her chest, she shivered at the thought of being at Gareth Prescott’s mercy.  Once he’d revealed his true colors, back when she’d been Jasmine DuBois, she’d been cowed by the physical and emotional stranglehold he’d had on her.  Yet she’d stood up to him and testified, sending him to prison for twenty-five years to life, and beginning a new chapter in her own life. 

The moment she’d seen him downstairs, her entire world tilted on its axis.  He shouldn’t be here.  He should be dressed in prison orange, behind bars, not wearing a Hugo Boss charcoal suit, in a luxury villa in the middle of a Costa Rican rainforest. 

And Etienne.  She couldn’t believe he’d walked right into the middle of the entire fiasco, like he was strolling into the office on a normal Monday morning.  She knew Carpenter wouldn’t have sent Etienne in alone.  He was too smart, too well-trained, and always prepared for any emergency. 

What game is Etienne playing? 

Striding over to the balcony, she stared out into the dense foliage surrounding the back of the villa, searching for—she wasn’t sure what the hell she was looking for—but anything to indicate Etienne hadn’t mounted a one-man rescue.  Her eyes skimmed across thick jungle plants, their deep green color excellent camouflage for anybody or anything wanting to be hidden.

About to give up and go back inside, she noted something on the periphery of her vision.  It was there and gone, and she spun toward it, staring at the space.  Watching intently, she saw a section of leaves slowly move, almost fluttering in an invisible breeze, and hidden in their depths was a face she knew, one she saw almost every day.  Sebastian Boudreau, Etienne’s younger brother. 

Taking a deep breath, she blew it out slowly, and felt a wave of relief flood her.  She knew it.  He wasn’t here alone, there was backup, and she just needed to be patient.  Samuel’s men were trained professionals, although she didn’t remember them ever dealing with a situation quite like this. 

Another face appeared beside Bas’, one she didn’t recognize.  Darkly tanned, he appeared a few years older than the Boudreaus, and she realized he must be somebody they’d hired to assist with their rescue.  Someone who’d handled these kinds of extractions before, because Carpenter only hired the best. 

Now she had to wait.  Etienne was here, and even though they’d hauled him out of the study, she knew they wouldn’t be able to keep him down for long. 

She just had to wait.  Because Etienne was here and he’d make everything alright—he’d promised—and she believed him.

# # # # # #

Dylan Roberts still didn’t like the situation.  Too many things could go wrong, and usually did when people went off script.  Which was exactly what Etienne Boudreau had just done. 

Missions like this required reconnaissance and timing, a quality both Boudreau brothers seemed to lack.  Too obsessed with saving the women—one woman in particular. 

Women were a distraction when it came to fulfilling a mission, and men seemed to veer off target whenever a pretty face batted her lashes or shook her booty.  He’d seen too many good men led astray, following their little head instead of using their brains. 

Julio handed him the satellite phone, and mouthed a single word.  Wolf.

“Roberts.”

“Update me, Avalanche.  The Boudreaus get there?” 

Dylan wanted to roll his eyes but refrained—barely.  “Yeah, they’re here.”

Wolf’s chuckle only increased his irritation. “You don’t seem thrilled with our Cajun friends.”

“You might say that.  One of ’em went off half-cocked, and practically delivered himself to the guards on a silver platter.”

“Let me guess—Etienne?” 

“Right the first time, Wolf.”  He noted Bas’ eyes widen at the mention of Wolf’s name.  Guy made no secret of the fact he was listening in on a private conversation.  Then again, nothing about this mission was private from the Boudreau brothers.  Carpenter’s enormous paycheck ensured that fact.  But he didn’t have time to deal with Bas’ eavesdropping, he needed to get this hostage situation resolved, so he could get back to his hammock and his beer, not necessarily in that order.  There was a reason why he’d given up active duty. 

“Situation update?”

“Fifteen mercs, all armed with HK-416, a couple of M4 carbines, and AK-47s.  Might add a couple more to that number, since a car arrived with at least a driver and passenger.” 

“Intel on the civilians?”  Wolf’s voice was all business.  Dylan liked that about the man he’d worked a few missions with, when the situation warranted.

The Riverton SEAL team got the job done.  Gathered intelligence, scoped out territories, and were prepared for any contingency.  That part of the SEAL life he missed.  While he had his own team here in Costa Rica, and they were good, nothing compared with the comradery and precision of working a mission with your brothers-in-arms, knowing they had your back.  Loyalty only went as far as the paycheck down here.

“Five civilians, not counting the Boudreau who just deliberately got himself caught.  Cook, driver, and three females.  One is the daughter of Albert Donnelly.  Another works for Samuel Carpenter.  The third female goes by Marie, but I’m having trouble getting any information on her—which bothers me.”

“Understood.  Bothers me too.”  Wolf’s voice was muffled and unintelligible, as he spoke with somebody else, and Dylan waited.  “Carlisle got a hit on facial recognition for Marie.” 

“Carlisle?”

“Stefan Carlisle.  Computer expert for Carpenter Security.  He’s almost as good as Tex.”  Dylan could hear the smile in Wolf’s words at the mention of his friend and computer expert for the SEAL team. 

“High praise indeed.  What did this Carlisle find?”

“Marie is actually Maria De La Fuego.  Had a couple of busts for trafficking across the U.S. Mexico border.  Looks like she’s pretty small time—hang on.” Wolf’s voice faded into the distance, and Dylan paced, his eyes glued to the front entrance of the villa. This job required patience, something he’d learned at Uncle Sam’s knee, and become an expert.  He watched each of his people doing their jobs and doing them well.  The perimeter of the property was under surveillance.  Nobody was coming or leaving without being seen and identified, especially not the hostages. 

“You still there?”

“Of course.”

“I can guarantee Samuel Carpenter’s hightailing it to the airport as we speak.  There’s some pretty bad blood between him and Prescott, from what I’ve heard.  The bigger problem is the girl.”

One of the hostages?  If Prescott was behind this, it made sense he was after one of them. 

“Which one?”

“Stephanie Barnes.  She works for Carpenter Security.  Damn it, I wish we were close, to give you backup.  You can’t make this personal, Avalanche.  No matter how badly you want to break his neck, you do your job.  Let the authorities handle Prescott.  Got it?” 

A veil of red washed across his field of vision, and the ringing in his ears nearly obliterated Wolf’s words, but he knew the job came first.  Taking out the target could wait.  But once the hostages were secure, Prescott was his. 

“I know how to do my job.  I’ll have a welcoming party at the airport for Carpenter.  But when the op’s done...”

There was a long pause before Wolf spoke.  “Get the civilians clear, then anything else is collateral damage.”

Yeah, he liked that.  Collateral damage, just like his sweet little Emily had been collateral damage to a man like Gareth Prescott.  Men who thought that money and power meant they were immune to the consequences of their actions.  The numbness he’d carried around for years began receding, leaving in its wake the fire of justice delayed.  He would save the women, all of them, and then Gareth Prescott would die.