Edge of Fury (Edge Security Series Book 7) Page 4

  Fucking accountants back home.

  Quinn checked her weapons before she strapped them on. One knife went into a left-thigh sheath and the other into an ankle sheath hidden in her boot. Her Glock went in a holster on her right thigh. The Baby Glock went into a holster at the small of her back, part of her utility belt, and the ammo into pouches on the belt. Last, she added a penlight and a small first aid kit.

  What she wouldn’t give for a few grenades. But again, not sanctioned.

  She paused and realized she was getting ready for a fight. Not an assassination. Subconsciously, she’d already decided not to kill Natalie, but to rescue her.

  It was a fucking suicide mission. But Quinn had to try to save her. She had to.

  Her room at the back of the clinic faced the lush wilderness that surrounded the town. She opened her shutters and stepped out onto the narrow balcony that ran around the building’s second floor. She crept by Ian’s room, though he should be downstairs near the patients. One of them always slept downstairs in case someone needed them. The balcony had a metal staircase at the back corner.

  She ran through the jungle on a well-defined path, making her way to a back road where she’d left their jeep earlier. She was far enough from the clinic that she didn’t have to worry about the noise from starting the engine. Back roads wound themselves all through this area in a haphazard way. It had taken her weeks to map and then memorize where they all led.

  She avoided the main road that led to the compound, taking windy, little-used roads instead, some of them barely more than ruts. Less than thirty minutes later, she pulled over at a spot where she’d parked many nights before. It was about a two-klick hike to the wall of the compound on the narrow path she’d carved through the ferns, fronds, vines, and trees.

  She jogged the two klicks and then climbed the eight-foot wall and peeked over it. Light beamed from the house even though it was after midnight. Two guards stood on the roof. They would change out just before dawn. She wet her dry lips. The guards were the first obstacle of many.

  Quinn dropped to the ground and moved to the northern edge of the property, the farthest from the driveway. She climbed a tree and surveyed the area. Still no movement.

  She could back out. No one would know but her that she hadn’t risked her life for a dying woman. Quinn breathed deep, trying to release the tension creeping into her shoulders. She could have asked her handler for backup on this. It would have made the job easier. But Damien was an SIS agent. He would have denied Quinn the rescue while he spent time checking in with his superiors. Natalie didn’t have that time.

  And as an SRR operator, Quinn had been trained for solo operations just like this. Natalie needed her and Quinn had the ability to help.

  Quinn breathed out another long breath.

  Who Dares, Wins

  She would do this. Not just because she was a soldier, but because she was a medic and a woman. She would not leave Natalie behind.

  A small light flared on the roof, highlighting the planes of one guard’s face while he cupped his hands around a cigarette. At least it would destroy his night vision for a few minutes.

  Time to move. She scooted along a branch until she hung out over the wall. It wasn’t smooth stone, and eight feet wasn’t that high, so it would be no problem to climb on the way out.

  For her, at least.

  But she would get Natalie over the wall when the time came, even if she had to throw the woman. Quinn dropped lightly to the other side of the wall and then onto her stomach, keeping still for a moment in case her movement had attracted the guards’ attention.

  One guard faced the front of the house while the other smoked and stared into the night, though not in her direction. She belly crawled slowly to the chain-link fence around the tennis court. Music drifted from inside the house. The jungle was just as loud behind her, night animals rustling and bugs chirping and buzzing through the undergrowth. The grass tickled her nose as she moved. She did not want to run into a scorpion or a banana spider while she was down here.

  Ahead, the pool had a two-foot-high decorative stone fence around it. It really didn’t seem to have a purpose, but it would allow her to get that much closer to the house. There was a five-meter gap between the tennis court and the pool.

  Quinn slowed her movements and her breathing. She was going to have to take out those guards before she left. She debated doing it first, but decided against it. Who knew if Natalie was even still alive? If she wasn’t, Quinn didn’t want anyone to know she’d been there.

  And two dead bodies on the roof might give that away, she thought wryly.

  She closed her eyes for a second. Natalie would be alive. Quinn hadn’t left her to die, tortured and alone.

  She took a deep breath and steadied herself. Time to cross the gap.

  Slow and deliberate, Quinn reached her arms out a few inches, dug her toes in, and pushed forward. The key was small movements. Measured and steady. She had to ignore the presence of the man on the roof who’d most likely finished his cigarette and now stared down at the lawn where she lay. She couldn’t attract his attention by looking up at him, though every instinct told her to.

  Any moment now, she might feel a bullet in her back. Quinn focused on each breath, each reach and pull. On Natalie, who needed her.

  Reach.

  Pull.

  Her fingers touched the small wall of the pool, and her breath whooshed out of her in relief. But she wasn’t there yet. It took several more minutes of inching to line herself up so the wall covered her. She could move faster now that the two-foot wall shielded her, but she still had to make it to the house and out of the rear guard’s line of sight.

  And then past the interior guards.

  A small voice inside her insisted again that this was a suicide mission.

  She told the voice to shut it.

  Ten meters left between her and the back door. She’d have to crawl about eight meters to be out of the guard’s line of sight. She didn’t think, just inched her hands out and began to move slower than a turtle toward the house, with her ears attuned to every noise, listening hard for any movement from the roof. If the guard saw her, she wouldn’t know until it was too late.

  Don’t think about it.

  Reach. Pull. Listen. Reach.

  Slowly, her body inched forward. A part of her brain played out scenarios of what she would do if someone walked out the back door or if cigarette guy saw her. But she mostly kept her thoughts calm.

  She’d always believed that somehow being emotional even just inside your own head, whether being scared or angry, could attract attention. So she’d worked hard through all of her training to keep calm both inside and out, and it served her well.

  At the very least it stopped her from freaking out in situations like this.

  Quinn’s hands passed the invisible line she’d made in her head that marked the safe zone, and she grinned. Almost there.

  Moments later, she stood by the house wall, rolled her shoulders, and checked her weapons. She’d use her knife first. If she ran into problems, meaning if all hell broke loose, then she’d use her gun.

  The back door wasn’t locked. The sound of music was louder. Quinn peeked through the window of the door into the kitchen. A man stood at the counter, his hips swaying to the beat as he made sandwiches. Almost a domestic sight, except for the rifle slung across his back. He had a plate beside him. Three sandwiches, and he was working on a fourth. He turned slightly.

  Gómez.

  Quinn eased the door open. Keeping her mind free of emotion and her breathing quiet and steady, she slipped inside and moved toward him. He couldn’t be left at her back. She raised her knife. This needed to be quick and quiet. Even a silenced gunshot was still a gunshot. Much louder than anything shown on TV unless she used subsonic ammo—none of which was in her budget.

  With quick, economical movements, Quinn covered Gómez’s mouth with one hand and shoved her knife hard into his neck with the other,
aiming for the brain stem and twisting. He dropped the sandwich and spun out of her arms, spraying the room with blood as he did.

  Shit. That was unfortunate. Now it didn’t matter if she hid the body.

  His eyes widened, and his hands gripped his throat as if to stop the blood pouring from there. He fell to his knees. She eased him down to his back and left him gurgling in his own blood. He’d be dead in seconds, and he wouldn’t be heard over the music playing in the background.

  What would her family think about her ruthlessness? Her brother Jack, an SAS operator, would understand. Her mom might be a bit sad that her daughter was a killer, but she’d lift her chin and say it was good Quinn had taken a rapist and killer out of this world. At least, Quinn hoped. It was what the Sinclairs did. Do what had to be done and make the best of it.

  The door to the basement stood ajar. Three different voices chatted about their card game and where the hell their sandwiches were. Only one way in and out of this little prison. She’d have to get by those guards.

  She grabbed the platter of sandwiches and held it waist high. Her other hand gripped her Glock just under the tray. Three calming breaths, in and out. Focus on the task. Take out the guards.

  She stomped down the stairs as if she were Gómez. Her boots and dark pants could have been his. She only needed to fool them for a second so she could get line of sight.

  Two steps.

  Three. The table legs and a pair of sneakers came into view.

  Five steps. She saw waists of two men around the card table. Any farther, and they’d realize she wasn’t Gómez.

  Quinn dropped to a kneeling position on the stairs, letting the tray tumble from her hands, hoping it would draw their gazes for a split second. She shot the first two guards in the face before they realized what was happening. The third got his weapon out and a shot off before she put a bullet in his chest and then his face.

  She ran down the stairs and to the door of the cell. She went to throw it open when a muffled shout echoed; she jumped to the side, barely missing the haze of bullets that splintered the door from the other side.

  There had been a fourth guard down here. Damn it. She was stupid to assume only three, just because of the sandwiches.

  There was no time to wait the guard out. She kicked the door open and dove through, rolling to the side with her weapon up. Shots blasted through the small cement room, deafening her. She took a split second to scan the room and verify her target.

  Natalie lay on the floor near the back wall, her hands bound behind her. More blood pooled around her. The man who’d shot at Quinn stood in the center of the room near Natalie’s empty chair. Quinn sighted and shot twice even as he leveled his rifle on her.

  He fell and lay still.

  She darted to Natalie and sliced through the ropes on her wrists. “We need to get you out of here now.”

  Natalie groaned when her hands came free. “You have to run.”

  “We have to run.”

  Natalie coughed, and red flecked her lips. “I’m not running anywhere and you know it, Doc.”

  “Then I’ll carry you.” Quinn hauled Natalie into a sitting position.

  Natalie groaned and clutched at her middle. Quinn gave her a second to catch her breath.

  “How are you going to shoot and carry me?” Natalie demanded.

  “You’re going to shoot,” Quinn said. “I’m pretty sure that whoever you work for taught you to use a weapon.”

  Natalie tried to smile. “I like you.” She coughed again. “But it won’t work. I’m close to passing out. As soon as you lift me, I’ll be useless to you.”

  “I am not leaving you behind.”

  “You have to,” she insisted. “There’s something more important at stake… There’s information…on a flash drive. I hid it.”

  Quinn frowned. “Hid it where?”

  “Where a woman would find it.” Natalie rattled off an address. “In Cartagena. Get the drive. Give it to Ethan Fletcher. Only Fletcher. Don’t trust anyone else. Promise me. Don’t trust anyone else. It’s how I ended up here.”

  “Okay, I promise.” Quinn memorized the address. “But I’m not leaving you.”

  “You must.” Blood bubbled on her lips. “Pérez was handing me over to a group of mercenaries tonight…led by...Scott Timmerman…He works for someone in the UK. They could be here any minute. You can’t be here when they get here.”

  “Mercs?” Quinn shook her head. No more time for questions. “Natalie, we have to go.” She crouched and pulled the woman’s arm over her shoulder, careful to get the side without the punctured lung. Quinn bent so that when she pulled on the arm, the woman’s waist would be over her shoulder.

  She heaved and used the muscles in her back and legs to lift in a fireman’s carry. Natalie gave a short scream and then went limp. Quinn ignored her and left the room, keeping her left arm around Natalie’s legs and holding the gun in her right. She could do this.

  Shouts sounded from upstairs.

  Fuck.

  Quinn went up the stairs as fast as she could while carrying a hundred-and-twenty-pound woman. Gómez’s music still played in the kitchen. But nothing had been moved. Gunfire sounded outside.

  What the fuck?

  Quinn went to the back door and peered out. All clear. There were shouts and shots from the front yard. Someone had engaged the guards there. Maybe the mercenaries Natalie mentioned?

  Quinn didn’t care. Using the distraction, she bolted for the wall, Natalie bumping on her shoulder.

  4

  “Who the fuck is that?” Marc whispered.

  “Spooky, say again, over,” Cat answered him. She had taken the overwatch position from the eastern side of the property where she could see the front driveway, as well as the rear where they planned to enter. Cat had her sniper rifle to take out any outdoor guards. She’d seek height—probably a tree—for clear views of the area and decent shots.

  Rhys and Zach were on either side of Marc’s position near the back stone wall. He scanned the grounds. Cat would take out the rooftop guards, and then they’d go in. Quick and quiet.

  Except someone was belly crawling toward the house. It had taken Marc a minute to spot the guy who moved slow and steady toward the house. Who the fuck was he?

  “Valkyrie,” Marc said, “we’ve got an unknown operator belly crawling to the target.”

  “Switching to thermal,” Cat answered and then cursed. “Seen. Anyone else in the area?”

  Marc switched his NVGs to thermal and did a quick scan of the surrounding jungle as well as the rest of the lawn around the mansion. “Negative, Valkyrie.”

  “Nothing here either, Valkyrie,” Rhys said from his western position.

  “Negative,” Zach said.

  “Get into position to follow the plan,” Valkyrie said. “But wait out. I want to know what this asshole thinks he’s doing.”

  “A lone man usually indicates an assassination,” Rhys said.

  “Good point,” Cat replied.

  “Should we take him out?” Zach asked.

  Marc shook his head even as Cat echoed his thoughts. “Negative,” she said. “Let’s wait and see what happens. Once he’s inside, we’ll follow through with our plans. He might prove a useful diversion if he’s after Pérez. If he interferes with us, take him out.”

  The solo man had to be an operator of some sort because of the way he moved. Precise and controlled. He’d been taught how to approach a target undetected. Who could he be? Someone from the SIS or the SAS here for their agent? Or someone here to assassinate Pérez, or perhaps take out the agent? Regardless, the man was alone and could be just enough of a wrench in their plans to create a complete goatfuck of this op.

  The soldier finally made it to the wall of the house, waited a couple of breaths, and then slipped in the back door.

  “I’m sighting the roof guards now,” Cat said softly. A crack ripped the night air. A guard toppled off the roof. The other guard yelled. Another crack. H
e dropped where he stood. “Tangos down. Move.”

  Marc sprinted with Rhys and Zach across the lawn to the back door. They kept their rifles up as they moved into the house. No opposition.

  Blood splattered the walls of the kitchen and pooled under the body sprawled by the table. Messy, but it happened sometimes. No sign of the initial operator.

  Zach went first through the kitchen door and down the hall, followed close by Rhys. Marc moved with them and kept an eye on their six. They would clear the first floor before they headed to the basement. None of them wanted to be trapped down there by guards they hadn’t taken care of.

  Their rubber-soled boots made no sound on the marble floors as the three of them moved in an easy flow with each other. A guard stood looking out the window beside the front door while another sat on the sweeping staircase to the second floor.

  Zach shot a single round at one while Rhys took the other. The men thumped to the ground. Zach kept moving, rifle roving where his gaze went. Rhys and Marc followed close behind. They went room to room, but no other guards were on the first floor.

  “Where are the rest?” Marc asked. “Upstairs or down?”

  “Hurry it up, boys,” Cat’s voice said over the comms. “We’ve got company. Four tangos just rolled up in a jeep. Armed with rifles.”

  Marc peeked out a front window. Hard, weathered men, Caucasian with beards and camouflaged clothing. One of them, a tall man with glasses and a hard gaze—obviously the leader—gestured to the other men to keep guard. Marc would bet they’d had some kind of military training. But how good were they? “Who the fuck are they? Mercenaries?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care,” Cat said. “Find the agent and get out.”

  Outside, one of the men shouted. “Mr. Timmerman, we’ve got a dead body.” They’d found the guard who’d fallen from the roof. The man with glasses had the other mercs fan out with their weapons up, before he took out a phone.