Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) (24 page)

"Who's going to see?" he retorted with a hint of laughter in his voice.

I am
. She was going straight to bed, so it didn't matter anyway. But did he really have to taunt her right now?

Just then, the sound of someone coming up the sidewalk below them caused both her and Tristan to peer over the railing.

"Could be him," she whispered as a man stepped off the curb, crossing the street toward the yellow house.

"Looks like it."

Who else could it be? Young and rotund, Manolo marched right up to the front door of his house, unlocked it, and let himself in. The light on the stoop went out. Seconds later, a lamp shone in the upstairs bedroom. Manolo appeared at the window and tugged down the blind.

"Damn it!" Frustration prickled Juliet's scalp. "He's going to bed," she raged, digging her nails into her palms.

"Might as well get some sleep yourself," Tristan suggested matter-of-factly.

"I'd rather we break in there and interrogate him," she admitted, reaching for the railing and gripping it hard.

"Trust me, we'd get shot. At least we found him," he comforted in that same accepting tone. "We'll get up early and follow him wherever he goes. Maybe he'll lead us straight to Salvador."

"
Get up
?" she asked, turning to face him.

That was a mistake. They stood less than six inches apart, and he was practically naked. "You're going to sleep, too? You're not going to watch his house tonight?" Her heart started to thud.

"There's not much point in keeping watch, is there? Don't worry. I'll get up in a few hours, well before he does. Come on." Throwing an arm around her shoulders, he escorted her into the dark apartment.

Suddenly, all Juliet could think about was how many hours were left until daylight. She'd told Tristan they weren't going to have sex again, but a part of her hoped he'd forgotten. How the hell else was she going to get through the night?

"You must be exhausted," he said, reaching back to lock the door behind them. His chest grazed her breasts, and her nipples pearled.

"Not really," she said, but that was a lie. She was tired to the bone but also keyed up—a strange combination that left her feeling a little loopy. And on top of that, her lips tingled with the sudden need to be kissed—by him, to be precise—and whisked into the rapturous state they'd shared before, leaving reality behind.

"I think I'm too wound up to sleep," she hinted.

"I know what you could do."

"What's that?" Her heart pounded with anticipation. A slippery heat seeped into her panties as she envisioned being manhandled the way he'd done the night before, flipping and lifting her while driving himself into her willing flesh until he pushed her over the edge—not once, not twice, but three times.

"You could take a hot bath," he said. "That's what I do when I can't sleep."

Was he suggesting that they take a bath together? She frowned. Tristan by himself couldn't fit in the bathroom's tiny tub, which was less than inviting anyway. It was all she could do to imagine standing on the grimy porcelain and showering off the last 24-hours.

"I put your bag in the bedroom," he added, "so you should have everything you need."

Wait. What?
The prospect of imminent rapture disintegrated like film burned by an old projector bulb. Her gaze cut to the couch where she made out a sheet and a pillow.

"Sweet dreams," he added, brushing warm lips across her cheek.

His rejection cooled her heated body. "You're sleeping out here," she realized.

"Yep." He dropped onto the sofa with an exaggerated groan of relief. "Figured if I slept on the couch, I wouldn't tempt you."

"You don't
tempt
me," she snarled back, even as her girl parts throbbed with regret.

His smile lit up the room like a bolt of lightning.

How could he act like he didn't care one way or the other? Juliet suffered the urge to hit something. Instead, she whirled toward the bedroom, slammed the door, and marched into the tiny bathroom, snapping on the light.

One look at her flushed reflection and she had to admit she'd let him get to her.

In as little as a week, Tristan Halliday had worked his way under her skin. How could she have let that happen?

Luckily, he had more willpower than she did.

"Suit yourself," she hissed spying his shaving kit, which he'd left beside the sink.

She could weather this night alone, terrified for her sister and niece. After all, she'd survived four hours of being trapped inside a car while her parents both died up front. After that experience, she figured she could get through just about anything.

The face in the mirror lost all color as a thought broke over her—anything but the loss of her remaining family. Dear God, anything but that.

* * *

The sound of the lock grating open snatched Jeremiah out of a light slumber. The stygian darkness informed him that dawn was still hours away. Emma and Sammy slept in the hammock above him, unaware that someone was stealing into the upper level of the old factory—their intent most likely foul.

Spurred to take defensive action, he rolled to his knees and darted behind the nearest cement pillar.

The door grated shut. Two men whispered in Spanish.

"Who's there?" Joe called betraying his awareness of the situation.

Jeremiah peeked around the pillar. A bright beam shot across the room as one of the intruders clicked on a flashlight. Behind the column of light, he discerned two of César's men, members of the nighttime rotation clutching pistols and scoping out the hostages. The suspicion that they were high on cocaine sent a bullet of concern whizzing through him.

Did César even know that they were up here? Did they have permission to prowl upstairs and slake their lusts on one of the hostages?

Not Emma!

Rolling toward the other side of the pillar, he looked back at her. At Joe's words of warning, she had lifted her head and was casting her gaze frantically about, searching for Jeremiah. To his relief, she didn't call for him. But the beam of the flashlight slid over her, and the interlopers snickered under their breaths as they articulated crude thoughts.

To Jeremiah's relief, their interest turned to Joe's girlfriend, Cheryl, a busty blonde, who was also awake and clinging to Joe's thick arm.

"Don't even think about it," he growled as the men approached the pair.

His glowering face and aggressive posture must have convinced them he presented more trouble than they presently desired.

They drifted toward the three women traveling with Noah. Ann, Katherine, and Liz had also come awake, staring fearfully from their respective hammocks. As Noah jerked to a sitting position, the interlopers considered his taut expression, then evidently dismissed him as a threat. But the resolve in Noah's expression raised a red flag in Jeremiah's mind.

However young, the boy would defend his womenfolk—or die trying.

Keeping a wary eye on Joe, the larger of the two intruders ordered his companion to cover him as he holstered his Glock and produced a deadly switchblade in its stead. Showing it to the three women, he hissed at them in Spanish to keep quiet or he would slit the throat of the first person to make a sound. To reinforce the threat, his companion racked the slide on his pistol.

Jeremiah's blood ran cold. César could not have agreed to this. He wouldn't want any of his valuable hostages injured when he'd yet to get ransom for them. Also, the men wouldn't care about being quiet if their actions had been sanctioned by their leader.

As they reached for Noah's youngest aunt—unmarried, attractive, and petite—Jeremiah and Joe responded simultaneously. Lurching from his hammock, Joe tackled the man with the switchblade while Jeremiah pounced on the man with the pistol, jerking his arm up just as it discharged. The bullet struck the ceiling, and the flashlight hit the floor, flickering but illuminating the ensuing struggle.

The strength in Jeremiah's opponent caught him by surprise—cocaine, he realized, confirming his earlier suspicion. Or had his own lack of nutrition weakened him so much? It took a concentrated effort to sweep the
narco
's feet out from under him and throw him face-first to the floor while preventing him from squeezing off another round.

Wrenching the weapon from the man's slackened grasp, he hammered it hard against the side of his head, rendering him unconscious. Joe, meanwhile, had turned his opponent's switchblade back on him. Gutting him like a fish, the cop left him lying in a puddle of blood with the haft sticking obscenely from his stomach.

Palming the Glock he'd recovered, Jeremiah weighed his odds of using it. Joe simultaneously snatched the pistol from the holster of the knifed
narco
. Over the bodies of the fallen men, they looked at each other before the pounding of feet on the stairs sent them breaking for cover in opposite directions.

"Everyone down!" Jeremiah warned, ducking back behind the pillar.

With his heart galloping, he assessed his and Joe's odds of overcoming their captors and gaining freedom. As the lights blinked on, he shut his eyelids against the glare and quietly checked the number of rounds in the gun he held. Damn it, only two. He closed the magazine with a snick, opened his eyes, and waited.

What they did next depended on how many rounds Joe had, and only Joe—wherever he was hiding—knew the answer to that. Discounting the two men they'd debilitated, they were still outnumbered seven to two.

Shouting for their leader, the newcomers rushed toward their fallen comrades.

Jeremiah peeked around the pillar, noted the weapons in their hands, and prayed for Joe to initiate.

"
Qué pasó aquí
?"

César's raging question cut through the cries of confusion as he elbowed his way forward.

Jeremiah stole another peek, and his hopes floundered at the sight of César's AK-47 resting in the crook of his arm, finger on the trigger. A vision of it spewing bullets at the other hostages ripped through his mind. If Joe came out shooting now, he knew what would happen.

Moving fast to avert what he'd seen, Jeremiah placed the Glock by his feet, kicked it gently toward his captors, and sidled into view with his hands raised. He found himself looking at the wrong end of half a dozen guns, including César's. In his peripheral vision, he searched for Joe but couldn't see him.

To his dismay, Emma scrambled from her hammock and jumped in front of him.

"Don't shoot him," she pleaded.

Jeremiah jerked her behind him, where she wouldn't get shot. "Everyone put your hands up," he suggested to his fellow captives.

The best they could hope for was to look subdued, to make it apparent that the intruders had been the aggressors, and they'd merely been defending themselves. One by one the captives put their hands into the air.

Following Cheryl's anxious gaze, Jeremiah realized Joe had hidden himself in one of the bathrooms, behind the
narcos,
who waded deeper into the room. If he came out shooting now, Jeremiah could still lunge for the gun he'd surrendered and shoot César with it—possibly killing him before he slaughtered anyone.

But Joe didn't emerge. A tense silence filled the chamber as César approached Jeremiah to snatch up the pistol. Spearing him with a suspicious gaze, César turned his focus on the bleeding
narco
as that man gasped his last breath then fell silent.

The shocked captives all stared at him. Stepping over the dead man, César crossed to his companion and nudged him with his toe, eliciting a groan. He ordered the man to wake up.

"
Quién mató a Jorge
?" he demanded as the man's eyes blinked open. Bending over, he seized him by the scruff. "
Quién lo mató?"
he repeated. Who killed him? "
Él
?" He thrust a finger in Jeremiah's direction.

The recovering
narco
turned to look at Jeremiah, and the memory of being slammed to the floor registered clearly on his face. But César missed the look, having noticed the dead man's empty holster.

"
Tuvo su pistola?
" he asked the stunned youth. Did he have his pistol?

"
No sé
," the recruit replied, rubbing the lump on his head.

With a growl of disgust, César straightened and started to count his captives. Jeremiah knew the second that he realized Joe was missing. Spinning around suspiciously, he brought his rifle up a second time.

"
Dónde está tu novio?
" he barked at Cheryl.

The other guerillas spread out, searching the open space for any sign of Joe.

Cheryl shook her head, fear emanating from her quaking form. "I-I don't know. I think he's using the bathroom, maybe."

As César ordered his men to search the bathrooms, one of the doors opened, and there stood Joe with his hands in the air—no pistol in sight.

"Easy, easy!" he said as several men grabbed him, flung him against the wall, and patted him down. One of them stepped into the bathroom, searched it, and came out shaking his head.

César marched back to the stunned
narco
who had managed to sit up. Pointing at Joe, he demanded if Joe had been the one to kill Jorge.