While I can vouch for the fact that there are some incredibly beautiful women who work for the CIA, I have never been interested in one. I didn’t think it was good to mix business and pleasure.
Greer Hathaway, at that very first meeting, made me reconsider that rule.
Such an interesting start to our relationship. We had a long journey together thereafter.
An amazing journey that changed my life.
And then everything went to shit.
I haven’t seen the woman in twelve years. Even when I still worked for the CIA, our paths never crossed because her work was international and I remained stateside. Admittedly, I had suppressed the urge at times to check up on her. I could’ve easily done it by looking at her file, given my security clearance.
But I didn’t. I stuck to the promise I made myself that when I walked away from her, I was never looking back.
And I didn’t.
Until now.
I’m jolted out of my memory when my phone rings. The Bluetooth connects to the speakers, and Dozer’s voice comes across the line. “I updated your route to Mejia’s warehouse and sent a topography map. It appears pretty isolated and surrounded by dense forest. I’m also sending you the most up-to-date building plans for that warehouse. It has a basement level, so if they’re holding her—”
“—it’s most likely in the basement,” I finish the thought. “Thanks, Dozer.”
I look at the computer screen sitting on my passenger seat and a new map uploads, showing my destination is only about seven miles ahead.
“The red dot on your screen indicates where you need to park,” Dozer instructs. “It’s about a quarter mile down from the warehouse at an abandoned property.”
“Sounds good. I’ll call you when I get set up.” The plan is for me travel in by foot so I can reconnoiter the warehouse perimeter to estimate how many people I’ll be dealing with. Then I’m going to hook up with Dozer over the internet so he can provide support. “Do you think you’re going to be able to get satellite imagery?”
“Bebe’s already hacked into a satellite whose orbit should provide us real-time photos for at least the next twenty minutes. After that, she’ll have to hack another.”
“Perfect. I’ll call you back when I’m set up.”
As we disconnect, the paved entrance leading into Mejia’s warehouse comes into view, and as suspected, two armed guards are posted at its intersection with the road. I drive casually by, not turning my head to look at them. Instead, I travel a quarter mile up the road to the spot Dozer directed me where I can hide the Jeep and cut through the forest.
Once parked under the cover of the forest, I work from the rear of the Jeep, going through all my supplies to ensure I have what I need. I slip the backpack onto my shoulders and double-check that my Heckler & Koch VP9 pistol is loaded, its silencer screwed on. The last thing I take out of the Jeep is a compound bow and three arrows that have been fitted with C-4–packed tips. A bit of explosives can make a good enough distraction for a getaway.
I catch a lot of shit from the younger guys at Jameson, given that I’m one of the older agents there at age forty-one. But right now, I’m carrying roughly thirty-five pounds of equipment on my back as I jog through dense forest, and I make it to the edge of Mejia’s property in less than three minutes. I’m barely winded.
The warehouse sits on roughly an acre of land, and my biggest obstacle is going to be the ten-foot chain-link fence with razor wire on top that surrounds the entire perimeter. There is only one double gate that allows entrance, and just inside is a parking lot with four vehicles. I make my way around the property, grateful the forest abuts the fence so it’s easy to maintain my cover. On one end of the warehouse is a loading dock and two military-style trucks with flatbeds stacked high with wooden crates. Peering through my binoculars, I see some of the crates are labeled in black stenciled letters: BALAS.
Bullets.
Outside, I only see one armed guard at the gate, but two more stand on the loading dock.
I continue moving around the crudely constructed building. It’s two stories high with no windows, which is the best stroke of luck I’ve had so far. At the back, a steel door has a single guard stationed at it. There’s no gate in the fence area near the door, so entry is going to be difficult. The guard I can handle once I get past the chain-link.
It takes no more than ten minutes to make a full circle around the fence perimeter and back to my Jeep. Ultimately, I only saw five armed guards outside, and none appeared to be Vecindario 18, who I have to consider are all inside.
This isn’t surprising. When Frankie told me Mejia had called in extra support from Vecindario 18 to the warehouse, I didn’t think it was to help guard against infiltration. My guess is he’s using the gang members to “interrogate” Greer, and given they are some of the most violent gangsters in the world, I have to swallow the bile as I imagine what their method of interrogation would look like. I can only hope to God that they’re using more conventional means as Greer is a tough woman. She can withstand a beating, knives, sleep deprivation, loud sound torture, and other intimidation tactics. I’m not sure she can survive gang rape.
Sliding off the backpack, bow, and quiver, I pull out the heavy-duty satellite laptop and move to the Jeep’s tailgate. I open it, set the laptop down, and log into the special site Dozer previously added access to. I hook up an earbud and dial Dozer on my phone.
He answers on the first ring, and I slip the phone in a side cargo pocket. “I’ve got Bebe here. Are you ready?”
“Just logged on.”
I can hear Bebe clacking away on her keyboard, and after just a few keystrokes, she says, “Okay… I’m in. Give me a minute.”
By in, she means she’s located the Wi-Fi signal from the warehouse that I latched onto with my laptop. Bebe, from where she sits in Pittsburgh, is now making her way into their Wi-Fi, freezing firewalls and creating secret passageways.
At least that’s what I imagine she’s doing. I know whatever she does, she’s going to take control of any security system they have in place.
“Security system has an alarm that’s not activated, although I can see by the history, it’s set whenever the warehouse is closed up. There are several cameras not working, but there are currently sixteen active cameras, and I’m sending their feed to your laptop now.”
I bend closer to the laptop, and the screen flickers before grids appear, four across and four down, each with a different camera feed. Most are of the first floor, filled with rows and rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves loaded with munitions. There’s a camera on the loading dock, one at the back door, and one that appears to be inside an office supposedly used by Mejia, although it’s unoccupied.
Inside the warehouse itself, I see four more armed guards patrolling with semiautomatic rifles.
And there, in a large room with a conference table sits Mejia and four men who are clearly gang members by the way they’re dressed as compared to his uniformed forces. They’re laughing at something Mejia says, and I wonder if they’ve already had a go at Greer. It makes me sick to my stomach to think they have.
My eyes roam back over the feeds, and I zero in on one of a narrow hallway that only shows its length. I can’t tell if it’s got rooms to the left or right, but a guard moves in and out of frame as he marches back and forth.