Chapter 1
It had been several weeks since the shooting at the museum that had sent Ryland back to the hospital. Now that he was safely out at sea with Tabi and enjoying his life, Eton Duram and Cain Bestrow had gone dark, hiding, while they figured out what in the hell they would do next. They knew it was all about gathering intel at this point, and, since they had a solid plan, it was time to make a move.
But just because Cain had plans in mind didn’t mean their opponents didn’t have plans of their own. Cain couldn’t forget the last words of one of the gunmen they’d taken out at the art gallery with Ryland.
“Cain, you’re next.”
So not only had Green’s goons known who Ryland was, they’d also known who Cain was, and the gunmen had made it very clear that killing Bullard was part of their plan. So, taking him out—along with the rest of the team—was all part and parcel of the same deal. Cain still had no word on Bullard, after his plane had been downed, dumping him and Ryland and Garret in the ocean. It ate at Cain to think of that strong and majestic man out there suffering.
Bullard would deal with it in his usual stoic way, but he would also know that his team would be looking for him. Even now four of them still went up and down the coast, checking the small islands, speaking to the local fishermen and talking to the natives to ensure that nobody had seen Bullard or had picked him up accidentally. Or picked him up and helped him but hadn’t told the authorities, for whatever reason. Cain had absolutely no proof that Bullard had been picked up and knew it was all too likely he’d become fish food, but that was something impossible to reconcile with a six-foot-six 260-pound powerhouse.
But everybody died sometime, even Bullard.
Cain stood here, staring out the window of the Swiss chalet high up in the Alps; not a place most people expected him to go, but he needed to go underground, and here he was. Garret was at least awake now; not necessarily doing very well, but he was awake and aware. It had taken him days, but, once he’d come out of the coma, everything had seemed to go so much easier in Garret’s recovery. He’d started healing much faster too. It would be at least a couple weeks before he was well enough to join the fight, but he was eager, willing, and actually pissed off at being held back. Yet he had agreed to recuperate, as was Ryland, for the time being.
In the meantime, Garret was in the hospital, waiting for the swelling on his brain to stabilize. He had also suffered several other fractures, and they needed to heal up as well. A few more days and he could leave the hospital and recuperate elsewhere. So, while Garret and Ryland recovered from their injuries, Cain had Eton at his side.
He turned to see his old friend with spreadsheets all over the place. “You and your spreadsheets,” Cain said, shaking his head.
“I could say the same about you and your blueprints, you know?” Eton shook his head.
“At least my paperwork gets us in and out of buildings.”
“And mine is getting us in and out of bank accounts,” Eton said, laughing.
“Have to give you that one,” Cain muttered because that’s what Eton was doing—sorting money, seeing who was moving money where.
They had tracked down as many of the gunmen involved in Ryland’s case as they could. Then they had tracked the money trail. And definitely money had been flowing. When Green—the guy who set up the big finale in the museum–went down, his life had become an open book, and the team had gone through it with a fine-tooth comb, looking at every account and connection to see how he was hired, who did it, and why.
It was the why that kept poking at the team because, without a why, none of the rest of it made any sense. They were just so close but couldn’t find anything they could hold on to. They had plenty of old cases that gave them a big list of suspects. They had again sorted through the initial nineteen cases with the most likely perps—minus the five dead and the one in a coma—where they thought someone might have viable reasons, resources, and the means to come after Bullard and his team. Now they’d whittled those thirteen cases down to seven.
The father who’d lost his daughter on one of Bullard’s missions was one of the possible suspects. Particularly since two of his men had come to work for Bullard for a time and then went back to working with the father—as if checking out Bullard’s team for its weaknesses and strengths, collecting intel for their boss. So, there was always a chance the mastermind behind this attack on Bullard and his team was this father, who sought vengeance for the death of his daughter by kidnappers. Unfortunately Bullard’s team had arrived too late to save her. Cain and Eton had finally located the father, named Groner, and he currently lived just outside of Dubai.
But where was he at any other time? Who knew? His face was a permanent fixture associated with the media company he handled. The problem was the timing. It just didn’t make a whole lot of sense why he would do this now. It was one thing to wait for an opportunity, but it was another thing to choose an opportunity this far down the road. It had been at least one year ago since his daughter had died in captivity. Maybe even longer than that. It was amazing how time flew by when you were having fun. And since when did visiting Ice and Levi constitute a weakness or provide the opportunity for an attack?
Because Bullard flew all over the place. Or did someone just happen to have contacts in Houston that Groner could pull from? Or even anywhere in America actually because Houston was just another one of a zillion mega-airports around the world.
But small private planes didn’t go in through the same areas as the big planes even in the same airports. The small planes always had their separate hangars and small runways to get in and out, making it a little easier for people to come and sabotage a seemingly innocuous flight. It also made these smaller planes easier to find, as often less security was involved, and that was one of the things that blew Cain away. If someone would spend that kind of money on a private plane, wouldn’t it make sense to have sufficient security around to protect it? But typically there wasn’t. The big airports were always looking for terrorists and people smuggling drugs in and out. But, for the small private planes, it just wasn’t the same, and that fact was a reality Cain and his team had come to accept. Now, as Cain sat here in the chalet, overlooking the mountains all around him, he awaited answers.
Answers that weren’t coming.
“Are you ready to leave?” Eton asked.
“I was ready to leave two days ago,” Cain bit off. “You know we’re waiting for answers.”
“I don’t think we’ll find them here,” Eton said casually.
“We’re obviously not finding them at all,” Cain said and turned to glare at his buddy. “Anytime you think you have a better idea, let me know.”
“I think we should go on the offensive,” Eton said.
“And how will we do that?” he asked, his stance spread slightly wider.
“Not sure, but I still think it’s time. We need to move.”
“As soon as we get the answers.”
“They won’t tell us anything,” Eton said easily. He got up, stretched his arms, reaching toward the massive beams above.
“Sicily?”
“It’s the last known place for this Green guy—or at least his two dead goons, Chico and that other guy,” Eton replied.