Jesus. Brewster. He still couldn’t believe it. The man had been a verifiable hero in the Spec Ops community. He’d had the chops, done the deeds, and he’d made good, all the way to a three star—and then he’d gone bad. So fucking bad.

But there was no time for that now. He had to get Eva out of this rat hole, and to do that he had to get out.

Thwup, thwup, thwup. They all heard it at the same time and everybody looked toward the vaulted ceiling. Chopper. A big one.

“The nice men from Mexico must have arrived.” Cooper looked grim. “Sounds like a Shithook.”

Eva scowled. “A what?”

“A civilian version of the CH-47 Chinook,” Mike explained. “Big bird. Can carry a lot of cargo.” Like guns, they all thought, but didn’t voice.

“We’ve gotta boogie.”

It had to be over a hundred degrees in the small, airless room. Sweat ran down Mike’s forehead, burning like fire when it trickled into the cuts on his face, as he went back to work on the flex cuffs.

“Winner and new champeen,” Cooper crowed in a whisper as he lifted his hands, free of the restraints.

“I’ll make sure you get a medal,” Mike grumbled. “If my friend Simmons hadn’t tried to beat my face into hamburger, you’d still be second best.”

“Nice try, but your face has nothing to do with ditching the cuffs.” Cooper went to work on Mike’s cuffs. “Did sort of improve the way you look, though. Too bad you’ve lost your edge.”

As soon as Mike was free, Cooper helped Taggart finish up. Mike helped Eva.

“You up for this?” she asked as she worked the circulation back into her hands.

He got why she was concerned about him. One eye was swollen shut, he could barely see out of the other, his lips were busted up, and he couldn’t draw a deep breath without gasping. Probably had a couple of bruised ribs, maybe broken.

“Chica.” His tone was tender yet chiding as he touched a hand to her cheek. “You have to ask?”

“Macho to the end,” she whispered.

“Anyone have any brilliant ideas?” Cooper glanced around the room, brows raised hopefully.

Taggart grunted. “Asked the man with the highest IQ. We rely on you for brilliance.”

“Ambush?” Mike suggested, staring up at the rafters.

Taggart looked up, too; checked out the electrical wire running from the switch by the door to the overhead light tacked to the center rafter. “I like it.”

“What do you want to bet there’s a big pomp and circumstance meet and greet going on right now?” Taggart wandered around the room looking for anything they might be able to use as a screwdriver.

“First deal with the cartel?” Mike grunted. “Hell, yeah. Brewster’s going to want to show them all around the facility, show ’em the guns, let them test them out. Make sure they know this is an operation that delivers. That there will be more deals in the future.”

“The kitchen staff has been working on something for days,” Eva said. “I didn’t put it together at the time, but they must have been getting a feast ready for this meeting.”

“So we probably have until after the shindig before Brewster sends the ice bitch for us,” Cooper speculated.

“That woman was flat-out spooky.”

Mike agreed with Taggart. “Wiki wiki, people. No time to waste.”

They spent the next few hours working out the details of their escape plan, gathering weapons, and waiting for dark, when they would have their greatest advantage.

Eva had found a rusty nail in the corner on the floor, and as night began to fall they got to work, with Taggart using the nail to quietly unscrew the switch plate from the light switch.

On Taggart’s nod, Mike let out a bellow—“Simmons! I need to pee, man”—to cover the sound of Taggart ripping the wires loose from the box.

“Go piss up a rope,” Simmons shouted back.

“If you really cared about me, you’d bring me a beer,” Mike wheedled, which netted him a “fuck you.”

“He loves me,” Mike mouthed around a grin that made him wince in pain.

With the electrical wire loose from the switch plate and the room effectively without a light source, Taggart gave Cooper a boost up. He grabbed onto the rafters, pulled himself up, then, agile as a monkey and quiet as a shadow, swung up until he was straddling the middle rafter. He scooted toward the center and unscrewed the lightbulb from the porcelain base. Then he tossed the bulb down to Taggart, who whipped off his T-shirt and wrapped it around the bulb to muffle the sound of the glass he was about to break. After another nod to Mike, who started badgering Simmons again, he cracked the bulb against the floor.

They now had a knife. The jagged glass was thin and could never land a killing blow, but it could still cause a lot of pain if twisted directly into an eye socket, an ear, or a hand.

Using the same rusty nail Taggart had used on the light switch, Cooper went to work loosening the individual staples that secured the electrical wire to the rafters.

“Taking too long,” he whispered. “Give me a distraction.”

Taggart walked over to the door and started pounding and swearing a blue streak. Cooper gave the wire several hard, swift tugs. Staples popped like popcorn as the wire broke free all along the rafter and down the wall studs.

“My friend has a temper,” Mike pointed out when Taggart wound down. “You really don’t want to see him mad.”

“You don’t zip it,” Simmons growled back, “I’m coming in there and shutting you up.”

Cooper still straddled the rafter, working the nail into the screws holding the porcelain light fixture. He finally got it loose and tossed it down to Eva. The fixture was heavy and round, and since it was still attached to one end of the twelve-plus feet of electrical cord, it would make a helluva projectile missile if swung with enough velocity.

“Okay,” Mike said, barely able to make out their silhouettes in the dark, hot room. “Let’s do this. No shots fired, if at all possible, or we’ll have the entire camp on our asses.”

“Places, everyone.” Cooper softly clapped his hands together.

Taggart gave him a look. “Who are you, Cecil B. DeMille?”

Grinning, Cooper shimmied forward so he was hanging directly over the door.

Eva and Taggart, each gripping one end of the electrical wire that they’d strung low just inside the threshold, squatted on either side of the door.

They all glanced at each other in the thickening dark, just barely able to see as four thumbs went up in the air.

This was it.

“Oh, Simmmooonnns,” Mike sing-songed, doing his damnedest to irritate the hotheaded guard. He’d planted himself on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him at the far wall, dead center with the door so he’d be the first thing Simmons saw when he burst inside. If he played this hand right, the knuckle-dragger would be blinded by rage. “I know you’re out there, big guy. Got a question for you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Simmons grated through the door.

Mike grinned, regretted it when his split lip let him know it wasn’t happy.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a Mr. Cranky Pants. Just got a couple questions. Lawson ever share any of his high-priced scotch with you? Man of your stature, seems he’d pony up some of that private stock. He shared with me, after all.”

Silence. Oh, yeah. Simmons was simmering in the stew Mike was dishing up. Mike loved baiting this guy.

“But, hell, there’re probably other perks. Gotta be to make up for tonight, right? I mean… important man like you, pulling a shit job like babysitting duty? Shame you’re missing the big shindig and all. Doesn’t that bug you? Seems like you should be out there rubbing elbows with the cartel. They should know what a key player you are.”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m coming in there. I’ve had it with your smart-ass digs.”

“Never have figured out your official title,” Mike went on, ignoring him. “Bootlicker in chief? Supreme bootlicker? What’s he pay you to do that, anyway? And do you get bonuses for all that ass kissing?”

A chair scraped against raw wood.

A key rattled in the lock.

The door swung open, and there stood Simmons in all his pissed-off glory. “I told you to shut up,” he said, planted like a tree in the doorway.

“Ask me nice.” Mike made a kissing sound.

Predictable to the end, Simmons roared, storming into the room, and Taggart and Eva snapped the electrical wire tight.

Simmons tripped midstride, landing flat on his face. Taggart was on him like sweat on a hog. He jammed his knee between Simmons’s shoulder blades with all of his weight, grabbed his jaw in one hand, the back of his head in his other, and jerked hard right. Simmons was dead before Taggart jumped off of him and dragged his carcass to the side of the room.

It was over in less than seven seconds.

And they now had a pistol and a shotgun.

“One down,” Mike mouthed and Taggart and Eva assumed their positions on either side of the door again.

For several seconds, nothing happened. But when the silence stretched, it didn’t take long for Bryant and Wagoner to check on their comrade.

“Simmons? What the fuck you doing, man?”

“I think he might have hurt himself, guys,” Mike said cheerfully. “But that could just be wishful thinking on my part.”

Bryant appeared at the door in a shot. When he couldn’t see into the dark, he peeked inside, then tentatively walked in. Eva jammed the broken lightbulb into his hand. He dropped his gun and opened his mouth to howl like a coyote—but Taggart was right behind him. He looped the electrical cord over his head from behind, jerked it tight and down. Bryant fell to his knees clawing at the cord. Taggart slammed his knee between his shoulder blades with the force of a Mack truck and drove him face-first into the floor.