Instead, Jessop was going to run into the three-man offense of Nolan, Coltrane and Cavanaugh—three former military men who had served with pride and distinction until they’d been recruited by Bart Bellows for his elite security company.
Poor little Robby Jessop didn’t stand a chance.
Through his night vision goggles, Nolan scanned the area. The guard at the north side of the building was smoking a cigar. Both of the men nearest the warehouse door were texting on their cell phones.
None of them were paying attention.
All were distracted.
Taking them down would be cake.
“Are we ready?” Cavanaugh asked.
“I’ll take the two men on the north side of the building,” Nolan said. “You boys take care of the other side.”
“What about the two by the door?”
“We’ll use a flash-bang to get their attention, and then converge on them.”
Nolan rolled onto his back and checked his weapons. The most dangerous part of this mission would be when they entered the warehouse. They were all wearing Kevlar, but Jessop would be waiting for them.
“Use your stun guns,” Nolan said. “We’re not here to kill anybody. We came to talk. Okay, let’s rock and roll.”
He crept through the night. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, heightening his senses and masking the ever-present ache from old wounds. He’d learned to endure the physical pain from injuries he’d suffered five years ago in Afghanistan, when his platoon was hit by a chopper strike and a roadside bomb. The emotional hurt was deeper, more intense, unrelieved by the passage of time.
Five years ago, Nolan Law had been a different man. Handsome and strong, his life had been filled with promise. His beautiful, loving wife had been pregnant. God, he missed Tess. He missed the son he’d never held in his arms, missed the life he should have had.
Nolan shook his head, pushing aside the regrets and the memories. There was no going back. He wasn’t that man anymore. Joe Donovan was dead.
Chapter Two
Nolan circled the warehouse. The man on the far north side sat on the ground with his back leaning against the building. His gun was holstered, and his eyes were closed. Nolan deepened his nap with a blow that rendered him unconscious and then fastened the guard’s wrists with a plastic tie.
The guy with the cigar was an equally easy takedown using a stun gun and a threat. “Make one sound and I’ll shoot off your kneecap.”
Nolan picked up the guard’s gun—a sleek black repeating rifle in the newest generation of M40s. The fine weapon illustrated how being well-armed didn’t matter as much as being well-disciplined. Any of the men in CSaI were capable of protecting a perimeter with nothing but a slingshot and a pocket knife.
As he moved to the corner of the warehouse, he heard a whisper from Cavanaugh, “We’re in position.”
“Do it.”
When fired, a flash-bang emitted smoke, made a loud explosion and a blinding burst of light. The grenade-size device was more effective when used in an enclosed space, but the noise and flare would provide enough of a distraction for them to move on the guards at the front of the building.
Nolan averted his gaze so he wouldn’t be blinded. As soon as he heard the bang, he ran at the guards. Before they could drop their cell phones and aim their weapons, the two men in dark windbreakers were down.
Nolan issued orders. “Cavanaugh, stay here, watch these guys. Coltrane, inside.”
At the door to the warehouse, Nolan didn’t hesitate. He kicked open the door, lobbed a smoke bomb inside and dove out of the way.
A volley of bullets from an automatic weapon sprayed through the doorway.
He heard the woman scream.
There was a lot of coughing. Another spurt of gunfire. More coughing.
Nolan and Coltrane used their infrared goggles to keep their vision clear. Coltrane held his rifle. Nolan had his stun gun and the guard’s M40. They charged through the door into the warehouse.
It wasn’t necessary to map out their strategy beforehand. They were both experienced military men who knew how to secure a building. Nolan went toward the right. Coltrane went left.
The warehouse was poorly lit with only a few bare bulbs. Through the smoke, Nolan saw an array of wooden crates, none of them stacked higher than his waist. Robby Jessop batted at the smoke and fired blindly. The woman had curled up on the concrete floor beside a desk.
“Who the hell are you?” Jessop yelled. “What do you want?”
Hiding behind crates, Nolan got within ten feet of Jessop before he made his move. It would have been tidier to zap him with the stun gun, but he wanted Jessop to be coherent and able to talk. That was the whole point.
When Jessop turned away from him, Nolan moved fast. He delivered a rabbit punch to the kidneys, tore the weapon from Jessop’s hands and knocked him face down onto the concrete. When he had Jessop’s wrists secured, he pulled him up and marched him through the warehouse.
“Don’t hurt me,” Jessop wailed. “I can pay. Just don’t hurt me.”
He was a coward. Good. He’d be too scared to hold out.
It had already been agreed that Coltrane would take the lead in the interrogation. His specialty was infiltration into enemy situations. Not only did he know what questions to ask, but he was smooth enough to convince Jessop to trust him.
Nolan wasn’t so glib, and his physical appearance was anything but charming. He didn’t frighten little children, not anymore. But the facial reconstruction after his injuries had been extensive. He looked like a man who had been to hell and carried the scars.
While Cavanaugh kept watch over the six guards, Nolan brought Jessop around to the other side of his Caddy and shoved him down on his butt. “Don’t move.”
“I’m telling you,” Jessop whined, “let me go and I’ll make it worth your while.”
Nolan traded places with Coltrane, taking custody of the woman in the tight red dress. He pushed his goggles up on his forehead and looked down at her. “You got a name?”
“Becky Joy.” She glared up at him. Her eyes were red from the smoke bomb. “I have nothing to do with this guy. He was just a date.”
“Take the woman,” Jessop offered. “She’s yours.”
Angrily, she reacted. “You don’t own me. You don’t get to say who I belong to.”
“Settle down.” Nolan clamped his fingers around her wiry upper arm. “You won’t be hurt.”
Coltrane circled Jessop, who was sitting cross-legged in the dirt with his wrists fastened behind his back. Tears streaked down his cheeks. His shoulders shuddered as he gasped for breath. Jessop wasn’t fat or skinny; he was as soft as a lump of pink clay. His formerly pristine white shirt was smudged and spattered with tiny drops of blood from a cut at the corner of his mouth.
In a calm voice, Coltrane lulled the defense contractor into a state of cooperation as he talked about the business of supplying weaponry for America and its allies in Iraq and Afghanistan. Without accusing, he hinted that maybe Jessop sold some of his guns to insurgents or warlords. And maybe, just maybe, there was a connection with the opium trade. “But mostly,” Coltrane said, “you’re providing supplies for our troops. You’re a patriot.”
“That’s