When Dawson continued to look at her like some kind of lab specimen, Harper got right in his face. “I speak fluent Spanish. I lived in the Ecuadorean jungle for a year. I won’t be a liability if that’s what you’re thinking.”
For an instant, the scar at the corner of Dawson’s mouth twitched, tipped into what might have passed for a smile, then turned hard again. “Long as you do what I tell you, you can stay. You don’t, you’ll be on your way home.”
For once Harper didn’t argue.
Since Chase pretty much agreed, he didn’t, either. The hard truth was this was rough, dangerous country, even more so for a beautiful woman. Sex trafficking was a major problem—women being kidnapped and forced into prostitution. Chase wished for the tenth time since they had left Dallas that she had stayed home.
Dawson gestured toward the round Formica table in the corner. “Let’s sit. You can bring me up to speed, and we’ll figure out our next move.”
“You get the weapons I asked for?”
Dawson grinned, softening his hard features. “And then some.”
Chase relaxed. This man was a close friend of his brother’s. If Bran trusted him, so did Chase.
“All right, let’s get to it.” Dawson seated himself at the table, waited while they both took seats. He glanced at their surroundings, then looked at Harper. “I know this place isn’t the Ritz, but the motel’s a safe place to meet. Senora Aguayo and her husband are good people, and using their motel as a meeting place makes them a little money.”
“It’s fine,” Harper said. “Wherever my brother is, it’s bound to be a lot worse than this.”
Kil nodded. “We won’t be staying, anyway. We’ll be moving out as soon as we’re finished here.” He turned to Chase. “Bran told me you located the boat in a cove near Punta Gato. There’re a few low-rent motels in the area. We can stay there if we need to.”
“You got transportation?” Chase asked.
“My Land Cruiser’s parked in the lot. We’ll take that.”
For the next twenty minutes, Chase filled Dawson in on what they had so far: that Michael Winston had been with a woman named Pia Santana when two men followed him from a casino in Curaçao back to his boat, docked in the marina.
“Working theory is the men boarded the boat in the middle of the night and forced Michael to sail into open water. Yacht wound up in Colombia.”
“Yacht,”Dawson repeated. “Sounds expensive. How much is it worth?”
“Beneteau forty-two foot?” He turned to Harper. “Best guess?”
“Michael paid around two hundred fifty thousand for the boat, but he added a lot of extras.”
“So three hundred grand out the door,” Killian said. “That’s a helluva lot of money down here. Piracy, most likely.”
Piracy meant a death sentence for Michael, and maybe something far worse for Pia. Harper’s face went pale.
“Could also be kidnapping,” Chase countered. “That’s the assumption we’re working on. Michael’s father is worth half a billion dollars or damned close. The son’s worth way more than the boat if his kidnappers are smart enough to figure it out.”
Killian shoved up from his chair and stalked over to the closet. Pulling out a big black canvas duffel, he tossed it on the bed, unzipped it and started tossing weapons onto the worn gold spread.
“Browning 9 mil, Ruger SR9, a couple of Beretta M9s. Nighthawk .45.” He pulled out a long-barreled weapon. “M40 sniper rifle.” Kil reached back into the bag, pulled out another weapon. “Eighteen-inch, short-barreled tactical shotgun and—last but definitely not least—a relatively new AK-47.” He grinned. “Pick your poison.”
Chase eyed the weaponry. “It looks like we’re going to war.”
“If Winston and the girl are still alive, it may come to that. The area around Punta Gato is rebel territory. Los Proscritos runs the show along the coast and into the Sierra Nevada mountains.”
Killian finished emptying the bag: holsters, extra magazines, a sound suppressor for the rifle, two Ka-Bar knives in thigh sheaths, flash-bang grenades and door-breaching charges.
Chase picked up one of the Berettas, standard for army MPs and still one of his preferred weapons. It felt good in his hand. At home he carried a Glock, but the Beretta felt familiar, like a trusted old friend.
He dropped the magazine, found it fully loaded, the gun freshly cleaned, shoved the mag back in. “I’ll take this one. Should do for now.” Slipping it into a clip holster, he attached the weapon to his belt, pulled his shirt loose to cover it. He grabbed an extra mag, which he slid into the pocket of his jeans.
Killian picked up the Nighthawk, slid the holstered weapon onto his belt, let his denim shirt fall over it. “I’ve got bottled water, energy bars and MREs already loaded. I’ve got a couple of backpacks in there, too.”
Chase glanced over at Harper, whose features were set in a determined line. She walked to the bed, reached down and picked up the Ruger, looked it over, then tested the grip and the weight in her hand. She dropped the mag to check the load and shoved it back in.
