“Are you speaking to me yet?” Juice asks from the front seat of the Suburban.
“No,” I growl. “You’re lucky I haven’t killed you yet.”
“That would look bad in your personnel file. Killing a fellow employee.”
I shoot him the most deadly look I’m capable of.
“I ran the background check like you asked me to.”
“If you don’t stop talking, I’m going to wire your jaw shut.”
Juice huffs. It’s mostly his fault we are in this situation. I told him to run a background check on Michael the second Ellie had a conversation with him. It came back clean. Not even a parking ticket. But there should have been something to tip us off as to who he was or what he was involved in. There’s always something, and Juice missed it.
“The guy was tight. Clean as a whistle. Nothing to even suggest criminal activity.”
“Or that fact he was a drug lord’s son,” I add vindictively.
“Come on. That identity was buried so deep, it took a hacker much more skilled than me to uncover it. We all know El Rey was a master at concealing his identity. So how far-fetched is it that he did the same with his offspring?”
“Just save it.” I clench my jaw so tightly, I may just crack a molar.
I know it’s not all Juice’s fault. It’s just easier to blame someone else at the moment. Maybe if I wasn’t shitfaced half the time wallowing in my own misery, I would have done the background check myself and dug until I found something on the conniving little piece of shit whose head I’m going to gladly rip off with my bare hands.
“Is everything ready?” Jett asks, collected—always in control no matter the circumstance.
“As ready as it will ever be.” Juice fiddles with the laptop on his dashboard. We are currently parked in the woods three miles away from Michael’s compound. Satellite images confirmed this is where they’re holding Ellie and surveillance shows there are nine guards heavily armed.
We were able to assemble a twenty-man team in under three hours with the help of Honolulu S.W.A.T.
“HSWAT come in, over.” Juice talks into a walkie-talkie.
“Copy HSWAT,” the commander answers.
“In position?” Juice asks.
“Roger. Falcon One. Diversion set for nineteen hundred hours,” which is seven PM civilian time and in twelve minutes. “Men positioned on foot.”
“Copy,” Juice replies and the walkie hisses. “You two ready?” He turns to Jett and me in the backseat.
I pull on my brass-knuckled gloves, and the leather creaks. “Can’t wait.” I tighten my fist and curl my biceps ready to pound Michael’s face in.
“Good. It should be fully dark by the time you emerge from the woods and reach the edge of the property. Don’t breach the perimeter until you hear the explosion. That should divert all shitheads to the front of the house, leaving Ellie light on muscle.” Juice tips the laptops so we can see the schematics of the immense structure in infrared. “It looks like they’re keeping her in this back bedroom, which boasts well for you, since there’s a trellis and slanted roof right underneath it. Easy in, easy out.” Jett and I nod, memorizing the layout.
“Got it,” Jett confirms.
“I’ll be on comms the whole time,” he puts in an ear piece, “so no pillow talk you two. I want to keep my lunch in my stomach.”
“You’re just jealous no one loves you that much.” I grin callously.
“Insanely.” Juice rolls his eyes. As much as we bust his chops, the man can run an operation like no other. He was mine and Jett’s handler the six years we were undercover. He knew the ins and outs of everything, advised us in sticky situations, and basically saved mine and Ellie’s lives by knowing where in the mansion we were and exactly how to infiltrate.
“See you on the flip side.” The three of us bump fists, and then Jett and I are gone.
We jog straight toward the sunset, pushing brush out of our way as we go.
“Comms check, Alpha Green,” I hear Juice say in my ear.
“Loud and clear, Falcon one. Roger.”
