Jax spun around just as the barrel of a silenced pistol appeared in the opening door. But the guy in the van had miscalculated. He was right-handed, which made it awkward for him to open the door with his left hand and still be in the best position to shoot.
Lunging toward him, Jax grabbed the pistol barrel and twisted it straight up. He heard the man’s hiss of pain, then the unmistakable crack of bone as the guy’s finger caught in the trigger guard and snapped. Tightening his grip on the barrel, Jax jerked him out of the van.
The guy yelped. “What the—”
Jax swung him around and slammed him up against the side of the van. That’s when he saw the second man crouched in the back. Bad Guy Number Two started to dive out, aiming for Jax. But October grabbed the man’s arm and used his own momentum to smash him face first into the side of Jax’s BMW. Blood poured from his broken nose. He sagged, stunned but not out, just as Jax wrested the gun away from the first guy.
Jax had to bring the pistol handle down three times on his head before he slumped, unconscious, to the blacktop. October kicked the second guy in the head and knocked him flying. He didn’t get up.
“You’re good,” said Jax, moving quickly to relieve both men of their guns, cell phones, and keys—anything to slow them down.
He straightened to find her inspecting the side of his BMW. “I don’t think I dented it,” she said, a worried frown creasing her forehead.
Jax choked on a laugh and yanked open the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
As soon as they were out of the parking lot, he put a call through to Matt. “You need to send someone to pick up Dr. Gazsi,” Jax said. “Fast. Some goons followed us here. They might decide to play it safe and silence her.”
“I’ll get on it right away,” said Matt.
Jax glanced over to where October sat with her arms wrapped across her chest. “You okay?”
She nodded, turning her head to fix him with her frank brown-eyed stare. “Did you recognize either of those guys?”
“No. What do you think? That I know every hired thug in the country?”
“I don’t really know anything about you, do I? You might have seen my file, but I haven’t seen yours.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing.”
She didn’t crack a smile. “Is it? Tell me about the death squads in Colombia.”
He shifted gears. “What do you know about Colombia?”
“Bubba mentioned it.”
“Bubba has a big mouth.”
“So what happened?”
He shrugged. “I was up in the mountains, recruiting agents. As part of gaining the mestizos’ trust, we were training some of the villagers in self-defense. The idea was to help them fight back against the rebels.”
“And?”
“One morning I was out working with a couple dozen men from a village when it was hit by a right-wing paramilitary death squad. They just swept in and started machine-gunning people. Men. Women. Kids. Everyone.”
“Why?”
“Why? I don’t know. Maybe one of the men from the village had the nerve to start a labor union at the local Coca-Cola bottling factory. Or maybe some general wanted to drive them off their land so he could grow coca on it. It happens all the time.”
“So what did you do?”
“I had some old AK-47s I was teaching the men to shoot. I handed them out and we attacked, whooping and shouting like crazy. The death squad thought we were a rebel force and ran.”
She kept her gaze on his face. “And this guy Ross?”
“He was with the death squad. I recognized him because I’d seem him before. He was one of the Special Forces people around the ambassador.”
“You mean the American ambassador to Colombia?”
“That’s right. Gordon Chandler. I went to the embassy and confronted him with the asshole’s Special Forces beret.”
“And?”
“And he told me it was none of my business.”
“So you punched him?”
“I lost my temper.”
A crooked smile touched her lips.
“What?” he said.
But she just shook her head and turned away to gaze out the window.
They drove in silence for some time.
She continued sitting ramrod straight, her arms wrapped across her chest. There was a coiled quality about her, and suddenly he understood what it was about.
“You’re nervous about this remote viewing, aren’t you?” he said.
She swung her head to look at him. The late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the car window fell across her face and brought out the warm highlights in her hair, honey-touched with strands of caramel and sun-streaked flaxen. “Yes.”
“Are you usually nervous?”
“No. But I’ve never tried to do a viewing that was this important before. What if I can’t do it? What if all I’m accessing is my imagination and it’s all wrong?”
“Then we’ll just have to figure out what’s going on some other way.”
“What other way?” she asked, her gaze hard on his face.
But he didn’t have an answer, and she knew it.
New Orleans: 6 June 12:25 P.M. Central time
Tourak Rahmadad decided to stop by Mona’s Café on Carrollton for lunch. Normally he loved eating the oyster po’boys and gumbo and crawfish étouffe that had made New Orleans cuisine famous. But not today. Today he wanted stewed lamb and baba ghanoush. Today he wanted comfort. He wanted to be reminded of home.
But the tendrils of nervousness in his gut made it hard to eat. He glanced at his watch. Six and a half more hours. He pushed his plate away and watched one of the old dull green streetcars clatter past on the grassy strip of the neutral ground.
He’d thought Dr. Hafezi might call to wish him luck, to tell him he’d do fine. But Hafezi hadn’t called. Tourak had everything he needed. He had his press pass, his equipment. He knew what he had to do and how to do it. But Hafezi had always been so supportive, so encouraging. Tourak knew a vague sense of disappointment he tried to shake off.
He supposed it was possible Dr. Hafezi hadn’t called because he knew he could trust Tourak, knew he would do a good job. Tourak sucked in a deep breath. He could do it. He just had to keep telling himself that.
He’d make his mother proud.