Page 61 of Rebel Protector
“Someone should stay and watch the plane,” he suggested.
It wasn’t necessary—the pilot was being paid by the hour—but any chance to thin out their group was worth taking. One less gun to worry about.
Markov pointed at one of the thugs. “You. Stay here and guard the plane. Make sure the pilot stays put, no matter what. He’s our ride out of here.”
The thug nodded, his hand instinctively reaching for the weapon at his back.
Ghost wondered where the FBI agents and the Colombian authorities were hiding. He guessed they were camped out in the rainforest, which was less than a hundred meters from the barn and provided excellent cover. He already knew where Pat and the other Blackthorn Security operators were; he’d given them the passcode yesterday before flying out.
“Any funny business, and your girlfriend gets a bullet to the head,” Markov snarled, still as paranoid as ever. Ghost raised a hand in mock surrender.
They piled into the truck, with Markov sitting up front, gun trained on Ghost, and Ramirez in the back with the two thugs.
Ghost started the engine. “The barn’s at the edge of the property. This is the only road there.”
They drove through towering sugarcane that was as tall as a bus, making the thugs visibly uneasy. Ghost enjoyed watching them squirm.
He glanced sideways at the arms dealer sitting next to him.Your days as a free man are numbered, you ruthless bastard.
“I don’t like this, Alek,” Ramirez shouted, banging on the dividing window. In the rearview mirror, Ghost could see sweat patches spreading under Ramirez’s arms. “Something’s off.”
Markov frowned. It was clear he didn’t like it either, and while they might have Becca as insurance, Ghost was still calling the shots. He was the only one who knew where the merchandise was.
Besides, they’d taken his phone, so he couldn’t warn Pat about Becca being held hostage.
This was happening whether he liked it or not.
He had to stop Markov before he gave Carlos the order to kill her. The gunrunner would do it the moment things went sideways. Failure wasn’t an option. Becca’s life was on the line.
Gritting his teeth, Ghost pulled the truck to a stop in front of the barn.
Markov and Ramirez, flanked by the two armed thugs, got out of the pickup. Ghost took his time, letting their nerves stew even more.
“Where are the buyers?” Ramirez snapped, swatting at a fly.
“They’ll be here soon,” Ghost replied.
While they waited, he walked to the barn door, pulled back a loose board on a side panel, and entered the ten-digit code that Miguel had given him when the merchandise had been stored. The code changed with every delivery.
One of the thugs snorted as the double doors swung open, released by a spring mechanism.
Ghost pushed them wide, and Markov marched inside. His face broke into a smile when he saw twenty crates stacked neatly in the center of the barn.
“Check it,” he ordered the thugs, who rushed to inspect the goods.
“It’s all here,” one of them confirmed after opening several crates.
He had barely finished speaking when a low rumble echoed from the approach road. They stepped outside to investigate but could only see a dust cloud in the distance.
“That’s them now,” Ghost said. “Right on time.”
They stood still as the dust cloud got closer, and soon they could make out a dark rectangular shape. As it neared, the shape became an eighteen-wheeler.
“What the hell are they bringing that for?” Markov asked with disdain. “You can see them coming from a mile away.”
Ghost knew why: they had a small army hidden inside, along with crates of papaya, avocados, rice, or whatever other produce they were using to hide the weapons.
“Things work a little differently here,” he said. European and Middle Eastern buyers preferred to keep things low-key, but out here, there was safety in numbers. That’s why they needed the new weapons—more firepower meant more respect.