Page 67 of Rebel Protector
Ghost exhaled softly.
They’d made it.
The plane taxied a few thousand feet before coming to a halt.
“Gracias a Dios,” the pilot breathed, collapsing in his seat.
“Yeah, that,” Ghost muttered. “Thanks for the ride.” He jumped down from the cockpit onto the road.
“Hey, wait! How am I gonna get back?” the pilot called after him, but Ghost was already sprinting toward the hacienda.
He stopped at the wrought-iron gates, scanning for the security guards he knew were there. Two men, armed and under strict orders not to let anyone in. A camera was also positioned above the gate to capture any arrivals.
Ghost didn’t have time to argue with the guards or risk alerting Carlos by starting a shootout. He bypassed the gate and headed toward the fence that surrounded the property.
It wasn’t electrified, though it did have spikes at the top. Ghost ripped his shirt in two, wrapping the fabric around his hands for protection. Beyond the fence lay thick, impenetrable jungle vegetation. It wasn’t patrolled because it was too dense tonavigate, but there were sensors hidden in the undergrowth that would detect movement.
Luckily, he knew where they were.
Like any good Marine, he’d taken a walk one evening and deliberately set them off, noting their locations, response times, and generally giving Carlos a headache. It had been a fun exercise then, but now, that prep work was about to pay off.
Ghost zigzagged through the undergrowth, crouched low, the gun he’d taken from the tractor ready at his side.
Ten minutes in, he found the path leading to his cabin.
Crouching low, he sprinted the rest of the way, keeping an eye out for patrols. He slipped inside the cabin and went straight to the wooden cabinet in the living room. From the bottom drawer, he retrieved the emergency stash of cash he’d taped to the back.
They’d need it if they were going to lay low for a while—at least until they could rendezvous with Pat and his team.
After grabbing a fresh T-shirt and pulling it on, he slipped back into the bush behind the cabin. By now, he knew the route to the pool terrace like the back of his hand. It didn’t take him long to reach it.
There was a guard sitting on a deck chair, taking a smoke break, his rifle casually slung over his shoulder.
When the boss is away…
They weren’t expecting trouble.
Ghost snorted quietly to himself.Well, trouble had just arrived.
He maneuvered until he was directly behind the man, creeping forward inch by inch. After a quick glance around to ensure they were alone, he made his move.
In less than a minute, the guard was unconscious, his cigarette still smoldering beside him—and Ghost had appropriated his rifle.
He checked it over and grunted in approval; it was fully loaded.
Grabbing the guard’s ankles, Ghost dragged him into the undergrowth, covering the body with some branches and leaves. Then he stomped out the cigarette.
Moving as silently as a panther, he crept toward the house. The front entrance was out of the question, so he went to the patio door leading to Becca’s apartment. The bedroom window was open. He pulled it wide and climbed through.
Step one complete. He was in the house.
Now, where were they keeping her?
From the photo, it looked like she was being held in a storeroom. Based on his earlier recon of the property, he figured it had to be near the pool equipment storage or some kind of pantry attached to the kitchen. There weren’t many other places she could be.
Tucking the Glock into the back of his pants, rifle in hand, he stalked down the corridor, ignoring the camera that would capture his image. If they saw him unarmed, they might assume he’d just returned unexpectedly. He was a familiar face here by now. But one look at the AK in his hands, and they’d know he meant business.
Moving quickly, he headed toward the storage units. The house was eerily quiet. Where was everyone? No one came to stop him, so he assumed that with Markov in Colombia, security was either relaxed or nonexistent.