Whatever it takes to bait the trap and end Novak for good.
Eight hours later, I leave the compound on foot, armed with an M16 that I “stole” from a guard, and with a terrified sixteen-year-old and her two-month-old sister in tow. The girls’ family will be well compensated for their acting gig, but the prospect of pretty clothes and tuition money for college is not enough to keep the sixteen-year-old calm.
She’s scared out of her mind, and that’s perfect.
The real Nora would be as well.
Kent’s guards found a teenager who resembles Mrs. Esguerra to an uncanny degree—at least from the back and side. From the front, the girl’s face is rounder, with a thicker nose and smaller, deep-set eyes, so we used makeup to disguise those features.
Thanks to skillfully applied eyeshadow, blush, lipstick, and dark-toned foundation, Nora’s doppelgänger now sports two black eyes, a split lip, and several yellowish bruises that disguise the childish fullness of her cheeks.
She speaks a little bit of English too, but her accent is thick, so we told her not to talk under any circumstances. “You can either cry or be silent,” Esguerra instructed her, and the girl nodded, chin quivering.
“Sí, señor. I be silent.”
So far, she’s kept her word. We’ve been trudging through the jungle for over two hours, with her holding her screaming baby sister the entire time, and she hasn’t uttered a single complaint—though there’s much to complain about.
It hasn’t rained today yet, and the humid heat is stifling, the air so thick it feels like a wet blanket on the skin. We had the girl put on one of Nora’s usual outfits—a casual white sundress and a pair of flat sandals—and I can see the painful welts on her feet where she stepped into an ant pile a couple of miles back. We’re both dripping with sweat, and tiny gnats buzz all around us, biting every centimeter of exposed flesh.
This is sheer misery, and that’s a good thing.
It looks more authentic that way.
After another torturous hour, we meet up with my guys at the designated rendezvous point. I can see the shock on their faces as I push the girl forward, with the crying infant clutched tightly against her chest.
“You made it out.” Yan’s disbelieving gaze swings from me to my hostage and back. “You actually fucking did it.”
“Yep. Wasn’t easy, but here we are.”
My Nora substitute remains silent, giving a good imitation of a traumatized, terrified captive. Her waterproof makeup smeared a little during our journey, but she still looks believably bruised and beaten, her dark gaze dulled by dehydration and exhaustion. None of my guys have seen the real Mrs. Esguerra, only pictures of her, so they have no reason to doubt her authenticity.
The “bruises” are doing their job.
The baby keeps crying, and I make a mental note to give her the bottle of formula I had my guys purchase for the plane, just in case “Nora” had trouble breastfeeding. We got diapers on the plane, too, along with other baby paraphernalia.
“Is he dead?” Anton asks in Russian, and I nod, glancing at the girl as though concerned about her reaction.
“Yeah, I got the bastard. She might not know that yet, though, so keep it on the down low. She fought like a witch for that baby as is.”
Ilya looks disgusted but doesn’t say anything as we head for the plane. He doesn’t like what I’m doing, and I can’t blame him. Stealing a newborn and her newly post-partum mother feels wrong, even to remorseless killers like us. And that’s exactly what I’m counting on. The subtle disapproval emanating from my men will give this operation the authentic edge it needs.
I want Novak to feel the discord among us.
I want him to sense the reluctance of my guys to hand over a traumatized young woman and her baby into his cruel, greedy grasp.
37
Peter
I give the formula to the girl as soon as we’re on the plane, and she feeds her baby sister, shooting frightened looks at us the entire time. She’s overdoing it a bit—the real Mrs. Esguerra wouldn’t let her fear show—but since my guys don’t know Nora and everything she’s been through, it works.
“How did you do it?” Yan asks quietly when the baby finally falls asleep and the girl has calmed down enough to look out the window instead of at the couch where I’m sitting with the twins. “How did you get Esguerra?”
“I shot him.” My reply is curt and matter-of-fact, but I’m not going to make up an elaborate story for this. “Blew his head off.”
“Did you get the proof?” Ilya asks, frowning. “Because Novak will need—”
“Here.” I pull out a phone that I also “stole” from a guard and show a picture of a dark-haired man lying sprawled on the ground in a pool of blood. Half of his skull appears to be missing, but the other half is unmistakably Esguerra.