Code Name: Disavowed (Jameson Force Security 8)

The only reason I follow these orders is to conserve energy. With my hands tied, there is no way I’ll be able to escape yet, and I need to wait for a better time.

With no access to a watch and enshrouded in complete darkness with the inability to see where we’re going, I make use of my time by counting minutes in my head. It’s roughly half an hour before the truck rumbles to a stop. I listen intently as someone says in Spanish, “Open up.”

I hear the squeak and clank of a rolling gate being opened.

Are we at Mejia’s weapons compound? We’re clearly not in the city anymore, and I know this by the absolute lack of city noises and the length of time we’ve traveled.

Perhaps another of Mejia’s homes?

The truck starts moving and several seconds later, we stop once again. The engine cuts off, the doors open and close, and the men in the back with me jump out.

I’m lying on my side and someone grabs my ankles and jerks me roughly to the end of the tailgate before dumping me to the ground.

More hands at my arms, and I’m forced to stand up as the dark bag is untied and whipped off my head.

There’s no bright light to blink against as I was taken in the dark of night from San Salvador and it’s still evening. We’re in front of a large Mediterranean-style mansion with peach stucco uplit with landscape lights. Palm trees and other exotic bushes are arranged at the foundation. An ornate fountain sits off to the side where a crane stands in the middle with water jetting out its beak in a graceful arch.

I assume this is one of Mejia’s residences, confirmed when a heavy double wooden door at the top of the porch opens and the man himself steps out.

He doesn’t look like a weapons trafficker. He looks like a wealthy man on vacation at his summer home. He has on cream linen pants and a button-down, short-sleeve shirt of pale blue. The tan loafers on his feet probably cost more than any of these men make in a year.

Mejia’s eyes lock on me, and he seems completely at ease in his surroundings. He slips his hands into the pockets of his pants and trots casually down the steps to stand before me. He lets his gaze rove over me from head to toe, sizing me up. When his eyes connect with mine again, he says, “Welcome to your death, Mr. McDermott. It will be my pleasure to show you the way.”

“Clever,” I drawl, making it clear from my tone that I don’t think he’s clever at all. I also don’t let my gaze waver so he understands there’s nothing about him that intimidates me.

Mejia’s smile is tight. “It seems my man failed to bring your beautiful companion who was with you.”

I tense at his reference to Greer. I’m convinced the reason she wasn’t grabbed was because they simply didn’t recognize her. While it’s clear that Frankie Orellana had no intention of helping us from the start and obviously told Mejia I was in the country looking for him, he didn’t recognize Greer either. I’m not sure what it is about most men never bothering to notice when a woman changes her hair, but in this instance, it has played to our advantage.

Mejia is clearly irritated Greer’s not standing here beside me. I attempt to alleviate that. “I came to El Salvador alone. I didn’t need Hathaway’s help in taking you down.”

Mejia steps in closer to me and wags a playful finger as he chuckles. “You’re lying, Mr. McDermott. I happened to talk to Ms. Hathaway not long after my men took you.”

It takes all my concentration to school my features so he doesn’t see I’m stunned at the haste by which Greer was able to contact Mejia. It’s been at least forty minutes since I was taken… maybe less, and she’s already called him?

There’s no way she had his direct number all this time, or she would have told me. So it begs the question: How in the hell did she reach him so quickly?

I don’t say anything, hoping he’ll reveal more. I’m sorely disappointed that he instead turns to his men and orders, “Soften him up a bit. I want him ready to talk in the next fifteen minutes.”

My mind spins trying to figure out what is going on with Greer. A jaded soul such as my own might think that the woman is leaving me to the wolves. Someone completely distrusting might think she was hammering the nails in my coffin by telling Mejia that I was solely responsible for his son’s death, which is in fact true. Someone mired in bitterness and unable to forgive might even think this was a setup by Greer to give Mejia what he wants in exchange for leaving her alone.