Spy Hard. Dana Marton

They’d be in his report when he finally got out of here. Their best hope was a U.S. military hit on the camp. They would be liberated then.

      He didn’t get all the way past the enclosures when Jorge, round as a rain barrel, shuffled from the back, smoking a fat cigar and cleaning his weapon. He gave a yellow-toothed grin in anticipation of the battle.

      “Have you seen Alejandro?” Jase peered behind him.

      “He was here with the kid.” Jorge shook his head, a look of annoyance flashing across his weather-beaten face. “Took Chico.”

      Chico was a three-legged puppy, injured by one of the older dogs. Since he obviously wasn’t going to grow up to be a great fighter, he didn’t have much of a future at the camp. A miracle that nobody had shot him yet.

      “Alejandro took Chico?” That didn’t make much sense. Alejandro wasn’t exactly the type to adopt a handicapped puppy.

      Jorge took the cigar out of his mouth and spat on the ground. “I gave Chico to the kid. Couldn’t stand all that caterwauling. Alejandro’s damn fault. He wanted the boy to take his two best dogs into the jungle to make sure they don’t get hurt in the shooting. Idiot. One dog, the kid could handle. But when Alejandro gave the boy the second leash, the two dogs fought like crazy.”

      Of course they would. They were trained to fight each other. What the hell did the idiot expect? Jase didn’t have to be psychic to know how that turned out. Fury swept through him. “Where are they?”

      “Up in packaging.”

      He cut across the compound, breaking into a run once again.

      Roberto stepped outside from the hacienda as Jase passed by.

      “Everybody needs to get ready before nightfall. I want everyone to get some sleep before the battle starts in the morning. Make sure you have your weapons together and enough ammo. And no drinking tonight.”

      Jase acknowledged the orders with a nod, but didn’t stop to talk.

      He found the packaging building in chaos, holes dug in the floor, tightly wrapped bricks of cocaine being buried in every corner. The men resented the extra work, swearing deliberately, cursing Cristobal.

      Jase ignored them. “Mochi?”

      Someone nodded toward the west wall. Jase zigzagged through between the sweating men, careful not to knock anyone over. Tempers were running high. He didn’t have time to stop for a fistfight.

      Mochi sat on the floor, his arm bleeding, shiny tear tracks marking his face that lit up with hope when he spotted Jase. He held a wiggling flour sack under one arm. Chico, presumably.

      Alejandro was holding out his finger to the boy, with a dash of white powder on the tip. He, too, glanced up as Jase reached them.

      “For the pain.” His expression was challenging and defensive at the same time, as if he hadn’t decided yet which one to go with.