Page 71 of Strike Fast

Reid didn’t answer, just stood there facing him down with the Glock aimed at his chest.

Moments later the cockpit door opened. Ruiz’s eyes shot to it, his face tense.

Reid’s pulse beat faster as the booted footsteps thudded lightly on the carpet behind him. He watched Ruiz’s face carefully, searching for signs of recognition—and terror. Anticipating the exact moment when he realized how truly fucked he was.

Triumph roared through his veins when Ruiz sucked in a breath and paled, his eyes growing wide. The blood drained from the fucker’s face as he stared at the big, scary son of a bitch coming up behind Reid.

Ruiz’s throat bobbed, a confused frown tugging at his eyebrows. “But you…you’re supposed to be…”

“Dead? Yeah.” The dark-haired ghost set his hands on the backs of the seats, caging Ruiz in as he leaned closer. “Boo.”

CARLOS WAS FROZEN solid, unable to take his eyes off the dark-haired, dark-eyed man towering over him. It couldn’t be, but…

The ghost shot Prentiss a sideways glance. “He not talking?”

Prentiss’s dark blue eyes bored a hole straight through Carlos. “Nope.”

Before Carlos knew what was happening, the second man raised his hand. Light flashed on the silver switchblade as the blade sprang free, a heartbeat before that lethally sharp blade came at him.

Carlos sucked in a breath and cowered away, but at the last moment the blade changed course. His lungs compressed as instead of carving into his skin, the blade sliced into the back of the leather seat in front of him and withdrew.

He stared at the oval shape slashed into the leather, and the irrefutable proof of who he was dealing with made the blood congeal in his veins.

El Santo.

Helpless to stop himself, he lifted his eyes to meet the bone-chilling gaze of Miguel Bautista. The deadliest and scariest motherfucking enforcer in the entire cartel world. Everyone had thought he’d died in a shootout with the FBI a couple years ago.

“You need to tell him where his daughter is,” Bautista said, his quiet tone and the utter lack of emotion in his eyes making Carlos’s bowels cramp. The stories of whatEl Santohad done to his victims with his blades were legendary. It was said they broke long before Bautista killed them, unable to stand the pain and terror of being expertly filleted while still alive.

Carlos’s gaze darted away from that terrifying stare to the deadly blade in the man’s hand and back again. But terrified as he was, part of him wondered whether it would be better to die here and now than to rot in a maximum security American prison until he took his last breath.

Gathering the last of his courage, he raised his chin. “Fuck you all.”

He tensed, bracing for the moment that blade began carving him up, prepared to fight for as long as his strength lasted.

Instead, he jerked in surprise when the blade retracted into its sheath. To Bautista’s right, Prentiss holstered his weapon and reached up to undo one of the overhead bins. Carlos’s eyes pingponged back and forth between the two men, confusion clouding his brain as Prentiss pulled something out.

Two parachutes.

“You’ve got three minutes to tell me everything I want to know,” Prentiss said in a clipped voice as he and Bautista began putting on the harnesses. “Then we’re turning this plane hard to the right and ditching it into the Atlantic after we bail out. Your choice, jail or death.”

Carlos started to laugh at the absurdity of it, but the utter conviction on both their faces made it die in his suddenly bone-dry throat. He had no fucking idea how to fly this thing. And though he was pretty sure he could get out of whatever charges they had waiting to lay against him in the States due to lack of evidence, he didn’t want to die. But he would if they jumped, because he would plunge into the water with the jet and be torn apart.

Bile rushed into his throat, hot and acidic.

Both men had the parachutes on. Prentiss set his hands on his hips and raised a taunting brow at Carlos. “Well? You’re down to less than ninety seconds.”

They were bluffing. No one was crazy enough to bail out of a jet without oxygen at this altitude.

As if hearing his thoughts, Bautista reached into another overhead compartment and withdrew two oxygen tanks with masks. Holding Carlos’s gaze, laughter lurking in his dark eyes, he handed one to Prentiss. “Seventy seconds.”

Prentiss already had the mask in place. Carlos stared at them, heart thundering beneath his ribs, mind whirling frantically. He was trapped, forced to choose between jail and a terrifying death.

When he didn’t say anything, Prentiss spun around and stalked up the aisle, Bautista following him.

Carlos automatically half-rose out of his seat, unable to believe they would actually do it. But Bautista disappeared into the cockpit as Prentiss reached the door in the side of the aircraft.

The jet turned sharply to the right. Banking out to sea just as promised.

---