Page 41 of Fast Vengeance

Brock hopped out and scanned the surrounding area. He didn’t like the feeling of exposure here or the brush in the background where anyone could hide, but the cops didn’t seem concerned and they had built a sort of rapport with the informant.

The driver of the car stepped forward. “Hola.”

“Alejandro,” the older cop said in a jovial tone. “¿Qué pasa?”

Alejandro held up his hands and did a slow circle to show that he had no weapon hidden beneath his shirt. He answered the cop in rapid Spanish and the conversation went back and forth for a bit.

Brock glanced at the informant’s car, still didn’t see anyone in it. He scanned the trees again, picking up the odd word here and there as the cops talked to the guy.

“Hamilton,” the younger one said to Alejandro.

Brock swung around at the mention of his name.

The informant nodded at him, his gaze assessing. “You American?” He had a pronounced accent.

You think? He stuck out here like a freaking sore thumb. “Yeah.”

“There’s a bag in the back,” the younger cop said to Brock, nodding at their SUV. “Can you get it? He’s giving us intel on Nieto.”

Which Brock would have to ask to have translated on the way back to base, because he hadn’t understood a thing they’d been talking about. “Yeah. Gimme a sec.”

He walked back to the SUV, his Glock in its holster on his thigh, and grabbed the small plastic bag of cash from the trunk area. As he eased out of the back seat and straightened beside the vehicle, a car door popped open behind him.

Brock whirled and dropped the bag as he drew his weapon. Something sharp hit him in the ribs. He went down, his body jerked like a marionette as the voltage coursed through him. He hit the gravel hard, spasming like a landed fish, dimly aware of shouting and gunshots in the background.

Finally the voltage stopped.

Before his limp muscles could recover enough for him to move, someone was coming toward him. He pried his eyes open just in time to make out the blurry shape of a man crouching beside him, a hood in his hands.

Adrenaline and rage blasted through him. Fight.

His lax muscles refused to obey.

The hood was coming toward him.

Fight, goddamn you.

Blackness engulfed him as the hood came over his head. A second later his arms were yanked behind him and secured.

Brock gritted his teeth. Managed to lash out with his boot, connected with something hard enough to draw a grunt from his attacker. But it was no use. Something stabbed the side of his neck, a sharp sting spreading under his skin. His head swam, all the sounds around him becoming distorted.

Something bound his ankles. Then he was being dragged backward, the heels of his boots scraping across the gravel. The man grunted as he hoisted Brock up and tossed him onto something hard.

His limp body grew even heavier. He started to fade out.

A thud sounded overhead, making his eyes open a fraction, though all he could see was blackness.

A trunk, he realized with a sinking sensation.

An engine roared to life. Gravel sprayed as the tires spun, then hit pavement and the car took off.

Brock fought the inescapable pull toward unconsciousness as long as he could. Struggled to think. To move.

His phone. Did he still have it on him? Maybe his team could track his phone and get a location on him.

It was his last thought before the darkness swallowed him.

Chapter Twelve

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