Page 3 of Rogue Voice

Doors closed—there were at least two men in the front of the car—and then they were off. With every turn the car took, his body jostled from side to side in the empty trunk, until Rogue was sure his bruises were going to have bruises.

He kept himself sane by trying to figure out where they were heading. Colombia was a big country, but drug lords were top predators, and as such, they each had their clearly defined territory. Four years ago, Cruz’s headquarters had been an hour away from Cartagena airport, but the man would be a fool to still be hiding out in the same region. They were likely heading somewhere else.

It was roasting hot inside the trunk. The heat might just kill him if the onion smell inside the burlap sack didn’t get the job done first. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. He’d run out of air faster if he hyperventilated, and he didn’t know how far these men intended to take him. He didn’t want to die because he couldn’t cope with the fucking smell.

Eventually, he gave up on counting the turns—he didn’t know Colombian geography well enough to make heads or tails of the direction they were heading in—and focused on tracking time instead.

He estimated he’d been in the car for close to three hours by the time the car finally stopped and the trunk popped open.

Rogue didn’t fight as he was dragged out of the trunk, with even less ceremony than before. He stood up slowly. It felt good to stretch his legs, which had gotten cramped. He kept himself very still, conserving his energy.

There was, of course, still a slim chance that this might be a random tourist kidnapping. If so, he should probably be crying or wailing, giving his kidnappers hell and asking to be released to the Australian embassy immediately. But he didn’t think there was much chance of that. Everyday kidnappers didn’t carry cop killers or AR-15 rifles.

One of his kidnappers grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him up a series of steps. Unable to see anything through the thick burlap, Rogue focused on his other senses. The sound of a heavy door opening, as he was led into a blessedly cool space.

Cold air blasted against the back of his neck and shirt.

AC.

That was a real luxury in Colombia, particularly outside the main city areas.

Rogue allowed himself a small smile, knowing it wouldn’t be visible under the hood. The chance of this being a random kidnapping grew more remote.

He was led further into the building, then pushed once again onto his knees on what felt like a hard, stone floor.

“Quítale la capucha,” a hard voice said—a voice from the past.

Take the hood off.

Rogue blinked, willing his light-colored eyes to adjust to the strong light. When his vision cleared, he found himself staring up into a face he hadn’t expected to see. A face he recognized well.

Rogue understood now why this was still known as the Cruz empire. It wasn’t because Ricardo Cruz had survived, but rather because Emiliano Cruz, Ricardo’s younger brother, had taken over.

Rogue remembered Emiliano, but it was a vague, fuzzy memory. The man had always been under his brother’s thumb, struggling to work up the ranks, his efforts never quite good enough to please Ricardo.

Although he couldn’t be any older than thirty-five now, Emiliano had aged extensively in the last two years. His hair, which used to be longer than Rogue’s, was closely shaved now, probably to make his receding hairline less apparent. He had the neck of a bull and shoulders and biceps to match, but his eyes told of many nights with too little sleep and too much drink.

Rogue hoped it was guilt that kept the man up at night. If what the FBI and DEA said was right, the man in front of him was single-handedly responsible for putting hundreds of tonsof cocaine in the hands of children and teenagers, effectively obliterating their future.

“Emiliano,” Rogue said coolly. No sense in antagonizing the man.

“You remember me.” Cruz sounded pleased. He pulled out a folding knife and opened it with a practiced move, then grabbed Rogue’s neck from behind and pulled upwards, exposing his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rogue saw two weapons trained on him. He might be able to escape Emiliano’s hold, but he would still get shot.

“Anything you want to say to me, Rogue?” Emiliano asked. His English was fluent but strongly—and perhaps purposefully—accented.

Rogue looked up into the man’s soulless eyes. “If this is how you treat your friends, I only have one thing to say to you.Jódete.”

Fuck you.

The cold metal pressed against his neck and Rogue closed his eyes, sparing a thought for the tracker in his boot, which he’d activated just as the vehicle stopped. He might not be here to see it, but his team would know where to find Cruz. And they would destroy him.

Rogue

With a twist of his hand, Cruz slashed downwards.

Rogue held his breath, then resumed breathing as the rope around his wrists fell to the ground.

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