Free The Secret Soldier by Alex Berenson Page A

Aright.”
    Wells hung up. “So?”
    “Sugar said yeah, the guy buys from him sometimes. Doesn’t have a phone number for him. But he thinks the guy lives on the other side of Montego, this place called Unity Hall. Up in the hills, another gated neighborhood. If I’m thinking about the right area, it’s big, like four hundred houses. But Sugar said this guy drives a Toyota Celica with a spoiler. The Jamaicans call them swoops.”
    Like the name Mark, the Toyota sounded right to Wells. Robinson was car-crazy. The FBI had traced a half-dozen antique cars to him, at a house in Miami that no one at the agency had known about.
    “If you can find him, we’re even, right?” Ridge’s tone was low and wheedling, the whine of a dog exposing his belly to a more dangerous member of the pack to prove that he wasn’t a threat.
    “Something like that.”
    “How you gonna find him?”
    “We got to you, didn’t we?”
    Ridge closed his eyes.
     
     
    GAFFAN TOPPED OFF THE van’s tank at a twenty-four-hour gas station while Wells bought a gallon of water from the clerk behind the bulletproof counter. Back in the van, he tried to clean Ridge’s wounds, but Ridge shrank from him.
    They rolled off. A few minutes later, Ridge coughed uncontrollably. He was breathing shallowly, almost panting, his forehead slick with sweat. “I’m not playing, man. I think my skull’s fractured. You gotta stop.” Wells touched Ridge’s scalp. Ridge yelped, and Wells felt the break under the skin. His fingers came back red and sticky.
    “Get through this village,” Gaffan said. Five minutes later, he pulled over. The van was on a hillside, the nearest building a concrete church a half-mile away. The sweet, heavy stink of marijuana wafted from the fields across the road. Wells helped Ridge out of the van. Ridge leaned over and vomited, a thin stream. “I need a hospital.”
    “When we’re done. You’ll live.” Wells gave him some water and a washcloth to clean his face, and bundled him back in the van.
     
     
    THEY ARRIVED IN MONTEGO as the sun rose. “What now?” Gaffan said.
    “We can’t leave him, and we don’t have much time. We’re going in the front door.”
    “The badges.”
    At the hotel, Wells waited in the van while Gaffan showered and shaved. When Gaffan was done, they switched places. Wells stank fiercely, his sweat mixed with Ridge’s fear. He rinsed himself under the lukewarm shower, and with the help of Visine and a shave, he looked halfway human. Though Ridge might have called that assessment generous.
    Wells pulled on the suit that he’d hidden in the bathroom vent. It was lightweight and blue and slightly tight around his shoulders. And it came with a DEA badge and identification card. The DEA operated fairly freely in Jamaica—at least when it was chasing traffickers who didn’t have government protection.
    Wells looked around for anything that could identify him. He was on a fake passport and had prepaid for the room. Most likely, the hotel wouldn’t even notice he and Gaffan were gone for at least a day. Wells tucked his pistol into his shoulder holster, put a do-not-disturb tag on the doorknob, left the room behind.
    As Gaffan drove them toward Unity Hall, Wells knelt beside Ridge, lifted the duct tape. “Another couple hours and you’re done.”
    “I don’t get it.” Ridge’s mouth was dry, and Wells could hardly hear him. “You guys aren’t DEA. DEA doesn’t play like this.”
    “We’re not DEA.”
    “You gonna kill this guy?”
    “That’s up to him.”
    “Either way, I’m dead, man.”
    “We’ll get you to a hospital.”
    “Not what I mean. Soon as I get out, Sugar will put this mess on me.”
    “You want to get back to the States, I can help. But I’ll have to make sure that the DEA knows who you are when we get back to Miami.”
    Ridge shook his head. Then winced.
    “Then you’re going to have to handle it yourself.”
    “I don’t need any morality lessons from you,” Ridge