Page 3 of Jager's Prey
Before I could come up with a comeback, Hank “Montana” Patterson stepped through the door. Six rushed over to greet him and was rewarded with a quick pat on the head. Montana walked across the room and stood close to Jager and myself.
“Cap’n, my cap’n.” Jager dragged her eyes up Montana’s body then down again.
Montana’s cheeks flushed a little and I chuckled.
“Montana, meet Arin Chioma.” I introduced them.
She rose to her feet and extended a hand.
“What do they call you?” Montana asked.
“Anything you want.” Jager replied, a smirk on her lips.
“Oi!” I muttered. “Behave.”
“Behave?” Jager drawled. “I’ve never heard of the man.”
I facepalmed.
“Down girl.” Swede teased. “This one’s taken.”
“Just my luck. All the good ones are either gay or taken.” Jager laughed and sat back in her seat.
“She always like this?” Montana asked.
“Pretty much.” Jager and Swede chorused.
“You both suck.” She feigned a dramatic sigh. “Actually, you can call me Jager.”
“Dutch.” Montana tilted his head. “Are you Dutch?”
“No—the man who gave me the nickname was.” She replied. “I believe that was the last thing he said to me.”
“Where’s he now?” Montana asked.
“Buried somewhere in the Sahara.” She replied simply. “Can we get down to business?”
Montana nodded and Swede brought up the picture of a fifteen-year-old kid on the large screen. He had stark, scared blue eyes, black hair cut in the form of a mohawk with a scar just above his left eyebrow.
“This is Cage Rinaldi.” Swede began. “He’s fifteen. He was on vacation with his parents in Algeria.”
“They went to Algeria on vacation?” Jager asked.
I nodded. “That’s their story, at least.”
Six moseyed over and stretched out by Jager’s feet. She looked down at him, smiled then sat on the floor beside him. The dog sat up enough to rest his head on her lap and promptly went to sleep with her gently rubbing his head.
“Right.” Swede continued. “They went out for the day and when they returned to the hotel room, armed men were waiting for them. The parents—”
Swede paused to bring up a man and a woman on the screen beside the teen’s picture.
“The father was shot when he used himself as human shield for the son.” Swede went on. “The mother was shot and killed in the bedroom. We don’t know if she was assaulted or not—they don’t exactly have a medical examiner. Cage, to his credit, remembered something he learned in school to get some help. The issue is, we now need to get him back on American soil without starting some kind of a war.”
“Why aren’t they sendin’ military for him?” She wanted to know.
That was the first question I’d asked when someone at the DOD had called in a favour with Montana to silently go in and get the kid out.
“Politics.” Montana growled. “If we fail, that kid will be dead because I have a feeling, they’ll disavow any knowledge of where he is or what has happened.”
