Chapter 5 - The Rescue at Ensenada
By 11:00 p.m. that evening, the coastal fog had descended heavily over the Baja peninsula.
Twenty miles south of Ensenada, a compound surrounded by eight-foot concrete walls and chain-link fencing sat perched on a cliff overlooking the dark, crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean. Officially, it was the Clínica de la Costa, a private recovery center for wealthy addicts. In reality, it was a black-site holding facility funded by Harrison Hart's offshore accounts.
Two hundred yards from the perimeter wall, Hector and three of his operatives lay prone in the thick brush, dressed in dark tactical gear and wearing night-vision goggles.
Hector tapped his ear-piece. "Daniel, we are in position. External guard count is four. Two at the front gate, two patrolling the rear courtyard. Cameras are running on a local loop."
Back in Los Angeles, Daniel sat in the back of Marcus Vance's mobile command van, parked two blocks from the East LA apartment building where little Noah was sleeping. Monitors lined the walls of the van, displaying live satellite feeds of both Mexico and East Los Angeles.
"Hold position, Hector," Daniel said into his microphone. "Marcus, is your team ready on the East LA target?"
"We're lined up, sir," Marcus replied from his position in the alleyway behind the blacked-out Yukon. "Four armed men in the vehicle. We have non-lethal flashbangs and suppressed sidearms ready. The moment you give the command, we neutralize them."
Daniel looked at his watch. 11:04 p.m.
Vanessa was currently attending a bridal shower gala in Bel-Air, surrounded by high-society photographers and her wealthy friends. She wouldn't expect a move for days, believing Daniel was still trapped by her threats.
"Execute on my mark," Daniel said, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. "Three... two... one... Mark."
In East Los Angeles, the night shattered in absolute silence. Marcus’s team deployed two thermal flashbangs beneath the chassis of the Yukon. Before the men inside could even draw their weapons, the doors were ripped open, and four stun-darts were fired with military precision. Within twelve seconds, all four of Vanessa’s scouts were zip-tied, unconscious, and dragged into the back of an unmarked van.
"East LA target cleared," Marcus reported over the comms. "Noah Collins and his caregiver are secured in our armored transport. Moving to the Malibu safehouse now."
"Hector, go!" Daniel commanded instantly.
In Ensenada, Hector pulled the trigger of his suppressed sniper rifle. The guard at the front gate collapsed instantly as a tranquilizer dart pierced his neck. The second guard turned in confusion, only to be struck by a second dart.
Hector’s breach team moved like shadows, using hydraulic cutters to sever the fence link. They sprinted across the courtyard, breaching the side door of the medical wing with a silent electronic bypass key.
They moved down the dimly lit corridor, stepping past sleeping nurses and incapacitated guards. Hector kicked open the door to Room 104.
Lying on a narrow hospital bed was a man. His hair was long, matted, and streaked with gray. His face was gaunt, his collarbones sharp against his pale skin. He was hooked up to a slow-drip IV containing heavy sedatives.
Hector stepped to the side of the bed, shining a penlight into the man's eyes. The patient blinked weakly, shivering under the light blanket.
"Andrew Whitmore?" Hector asked softly in English.
The man stared up at the tactical operator, his cracked lips parting with agonizing effort.
"Dan... Daniel?" he rasped out, his voice hollow, like a voice echoing from the bottom of a deep well. "Is... is Daniel here?"
Hector tapped his comms button. "Daniel. We have him. Target is secure. He's weak, but he's breathing, and he knows your name."
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Sitting in the command van in Los Angeles, Daniel closed his eyes as a violent sob nearly ripped through his throat. He covered his mouth with his hand, breathing through his nose until he regained control.
"Bring my brother home, Hector," Daniel whispered. "Bring him home."
