It wasn’t until they were halfway down the mountain, right at the edge of the stone ledge that looked like giant toes from below, that she’d solved the mystery of her lack of more serious injuries. It wasn’t the wind that had saved her that night. It was one of Chance’s guide lines, now stained with her blood from where her leg had hooked it on the way down. Somehow, it had slowed her momentum but it had also ripped her jeans and her thigh. The moment she’d spied the bloody evidence, the horror of her fall came back in a rush. Thank God for Chance. He hadn’t left her side all day, and that was—enough.
Tears threatened yet again at how much he cared for her, but Suede dashed them away before they got out of hand. It had been a long day, and her body wasn’t in shape for the endurance test she’d put it through.
“We need to talk,” he murmured, his arms stretched along the edges of the tub and his fingertips tapping.
What a sight. If she lived to be a hundred, she’d never get tired of looking at this man’s body. Rock solid muscle stretched from his shaggy head to his bare feet. The calves on this man! And that glorious chest—all male muscle and all power.
“About what?” she asked as she sunk to her nose in the already twice-heated water. They’d started out with bubbles, but that was an hour ago.
“Protection. I didn’t use a condom the first time.” He ran his fingers through his wet hair, carving trails that dripped water onto his shoulders and into his brows. “All my fault. I got carried away.”
Suede lifted her lips above water level. “I’m on birth control. We’re safe.”
His brows knitted together over eyes turned more chocolate brown than caramel amber in the candlelight. “Don’t get me wrong. If we’re pregnant, I’d be thrilled, but I’d like to make life-changing decisions together, preferably when you’re healthy. Babies and mothers deserve a man who can control his impulses. Since you’ve come along” —he shook his head, spraying her with droplets from his hair— “I’m not that man.”
Back under the water she went, blowing kisses at him that morphed into bubbles. He’d said ‘if we’re pregnant’, not ‘if you’re pregnant.’ That was another reason to love this guy. He took children seriously. He’d make such a good dad.
He had yet to say he loved her though, and Suede understood why. He’d already told her. ‘Deployments are tough on married guys. I’ve watched plenty go through divorces. Why would I do that to a woman?’ So she waited.
This thing between them was a rare treat in her emotionally impoverished life. She wasn’t ready to walk away from it. Not the way lust simmered in his amber eyes, the way they turned dark and needy when he wanted her. The way he held her in both of his big hands like a treasure. With him, she felt like a gift, not garbage, and maybe it was selfish, but she needed this connection with an honest man for once in her life.
Cupping his fingers Chance splashed her, and the fight was on. At the end of it, she wound up giggling on his lap, her back pressed to his chest, and another round of hot water gurgling out of the tap. She rubbed the side of her head against his cheek, her breasts cupped by his slender fingers and her nipples hard knots of lust. She had it so, so bad. Yet she knew he was troubled. “Something’s bothering you.”
His grunt percolated through her body. “Aye. This isn’t over yet. I hope you realize that.”
She nodded, snuggling into him for more warmth, more of the ‘I belong with you’ feeling she’d found in his arms. “Dad’s behind all this, isn’t he?”
“I’m not sure how much, but yes, Mick Tennyson’s involved. I talked with my boss. He okayed me telling you what I know since you’re intimately involved with a couple of the players.”
Wiggling her ass against him, Suede purred, “I beg your pardon. I’m only intimately involved with one player. You.”
Chance sank lower in the tub, groaning enough that she felt the vibration to her core. “Ready again?”
“Always. For you.” Suede leaned the back of her head against his collarbone, relishing the way her body sprang to life at his touch. Her fingers drifted alongside his massive thighs, petting what she could reach while he cupped, pinched, and rolled her nipples, driving her back to the edge of passion as the water lapped at their bodies. “So tell me. Who is your boss?” she asked hoarsely.
“McQueen Sullivan,” Chance muttered, his voice thick with desire. “What you do to me, woman.” He nuzzled the crook of her ticklish neck. “What was I talking about?”
She giggled, secretly thrilled at the power she had over this giant of a man. “You were telling me about your boss, and that this mess with York and my dad isn’t over.”
“Right. So…” Chance must not have been as distracted as Suede thought. He kept his hands on her breasts as he talked. “This is what we know so far. York missed his meeting with one Benito Garcia and his bodyguard, Julio Juarez, both from Colombia. They work for the grandson of a German immigrant and the drug lord vying for territory, Wilhelm Gonzales.”
“That name sounds more German than Spanish.”
“Right. Wilhelm’s grandfather was one of Hitler’s SS guards before leaving the homeland after World War II.” Chance’s thumbs rolled over both her nipples before he cupped her breasts together, his chin hooked over her shoulder while he watched what his hands were busy doing. “He made an honest living, but Gonzales runs a wicked ship, meaning he punishes anyone who gets in his way. Beheadings, torture, you name it. He’s set himself up as a dictator in his part of the country, and he’s looking to expand.”
Suede listened as intently as she could, a difficult task with Chance toying with her body, lighting her up.
“My boss thinks there’s a connection, a family tie between Gonzales and York.”
“Because they’re both from Germany?”
“That and because they’re both in the same business. Not every wannabe from the States gets invited into a Colombian drug ring. Then there’s your father, Mick...” Chance cleared his throat as he thumbed the tender peaks he’d just driven into pulsating knots that craved the warm, wet recesses of his mouth. “I know for a fact York had a contract on him, and it had nothing to do with you. Apparently your old man’s been in touch with a couple nasty players, the Rio Brothers. They’re flat out hired-killers, also from Colombia. My guess is York wanted your dad dead, either that or Garcia pushed for the hit. Mick fired back by bringing his own hired guns into Oregon.”
Suede was afraid to ask, but she needed to know. “Whom do those brothers work for if they’re just hired guns?”
“Viktor Patrone, the Godfather of all Colombian drug trade. He snaps his fingers, and someone drops dead. Except for Gonzales, the only dealers in his country are the ones he allows.”
“Which means they owe him a tribute or something.” She didn’t know the right name for protection money, but that was close enough. Chance knew what she meant.
“Bingo, only the word from my contact down south is Gonzales refuses to pay. That Patrone hasn’t offed him yet is a puzzle.”
That didn’t sound good. “What’s my dad thinking? So now, Patrone’s moving his cartel north, too?”
“He’s trying, but one helluva battle for territory is about to break loose in Portland. This war will get bloody. My brothers are supposed to tie up the loose ends—”
“Which means they’re supposed to, what do you say—off everyone involved?”
Chance shook his head, sending ripples down to her toes. “Just the Rio boys. They’ve got no business bringing their war to America.”
“What about that Benito guy? Garcia? And Patrone?”
“Patrone and Gonzales haven’t set foot in America yet, and Kruze will take care of Garcia. Kruze knows his bodyguard, Juarez. They went through BUD/S together, that’s Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL in case you didn’t know.”
“He’s a Navy SEAL, too?”
Chance grunted. “No, Juarez is chicken shit. Couldn’t handle BUD/S. He rang out, quit the Navy, then moved south to work for
Gonzales. That tells me all I need to know about the jerk.”
“So your brothers are going up against the godfather’s main muscle? All by themselves?”
“We have no choice, Suede. We can’t allow mobsters from South America to run roughshod over America. If Patrone and Gonzales want a war, they’ll get one.”
“But what if Pagan and Kruze get hurt?” How could Chance lay here with her when his baby brothers were running headlong into danger?
“Believe me, they’re good at what they do, Suede. I’m not worried. If you had clearance, the stories I could tell you about those guys.”
“You need to get me that clearance then.”
He nodded, his fingers flexed over her breasts in a gentle caress, his thumbs strumming her nipples. “I already suggested that to my boss.”
“But my dad’s involved with Patrone? Why? What’s he getting out of this?”
“Don’t yet know,” Chance admitted. “A while back, he filled several Port Authority vacancies with York’s men, but they must’ve had some kind of falling out since then.” He dipped his hands underwater. “Now that York’s gone, it remains to be seen what your dad does. It’s interesting though. York wasn’t stupid, yet he ended up stranded on Old Man Mountain instead of being airlifted to safety. He said he didn’t know who was behind that debacle, but suspected it was someone more powerful than Patrone.”
Suede shivered. “Who’s more powerful than an evil drug lord?”
“That’s the million dollar question. Wish to hell we knew.”
She rolled to her side, her breasts chilled and missing the fiery touch of Chance’s talented fingers, but her libido revved on high. Dropping her ass below water she laid her head on his chest and wound her arms around his sides. “You’re right. York deserved what he got.”
Chance cupped a wet hand to her head. “That he did.”
“Are you going to leave him out there?”
“Don’t worry. Sullivan’s got a good clean-up crew. He’ll take care of it.”
“But what if someone comes looking for him before then?”
“They’ll find exactly what they would’ve found if it had been you laying out there.” Chance pressed a warm kiss to her forehead. “Put it out of your mind. It’s done.”
“I’m not worried about him. Only you,” she murmured through a yawn. “I don’t want anyone coming after you. Are you ready for bed yet?” Because I sure am.
A sexy chuckle rumbled deep in Chance’s chest. “I thought you’d never ask.” He toed the drain plug. As the water funneled out of the tub, he lifted Suede to her feet and wrapped her in a bath sheet. “It’s been quite a day.”
“It has,” she purred, her ear over his heart listening to the steady beat of an honest man, “and it’s going to be a better night.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“You’re kidding me!” Chance couldn’t believe what Sullivan just said. “Vera Tennyson is dead?”
“She and her personal assistant fell overboard during the night. Her body’s the only one they’ve recovered so far.”
“Mitchell Franks is missing?” Didn’t that curious tidbit of intel stink to high heaven? “Are we certain he’s who he claimed to be?”
“Already digging into him. Keep your ears on. I’ll be in touch.”
Chance palmed his phone and tucked it into his front jeans pocket. What was the chance of Suede’s mother drowning while Franks merely vanished? In the ocean? Not freaking likely.
He needed to know more about this guy. Seated in his control center, he hit the keyboard and brought up a page of recent German immigrants. Bingo. Franks came to America sixteen years ago. Interesting. Another few keystrokes sent Chance to a town near Berlin called Stahnsdorf, Wilhelm Gonzales’ grandfather’s point of origin. Another coincidence?
“I don’t think so.” Chance began digging into Suede’s mother’s right-hand man in earnest.
Suede had insisted on making breakfast this morning, what was fast becoming a daily occurrence that Chance liked. Somehow food cooked by a woman always tasted better than anything he threw together. With her, every meal was an art form. With him, it was more grab and gulp. Normally he’d be there at her side chopping onions and peppers for an omelet or squeezing fresh orange juice, but today’s urgent call from Sullivan had demanded the privacy of the Montana command center.
There might come a day when he allowed Suede full reign of his place, but Chance was in no hurry to push her into this part of his world. She’d been through enough. He’d rather have her living a normal life for as long as she could, and if she liked to spend it in the kitchen, who was he to complain?
He’d just opened Franks’ employee file, the one Pagan had found tucked inside Governor Tennyson’s server, when his phone buzzed an incoming. Speak of the devil.
“What do you know, Brother?” Chance asked, his sharp eyes scrolling over Franks’ stellar resume and credentials. On paper, the man walked on water, but Chance didn’t get that drift from Suede. Every time the guy’s name came up, she dodged eye contact and changed the subject. They needed to talk.
“I know Garcia’s meeting Tennyson at Terminal Eight this morning. That’s where I am at the moment. On the wharf. Want to know who leases this terminal?”
A waterfront terminal was a warehouse, plain and simple. This one had to be a cover for one of the two cartels vying for Portland’s location. That Garcia was in town spelled trouble, possibly Tennyson’s death. “Sure. Spill.”
“The name Domingo Zapata ring a bell?”
Chance hissed. This mess just kept getting bigger and badder. Zapata was a lone wolf out of Brazil, a mercenary in every sense of the word and an outright psycho. He liked the blood of a fresh kill, was known to paint his face with his victim’s blood, and then leave a selfie behind with the deceased displayed in the backdrop. The man was an animal, loyal to no one but himself.
“Who’s he working for, Patrone or Gonzales?”
“My gut’s telling me he’s not aligned with either.”
That made sense. Gonzales had Garcia and Juarez. Patrone had the Rio Brothers. Why would either of them call in an outsider like Zapata when they had plenty of their own muscle? “You think he’s solo?”
Pagan grunted. “I think he’s working for someone else. T-8 is either his lair or a misdirect. I’m hanging back in case it’s rigged to blow. The Feds already sent Bomb-Boy in.” Bomb-Boy, the latest in high-tech bomb-sniffing robots.
“Why’s the governor there?” Chance asked.
“Good question,” Pagan answered. “Guess he wants a ringside seat.”
“Yesterday, York said someone more powerful than Patrone’s behind the scenes.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“Don’t have a name, but Sullivan’s on it. Where’s Kruze?”
“Tailing Miss Vicki” —Pagan cleared his throat— “if you get my drift.”
Wasn’t that a surprise, Kruze chasing tail in the middle of an operation? It wasn’t the first time. “He’s a dumbass if he catches her. What’s her stake in this? Do you know for certain she’s after a piece of the waterfront?”
A low growl came over the line. “I don’t really know anything. She’s just eye candy to me. There’s no way she can compete with degenerates the likes of Gonzales and Patrone. That little girl needs to pack up her pink pistols and go home before she gets hurt.”
And there you have it, the reason Pagan didn’t have a woman in his life and probably wouldn’t for years to come. He tended to stick them into cubbyholes marked wife, cheerleader, teacher, or mother instead of granting them full marks for possibly having better brains and more complex thinking than most men. Yes, the two pink-handled Sig Sauers Miss Vicki carried—somehow—in her matching pink underarm holsters were a girly trademark, but they were her trademark, and she knew how to use them. How she reached for them as full-busted as she was and as quickly as she did, defied logic, but apparently, the Sicilian mob’s number one go-to-gal managed her bo
obs as easily as her pistols.
“Don’t be so sure of yourself, Pagan. She’s got one helluva track record for getting her man. Kruze needs to stay sharp or she’ll wing him.” Another eccentric trait, Miss Vicki winged law enforcement officers who got in her way, a thoughtful, albeit sadistic reminder of who she was and how good of an aim she was.
Most hit men and women were content making body shots when it came to a gunfight with the law. If a police officer got in their way, so be it. It was no skin off their teeth; they got paid either way. Not Miss Vicky. She went for smaller targets when she encountered the police. Ankles. Wrists. Fingers and toes. Never heads or throats. Never came close to carotid or femoral arteries. Mostly she nicked, winged, or grazed the boys in blue, and wasn’t that interesting? An assassin with a soft spot for cops, federal agents, and first responders? Professional courtesy, maybe?
“Not worried about her,” Pagan huffed. “I’m hard pressed to think the mob wants a piece of this war, though. They’ve got their hands full in Sicily. You think she’s gone rogue?”
The Sicilian Mafia had recently gone through massive restructuring due to the poor economy and the Italian crackdown on organized crime in their country. They were currently settling in Germany, where prospects were brighter.
“I think she’s working an angle we haven’t figured out yet. Like I said, keep your eyes open and tell Kruze to lay off the lady. He’s supposed to track and watch from a distance, not engage in physical contact.” Something about Miss Vicki and her hard-assed rep nagged at the back of Chance’s mind. He just couldn’t put his finger on what.
“Shit,” Pagan hissed. “Bodies. The FBI’s pulling bodies out of the terminal. One. Two.”
Chance stiffened in his chair. “How close are you?”
“Don’t worry ’bout it.” Pagan’s standard answer when he was in too deep. “I’m up high on a boom across the way. All these terminals have glass windows front side. I could pick one of these guy’s ears off if I wanted to, and they’d never know where the hit came from. Damn. Tennyson’s puking his guts up.”
Angel: An SOBs Novel Page 24