Angel: An SOBs Novel

by Irish Winters

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Infiltration. A noun. The ability to gain access to an enemy camp without the enemy’s knowledge. A skill set to acquire information or inflict bodily harm or death. Chance rolled the angst of his neck, as focused as he’d never been during all the infils of his nine-year Navy career. Bodily harm ranked high on his to-do list this morning. Damned high.

  His brothers had his six like no other operators before, and they’d geared-up as only SEALs did. Plenty of ammo. Several pistols. Enough extra magazines to get the job done. Knives. High-tech listening devices and the latest spy gear. Good stuff like that.

  Leave it to Kruze to have friends in low places. The fisherman who’d dropped them a mile offshore was another one of his old friends. Swimming to shore took less than thirty minutes, and now they stood wary. Thrown off balance. For all their badassed reps, the Rio boys lay dead on Mitchell Franks’ pristine private shore, their necks broken courtesy of who, Chance didn’t know and could see no sign of. It spiked his instincts to Threatcon Delta: Attack is imminent.

  “Heads on swivels,” he growled, not that his brothers didn’t already know that.

  But wasn’t it interesting? If the Rio boys were here, the Godfather himself, Patrone was most likely here as well. Then who in Colombia was El Presidente going after? Who else, besides Suede, was Franks entertaining? Had JJ lied? Was Wilhelm Gonzales here, too? Was this another betrayal and an ambush like that other South American op?

  Chance sucked in a gut full of I-don’t-fucking’-give-a-shit. Patrone. Gonzales. Juarez. Franks. Didn’t matter who stood in his way today. He’d smoke them all to rescue Suede.

  Oddly, thoughts of the CIA agent who’d disappeared before that op gone horribly wrong in South America came to mind. Why, Chance had no idea, but the truth was that CIA Agent Card had never resurfaced after the bungled mess that had taken most of Chance’s team and most of his heart. Wonder where he is, Chance thought. Not that he cared. Still… Card was one of those unanswered questions that plague him yet today. Probably always would.

  Rolling his shoulder, Chance shrugged thoughts of Card off and focused on Suede. It wasn’t hard to locate her. All they had to do was follow Franks’ annoying voice straight ahead. The pig had her inside his island home, tied to a wooden chair, her hands bound behind her back, her ankles strapped to the front chair legs, and her knees spread. If seeing Suede in a string of a swimsuit and restrained like she was didn’t spike Chance’s rage into the red zone, nothing did. He needed to kill something. Franks and Patrone would do.

  Chance knew damned well why she was here. What rape victim didn’t want to cut the balls off her attacker? But Suede baby, you don’t have the heart. You couldn’t kill York. What makes you think you can kill Franks?

  Yet Franks hadn’t shut up since Patrone dragged her, kicking and screaming, inside. Dressed like an islander in beach attire, Franks was everything Chance expected. Thinning, light brown hair. The pale blue eyes of his German ancestry. Pasty complexion. Nervous. He was that wimp on every grade school playground who never made the cut to play ball when the bigger, more athletic boys handpicked their teams. Wimps like him proved their lack of real power by bullying younger kids and girls. Like Suede.

  Patrone himself was barrel-chested, maybe six-foot three, wearing white linen slacks with a pale yellow polo shirt that hung over his expansive waist, and the comfortable, high-priced leather shoes of a gentleman. He reminded Chance of Anthony Quinn in the old gangster movies. He radiated the calm Franks didn’t, the kind that came from knowing he was the most powerful man on the continent.

  “I’m picking up chatter,” Kruze whispered from the earpiece snugged deep in Chance’s head. He and Pagan had since circled the building and secured the perimeter. “Let’s give it up for Benny.”

  As if on cue, Benito Garcia made his entrance behind Suede. An elegant Hispanic male with a neatly trimmed pencil-thin moustache, the barest hint of a goatee on his chin, he wore a bright blue sports jacket, white shirt, and tie. The guy looked like he was going dancing.

  “Ears up,” Chance ordered, meaning the listening/recording device Kruze handled. If possible, they’d acquire as much evidence as possible to the twisted scheme that had nearly brought Oregon down and America to its knees. If the Sinclair boys’ unapproved trip to Costa Rica turned into a political nightmare, President Adams would need solid ammunition to defend his men—if he’d still claim them.

  Kruze came back to him with, “Already on it, brother.”

  “Two down in back,” Pagan affirmed, meaning he’d located two more tangos and had taken them down silently. Like a pro.

  “We do this slow. We do this right,” Chance hissed, though every nerve in his testosterone-charged body told him to rush the place, smoke Franks, Patrone, and Garcia. Rescue Suede. Kiss the hell out of her. Spank her ass until she couldn’t sit down for a week. Exfil to safety. In that order.

  Easing one boot flat to the porch, Chance settled his shoulder blades to the wall beside the door in seconds. Pagan took the opposite side, limping a little, but just as pissed as Chance that they were now on an illegal operation in a foreign country. McQueen wouldn’t like this, but Chance hadn’t asked permission. The senator could like it or lump it, fire him or arrest him for all Chance cared about protocol. Suede would be home by the end of the day, damn it.

  “This,” Franks declared from inside, “is what your mother found. Like mother, like daughter. Sit back and enjoy the show.”

  Kruze hissed from the side window. “Shit. Porn. He’s making Suede watch porn of… son-of-a-bitch… of her. Him and her. The bastard filmed what he did to her when she was a kid. Even I can’t—shit!—watch this.”

  Chance peered through the screen door. “I see it.” His instincts screamed, ‘Take him out!’ but his right hand came up automatically in a fist as if he needed to tell himself to follow orders.

  “And you want to know what your bitch of a mommy did then?” Franks bent forward in front of Suede, his hands on his knees, berating the woman who’d turned her cheek to him. “She cried. Do you believe that? Vera Tennyson cried like a little girl. For you! She got all weepy and sad, said she’d failed you, wah, wah, wah. That you were worth more than anything or anyone in her world, and she’d let you down. Said she should’ve known you wouldn’t lie because you were always a good kid.” Lifting his eyes to the ceiling fan overhead, he raked a hand over his sparse hair, flattening it to his scalp. “Fucking bitch said she never deserved you. Isn’t that the joke of the century? Look at you now, ten times the whore she was!”

  Suede’s head came up then, and Chance’s heart sank. Her cheeks were wet with tears and she was that little girl again, belittled by her parents, tossed to wolves the likes of York, yet believing every last word out of Franks’ lying mouth. Chance wasn’t buying any of it. Franks only said those things to hurt Suede, leading her on to believe that her mother had ever loved her? Cruel. Damned cruel.

  “She cried? F-for me?” Damn it to hell, the catch in her voice sounded so pitifully small.

  “Oh, boo hoo, yes.” Glaring at Suede, Franks pursed his lips. “She was going to the police to tell them how I’d lied, and, shit. She went crazy on me.”

  “But why not just threaten her like you did everyone else?” she asked, her voice soft and sad. “Why kill her?”

  “Because I had bigger fish to fry!” Franks slapped Suede’s face then. Her hair whirled over her shoulder as her head jerked to the right, and it was all Chance could do to hold fast and wait.

  “York was off the reservation by then. Zapata said he liked York, and shit, once you aired that damned clip of yours on national news, it didn’t matter, did it?” He struck her again, forcing her head to her other shoulder, her mouth bleeding now and her chest heaving. “I killed the bitch, and you made sure your daddy will never see the light of day. We’re alike, Suede. You and me. We’re exactly alike.”

  Patrone’s head canted, as if he’d just heard something he
didn’t understand. Suede whined, “We’re… we’re nothing alike.”

  “Not taking much more of this,” Pagan warned.

  “Wait,” Chance ordered his brother, though it killed him to let Franks batter Suede. But this was why she’d come to this island. To go in too soon, to rescue her now, would undermine all she’d given to this desperate task. She’d already proved she was willing to do whatever it took to end Franks. She understand, because Suede Tennyson was tougher than Mick or Vera. Tougher than York any day, and—by hell, she might just be tougher than me.

  “Want me to spell it out for her?” Garcia asked as he fiddled with his cufflink. “You get more with honey, you know. Might work. I do have a softer touch, least that’s what the ladies say.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Chance whispered at the insinuation.

  “Not if I kill him first,” Kruze murmured.

  Franks stretched backward, his palms on the small of his back as if his spine ached. “Yeah. Go on. Give it a try, but don’t cut her. I just had this carpet replaced.”

  “Zapata should be here. He’d convince her.” Patrone dragged another wooden chair, spun it backward, then straddled it ringside. To watch.

  “But no blood,” Franks bit out even as he rubbed his bloody knuckles. “It’s messy. I won’t have it.”

  “Ah, yes, our tidy boss hates the messes he leaves behind, which is why we are here today.” Garcia rolled up one sleeve, very slowly, then the other as he circled the scantily clothed woman in their midst. At last, he took a knee between Suede’s spread legs. Placing one hand high on her thigh, he cupped her chin with the other. “Ah, so this is the mess we must clean up today, the mighty Suede Tennyson. You are not so pretty now, eh little girl?”

  She had the nerve to spit in his face. “Get your dirty hands off me.”

  “You taught her well,” Kruze muttered.

  But Chance knew better. He hadn’t taught Suede anything. She was already hardened when she’d come to him. If anything, he’d hurt her by loving her. By softening her up. By giving her hope.

  “She is a spitfire,” Patrone chuckled. “Need a towel, my good friend?”

  Garcia swiped his face, then grabbed Suede’s throat, his fingers dug in under her chin, forcing her to face him. “Let me tell you what you came all this way to find out,” he hissed, his eyes dropping to the plump swells of her breasts before they scrolled back up her neck to her eyes. “Mitchell Franks did your daddy’s dirty work for years. He covered up for his whores, his lies, and for his murders. He paid off lawyers and judges, police chiefs and pimps, but when you told your mommy and daddy that he raped you?” Garcia’s head tipped to the ceiling as he laughed. “Ha! What a lie. You liked it and you know you did. But then he knew you had to go, so pffft! He sold you to the Lion. You were easy to manipulate back then. What happened to that sweet little girl?”

  His gaze tracked down her taut neck to the swell of her breasts again. “Still, maybe we can do a few things with you before we kill you. Things that may convince you to stay. To join us.”

  Chance wanted this over. Hold on, baby, he prayed. Get them to talk.

  “So Mitch blackmailed my d-d-dad?” Suede stuttered.

  Franks jumped back into the game. “You call it blackmail. I call it getting what I deserve.”

  “B-but why infiltrate Senator Sullivan’s staff? What good did that do?”

  That brought Franks up short. “How do you know that?”

  She peered up at him, her face wet with sweat, tears, and blood. “I know a lot about you, Mitch. Your plan to distribute Colombian drugs out of Portland’s docks. The way you used Zapata to get inside York’s business when Mr. Patrone thought Zapata was working for him. The way you used others to undermine Mr. Gonzales’ plan to bring fascism into the heart of America. You were just using them too, weren’t you?”

  Don’t out Julio, Suede, Chance prayed. You can do this. I know you can. Just don’t out Julio or Vicki when you do.

  Benito Garcia lifted to his feet, his face screwed into a grimace as he turned his back on Suede and accused Mitch. “You did what? You do not trust my boss? You sold Wilhelm out? Your familia?” His disbelief rang out shrill, loud, and clear.

  Franks tipped back on his heels, both of his palms forward as if to placate his friend. “Just business, Benny. It was just business. Trust me. Don’t take it personally.”

  “I did trust you!” Garcia shot back at him. “Wilhelm trusted you. He thought we had a deal to take over all the Pacific Coast business! Together!”

  Patrone’s chair scraped and he was on his feet now, his dark brows furrowed over darker eyes. “What’s this about Zapata? You stuck maggots inside my organization like you did Sullivan’s? Who do you think you are to spy on me?” he asked as he thumped his broad chest.

  Chance lifted his hand to signal his brothers to go in, until Franks said, “Don’t go soft on me, guys. You both got your share of the blackmail Mick paid, and you’ll get more. Trust me. This is business, and we’re in it for the long haul. So I made a few decisions without you. Get over it. We can do this, right?”

  Garcia didn’t look any more convinced than Patrone, but they both calmed. Their brows came down. Their fists relaxed. Chance stilled his trigger finger. Whether she knew it or not, Suede made a damned fine operator under pressure.

  “I think it is time we call Wilhelm,” Patrone said quietly to Garcia. “I want to hear what he knows.”

  Garcia tugged a cell out of his inside jacket pocket. “Exactly my thoughts, amigo.”

  “And you,” Patrone turned on Franks. “Go get my boys. Tell them I have need of them. Here. Pronto.”

  Franks shot the Godfather of Colombia a crusty, injured look. “Me? You want me to run ‘get your boys?’”

  “Si,” Patrone said, his voice soft and lethal. “I no longer think American soldiers are coming like you said. I think you lie. This woman came here alone or I would’ve heard otherwise by now. So go. Get my boys. Be quick.”

  Suede interrupted the pissing contest. “So you... you blackmailed my dad? That’s what this was all about? Just money?”

  “Just money,” Garcia scoffed, still swiping at his bloodied collar, his phone to his ear.

  Franks seized on the distraction. Rolling his neck, he hunched one shoulder like he had a neck cramp. “No, it was about your father becoming President of the United States, you shithead!” He’d gotten close enough he could’ve spit in her face. “We could’ve had it all, but once you pissed York off and he tried to kill you on my property, mind you. My land in Montana, the asshat! Once he crapped on me, I had to get creative, didn’t I? I knew Mick was still tight with some of our frat buddies, and I’d already planted spies in all their businesses. I improvised. I made decisions! Never expected Sullivan was in so deep into the black ops until then, but finally I had him by the—”

  “But you spied on a United States Senator? Really?” Suede asked, her tongue sliding over her bloody bottom lip, facing her tormentor yet again. That she’d deliberately circled back to the crime Franks had committed against McQueen told Chance plenty. Suede knew precisely what she was doing, baiting Franks while outing him to Patrone and Garcia at the same time. Damn, she was good.

  Good girl, keep them talking, Chance urged mentally. God, I love you, Suede. Just do what you’re doing a little longer. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen. I promise.

  “Why not? Nobody can pin this on me or them. They sure can’t hurt Johnny.”

  Mental note-to-self: pay a visit to this Johnny-asshole. Whoever he is. At night. Make it hurt.

  Suede’s head dropped then, and Chance worried she’d passed out until she whispered, “It was you all along, Mitch. You used my mom and my dad. You used me, and now you’re using these poor gentlemen to take over the drugs in America. You don’t care about Mr. Patrone or Mr. Garcia any more than you did York or me. Do you think they’re stupid, too?”

  Good touch, calling Patrone and Garcia ‘poor gentlemen’.<
br />
  Chance jumped when Franks backhanded her and screeched, “Poor gentlemen! These guys?”

  Suede lifted her chin and kept taunting him. “You’re the one who wants to be president, Mitch. Of America. Of Colombia. That’s why you needed Mr. Patrone and Mr. Garcia here, just when the Presidente of Colombia sent his army to kill them. They’re here now doing your dirty work for you just like you did for my dad. It’s Wilhelm Gonzales you want dead, isn’t it? That’s what this is really about. That’s why he wasn’t invited to this little party. He’s probably in front of a firing squad in Cartagena right now, isn’t he? But you needed Mr. Patrone and Mr. Garcia alive. Why is that?”

  Way to go, baby, Chance thought. Give him just enough rope...

  She lurched forward against her restraints, the same as when she’d broken Zapata’s nose. “What are you going to do now, Mitch?” she hissed, the fire in her eyes smoking hot. “Drown Mr. Patrone and Mr. Garcia when you’re finished with them, just like you drowned Mom? Leave them on a mountain without food or rescue like you did York? Rape their children like you did me once they’re dead and they can’t protect their families?”

  Both Patrone and Garcia had stilled at her steady declarations. The room went deathly quiet.

  “Do you think I care for one goddamned minute what happens to my long lost uncle!” Franks shrieked. “Wilhelm’s a prick! He always has been. And York! York was just plain stupid. He wanted a piece of the action, so I gave it to him. Too bad it wasn’t all he thought he deserved, the arrogant bastard. Now shut the fuck up!”

  It was the damnedest thing to watch this feisty five-foot-nothing lady take on three crime lords. In. Their. Own. Territory.

  Franks cocked an arm to hit her again, but Patrone pre-empted the strike when he struck a knife into Mitch’s kidneys. Jerking a beefy elbow around Franks’ neck, Patrone twisted the blade until the man stopped squirming. When he dropped wheezing to the floor, Patrone wiped the blade Franks hadn’t seen coming on the leg of his pristine, white slacks. He turned to Garcia. “If what this woman says is true, Wilhelm’s in trouble. Call him. Now.”