Combustion: Ensenada Heat Book Two

by Tess Summers

  Their driver sighed. “I have no doubt about that. Your sister will be safe with me as long as she does what she’s told.”

  “I will,” Reagan squeaked out from the backseat. “You won’t have to worry about me. I’d like to go home in one piece and breathing.”

  “Stay close to Jakey, Rea. For all his bluster, he’s really a teddy bear.”

  Reagan knew her sister was egging on the grumpy but handsome man. Surprisingly, he didn’t appear riled as he drove through the city, but he did throw in a parting shot before hanging up.

  “Talk to you soon, Bella,” Jacob said with a smirk.

  Bella was Kennedy’s new identity, which no one was supposed to know about. There was a reason the man was considered to be the best in the business.

  Barely taking his eyes off the road, Jacob handed Mason a bag. “Burner phone with everyone’s numbers programmed in, ear piece with me on the other end, Colombian pesos, gum, map, and safehouse location—should shit go south, meet there after five. The team has a vest for you.”

  Mason wasted no time sticking the ear piece in his ear then counted the money before slipping it into his front shirt pocket, along with the gum. The map and phone he put in his pants pocket. He stared at the scrap of paper with the location of the safehouse then tore it in three pieces and left it on the console.

  They went over the plan once more. Not much had changed from when she’d sat in on his strategy session—she liked that. It felt like she was still included in things, not just the dumb hostage.

  They pulled up to the curb next to a café on one of the busy streets of Cartagena, and Mason grabbed the door handle with one hand, then paused before getting out. He turned toward Jacob, pointing his finger at the man.

  “Take care of her. Kennedy isn’t the only one you’ll have to worry about if anything happens to her,” he warned then looked back at her with a grin and a wink. That wink made her feel way more special than it should have.

  Without another word, he was out the door and Jacob was driving away before the door even shut completely, grumbling, “Then maybe you shouldn’t have asked me to babysit, asshole.” She saw Mason duck into the café just as the Camaro turned the corner and sped off down the street.

  This was going to be a long day—she wished she had grabbed breakfast. Jacob didn’t seem like the type who was going to be very hospitable and feed her.

  Just then, her stomach growled, and he smirked at her through the rearview mirror.

  “You hungry?”

  Maybe he wasn’t going to be as inhospitable as she’d thought.

  ****

  Mason

  For all Jacob’s bluster, he was a good guy. Well, a good guy for a mercenary, and Mason knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to Reagan—if for no other reason than he didn’t want to tangle with Kennedy Jones. If he was smart anyway. Obviously, Mason wasn’t smart. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Marcus’ life being in jeopardy definitely constituted desperate times.

  In the café, he rendezvoused with Eddie Landon, one of the three rebels from his brother’s team who had disobeyed orders and come back to Colombia to get Marcus home safely.

  The other two, Erik Yu and Raul Garcia, were doing more surveillance.

  “The agency got a ransom demand last night,” Eddie told him once Mason got his coffee and sat down at one of the bistro tables. They were made of wrought iron with colorful tiles adorning the top.

  “Jesus, it took them long enough,” he muttered, blowing on the hot beverage before taking a sip.

  Eddie sighed, moving his bottom jaw side to side—probably a nervous tic he didn’t even realize he had.

  “I’m sure Marcus didn’t give up anything easily.”

  They were both quiet as they contemplated what his brother had probably endured, and what it must have taken to get him to offer enough information to put out a ransom demand.

  “I hope this chick is worth it,” Eddie muttered bitterly, shaking his head. “He just pissed away his career for a woman after knowing her—what? A week? But hopefully not his life.”

  Mason suddenly understood why his brother might go to this length to save someone he’d just met. He would do the same for Reagan without hesitation.

  “What about us? Don’t you think we’re pissing our careers away to save Marcus?”

  Eddie shook his head confidently. “Nah. Marcus is going to reappear, having single-handedly escaped his captors. The agency will do their hero pomp and circumstance, then allow him to quietly retire. They may have their suspicions of our involvement, but unless one of us gets killed today, they’ll never be able to prove it.”

  “Maybe for you. I borrowed a yacht for this little excursion.

  “Oh fuck! Why the hell did you do that?”

  “I thought it’d be the easiest way to transport twelve or so women out of Cartagena undetected.”

  “Wait—what? We’re transporting them?”

  Mason furrowed his brow. “Yeah. What the fuck did you think we were going to do?”

  Eddie shrugged. “I dunno. Free them and send them on their way.”

  “Well, we’ll do that eventually. But we need to be sure they’re released somewhere safe where they aren’t going to fall into the same predicament to be sold again.”

  Eddie’s phone beeped with a text.

  “They’re out front,” he said as he grabbed his coffee and stood up. Mason followed the man out the door and down the street to a waiting maroon minivan that had seen better days. It was in stark contrast to his ride from the marina.

  After getting in the middle seat and reacquainting himself with the men he’d met only a handful of times before, he looked around the vehicle and smiled. They made quite the diverse crew. There was him with his blond hair and Irish/Italian heritage. Eddie was an African American, about five foot ten and two hundred pounds of muscle; his bald head made him look tough as hell. Erik was of Korean descent, also about five foot ten, with jet black hair; he was leaner than Eddie but still with an athletic build. Raul was first-generation American by birthright—his parents escaped from Cuba in the seventies and were welcomed into the US as political refugees. From what Marcus had told Mason, Raul definitely fit the Latin lover stereotype to a T.

  Erik handed Mason a bulletproof vest, and as he slipped it over his head, Eddie asked suspiciously, “Where’d you get your female contact? She seems to be pretty badass.”

  Mason only grinned and offered, “That’s what I hear.” He had made a deal with Kennedy; he wasn’t revealing who she was. He was glad to learn Jacob hadn’t disclosed her identity either.

  “Let’s roll,” Raul said, starting the engine.

  He took a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

  ****

  They were in position on the warehouse roof, waiting for the go-ahead from Jacob.

  The fixer was definitely earning his money this week. He had orchestrated a meeting for Kennedy with some of the cartel yesterday. She was posing as a woman from LA setting up an underground brothel and needing ‘labor,’ which the Colombians seemed eager to provide for the price she was offering. Flanked by Dante—who refused to leave her side and was posing as one of her bodyguards—and one of Dante’s actual bodyguards, they were able to get a feel for the layout of the building and plant seven CIA-grade cameras and bugs in the process.

  Marcus’ teammates had spent the night watching the feed of the warehouse from their hotel room, with Kennedy and Dante viewing the footage from their suite, and Jacob observing from his.

  After surveying the building and being shown the dozen captive women, Kennedy thought Marcus was being held in a room on the second floor. Their mole affirmed her assessment.

  Kennedy had called another meeting this morning with the cartel leaders—off-site this time—to discuss shipment dates. Fortunately, once the boss-men left the warehouse, security was minimal. They probably thought women held in a cage and a man who’d more than likely been beaten seve
rely weren’t too difficult to guard—although Mason thought it was pretty arrogant on the cartel’s part to think no one would be coming for his brother. They should pay their people better, because according to Jacob, it had been pretty easy to flip the first one he’d approached.

  Jacob’s art of persuasion probably played a role. The man could sell ice to an Eskimo. There was a reason he knew everything about everyone—and it wasn’t just because he threw dollar bills around, although Mason was sure that helped. No, Jacob was cunning. He could get people to tell secrets without them even realizing they were doing it. Women adored him, and men admired him—but Mason knew it was all a façade. He was certain no one knew the real Jacob Smith, and he could almost guarantee Smith wasn’t the man’s real last name.

  Jacob’s voice came in Mason’s ear, and judging by the team’s expressions, he was speaking to them simultaneously.

  “My inside man says the rest of the guards are getting blowjobs. Try not to kill him when you get inside—navy polo, jeans. He should give up without a fight. Maybe tie him up to make it look good or knock him out, rough him up a little.”

  “We can definitely do that,” Eddie said with a chuckle as he got into a crouching position.

  Mason silently gestured toward the window they had been avoiding, then the four men were on the move. They had decided to wait and see if an opportunity to covertly breach the building presented itself, but if it didn’t, they were prepared to go in with guns blazing. Stealth mode felt safer for the captives, though, and he was relieved they were going in this way.

  Horny assholes.

  A horny asshole was how Kennedy had escaped his custody—one of his men had fallen for her ruse that she wanted him. It was the oldest trick in the book, yet it had still worked. Probably because men were so predictable when it came to thinking with their dicks.

  Normally he sat in condescending judgment of horny assholes, but given his last few days with Reagan Jones, Mason felt like he was now no better than the rest of them. And that bothered him.

  But Reagan was so much more to him than just wanting to get his dick wet. Should he have messed around with her? Fuck no. Would he do it again? In a damn heartbeat.

  The plan was to neutralize the threat, find Marcus, rescue the women, and make a discreet exit in as short a time as possible, but there were a lot of unknowns at play—the biggest being what condition they were going to find Marcus in.

  They rappelled down from the window at the roofline to the first floor. They really did look like badasses straight out of an action movie, and Mason wasn’t ashamed to admit he lived for this shit. The thrill, the danger, saving people’s lives—he was an adrenaline junkie.

  Navy polo guy had his hands up the minute he saw them. It was probably a cheap shot when Eddie knocked him out with one punch, then zip-tied his hands and feet, but the guy would appreciate the bruises when he was trying to explain to his bosses how he was still alive. It remained to be seen if the man’s colleagues would be as lucky.

  “You’ve got three other guards—two in the room to the left and one in the room to the right. The women are being housed in the middle room,” came the voice in his ear.

  Eddie and Raul took the room on the left; Erik and Mason took the room on the right.

  The door wasn’t even locked when they tried it. As expected, the overweight guard was in a chair with his pants around his ankles while a petite, topless, dark-haired woman was on her knees between his legs, timidly bobbing her head up and down on his cock. The dumbass’ gun was five feet away on a table as he grunted and gripped both hands on the armrests. The young beauty’s tits swayed before him as she awkwardly worked his dick over.

  Mason opted not to put a bullet in the man’s brain. He did get some satisfaction though from the look on the fucker’s face when he opened his eyes to find the two CIA agents standing there, guns drawn, smirks on their faces. To the woman’s credit, she’d looked up as they quietly entered the room, but hadn’t screamed at the sight of them. They’d put a finger to their lips, and she had followed their orders and kept sucking the man’s cock until they told the guard not to move. Then ]she scrambled out of the way, covering her bare breasts. The guard’s eyes grew wide while his cock went flaccid like a sad, deflated balloon.

  Squatting so he was eye-level with the woman, Erik picked up her blouse, which was laying on the floor, and handed it to her, telling her in Spanish, “You’re safe now.” Then he looked away when she lifted her arms to slip it over her head.

  Her terrified look let them know she wasn’t a believer.

  Erik seemed to take her lack of faith personally and gripped her forearm as they stood, looking her in the eye. “I promise. We’re here to help you and the other women.”

  A single tear rolled down her cheek and the Korean-American hugged her. To Mason’s surprise, she let him.

  Mason had just zip-tied the asshole to the chair, leaving his pants around his ankles and his tiny dick on display, when Raul and Eddie appeared with two skinny, young brunette women who looked as terrified as the one being comforted by Erik.

  Eddie immediately threw his arms up to his face, as if to block the sight from his eyes.

  “Whoa! I’ve seen enough little dicks today to last a lifetime.”

  The man in the chair took offense at the insult and started to curse at them. Mason happily put a gag in the asshole’s mouth.

  “What about the other two?”

  “Knocked the fuck out. One of them is going to have a black and blue dick when he wakes up. Bruce Lee here”—Raul gestured to the woman whose elbow he was holding—“kicked the shit out of his crotch after he went down.”

  The tiny spitfire obviously didn’t understand English, but she could tell they were talking about her and started sputtering in Spanish about cutting the guard’s genitals off with a rusty knife.

  “Where is the American?” Mason asked her in her native language.

  She looked at him, obviously confused, and shook her head.

  “No sé.” I don’t know.

  “We haven’t been allowed out of the room, except to be used by the men they bring here and by the guards when the boss-men leave us alone with them,” the woman still holding onto Erik explained in Spanish.

  “How long have you been here?” Raul asked the woman whose arm he was still holding.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “A month? Two months? You lose track of time in here.”

  “Susana knows. She’s been keeping track,” Erik’s new charge offered.

  Before Mason could ask who or where Susana was, Jacob’s voice resonated in his ear. “You guys need to move it. Kennedy says they’re on their way back.”

  “Shit. You guys deal with the women; I’m going to go find Marcus.”

  Mason was out the door and running up the steel stairs, gun in hand as his footsteps echoed off the warehouse walls. He tried the first door he came to and, finding it locked, kicked it open to discover it empty.

  Same with the second room. And the third. And fourth.

  Marcus was not here.

  “He’s not fucking here, Jacob!” Mason roared as he came out of the last room.

  “He’s gotta be.”

  Mason didn’t even bother going back to the stairs. Instead he leapt over the railing and landed on a desk, then jumped onto the main floor. The only cartel man not unconscious was the guard whose blowjob Mason and Erik had interrupted.

  As his fellow operatives ushered the women out and piled them into the maroon minivan, he stormed into the office where the man remained tied to the office chair—shriveled cock still out for all to see.

  Putting his gun in his waistband, Mason grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and demanded, “Where is he? Where is the American?”

  The guard just smiled, which infuriated Mason.

  Shoving him down back into the chair, he took his gun from his waistband and pointed it at the man’s head, then changed his mind and directed his aim at t
he Colombian’s cock.

  That wiped the smile from the guard’s face.

  Mason pulled the hammer on the gun. “Where. Is. The. American.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Reagan

  Jacob was barking into his headset, “Mason, he’s gotta be there. You need to check the upstairs rooms again.”

  After dropping Mason at the café, they’d taken position in an office across from the warehouse and had been watching an iPad screen with different feeds from the cameras Kennedy and Dante had planted yesterday. Some of the angles were skewed so she had to cock her head to see what was really taking place.

  Reagan could see three large, handsome men who looked straight out of a commercial for a cop show—bulletproof vests with weapons holstered at the side, earpieces in their ears—ushering scantily-clad young Hispanic women out the door.

  She looked out the window into the alley and saw them being hustled into an older model maroon minivan, its paint fading from years in the elements and two of the hubcaps missing.

  Mason was nowhere to be seen—he was not helping the women into the vehicle, and she couldn’t see him on the iPad screen when she peeked over Jacob’s shoulder. Jacob could hear him though, judging by the instructions he was barking into his microphone.

  “What the fuck are you doing? You need to go check the offices closer. Don’t listen to that asshole. He’s sending you on a wild goose chase, man.” Jacob was silent for a moment, then slumped back in his chair, sighed, and muttered, “Okay, but you’re making a mistake,” as he reached into his front pocket and pulled out his car keys.

  “I’ll take them to him,” Reagan eagerly volunteered, extending her hand.

  Eyeing her suspiciously, Jacob held the keys in his fist before reluctantly releasing them into her outstretched palm.

  “Come right back here,” he ordered as she raced out the door.

  She ran down the stairs at breakneck speed and burst into the alley through the nondescript metal door. Mason was coming through the warehouse door just as the minivan turned the corner.