Black Ops Bodyguard

by Donna Young

  Calvin West was lean, but not lanky. More solid, sculpted. Almost as if he was modeled from the Greek statues at the Smithsonian.

  Muscles flexed, then shifted beneath the charcoal suit coat, hinting at the controlled movement beneath.

  Longing twisted deep in her belly. Refusing to be distracted, she locked her spine straight and brought her eyes back to his features.

  His hazel eyes, unflinching, seared hers.

  Julia broke contact first. She glanced around the apartment. “Did you bring the file?”

  “Yes.” Julia reached into her suit pocket and withdrew the folded pieces of paper. “But it only explains the mission. Not what went wrong. Are you up for a trip to South America?”

  “I’m the wrong person to help you.”

  “You’re exactly the right person, actually. That’s why I’m asking you to be my bodyguard.”

  DONNA YOUNG

  BLACK OPS BODYGUARD

  To all of my family and my friends. Thank you for the love and support you’ve given me over the past year and more. I am blessed to have so many who care so much.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Donna Young, an incurable romantic, lives with her family in beautiful Northern California.

  Books by Donna Young

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  824—BODYGUARD RESCUE

  908—ENGAGING BODYGUARD

  967—THE BODYGUARD CONTRACT

  1016—BODYGUARD CONFESSIONS

  1087—SECRET AGENT, SECRET FATHER

  1106—A BODYGUARD FOR CHRISTMAS

  1148—CAPTIVE OF THE DESERT KING

  1310—BLACK OPS BODYGUARD

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Julia Cutting—The president’s personal assistant, who must choose between the man she loves and a longtime promise made to another man. The problem? Betrayed by both, she doesn’t trust either.

  Calvin West—A black ops agent sent to the Amazon jungle by the president of the United States. He must bring down a rogue agent and a South American drug cartel—no matter the cost. But when the cost is the woman he loves, will he be able to pay the price?

  Jason Marsh—Ex-DEA agent with a vendetta, and a secret that could jeopardize national security.

  Cristo Delgado—The leader of a powerful drug cartel with ambitions to rule a worldwide empire. All it will take is a few dead government agents, and his son at his side.

  Argus Delgado—At twelve, he’s heir to a drug empire. It runs in his blood. Or does it?

  Solaris—He killed his first man at the age of seventeen. Now, decades later, killing is more or less a sport. Who are his next targets? A black ops agent and the president’s personal assistant.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter One

  Amazonia, Venezuela

  Many years ago

  The jungle was one hell of a place to die.

  Calvin West dropped to his knees in the muck and rotted vines. The storm did little to relieve the humidity, turning the air into liquid oxygen, making it difficult to breathe and his head thick and fuzzy.

  A flash of lightning lit the shadows, adding a jolt of electricity to the fetid, moist surroundings.

  The crack of thunder came at a snail’s pace, telling Cal the worst of the storm lingered in the mountains miles away.

  The bullet wound in his side throbbed. The small hole oozed blood under the muddy cocoon of clothes that stuck to his body.

  He’d lost his pistol while crossing the river. The same place he’d picked up the wound.

  Gunfire burst behind him. Less than a hundred meters back. Cristo’s men were closing in.

  “Find him!”

  The order shot through the trees, making the birds flutter from their perches, their wings battling the downpour in fear of the hunters.

  Cal nearly smiled over the frustration in his enemy’s command. It was Solaris. Cristo’s enforcer. The mercenary was good and would make sure no one ever found Cal’s body.

  But, Cal was damn good himself and wouldn’t give Solaris the satisfaction.

  He staggered to his feet and veered back into the canal, sinking calf-deep into the rancid mire and slime beneath. Cursing the ache in his side, he trudged through the muck. Rain pelted the stagnant water, making it jump and spit in front of him, while his eyes scanned the churning current for the sleek, rolling movement of a snake or crocodile.

  Bloody hell. He should have known the deal had been too easy, the lure too tempting. He should have realized his cover had been blown.

  But after four years, he’d been eager to hit Delgado. Bring the drug lord to his knees.

  Still, he refused to pay for his mistake with his life.

  A shadow slithered along the curve of the bank. Cal swore as a boa constrictor slipped from the undergrowth and into the canal.

  He stumbled from the water, fighting the riverbed’s suction, his breath heavy with the exertion, his head swimming from dehydration and loss of blood.

  Dizziness tilted the ground beneath his feet, while sweat and rain stung his eyes. He held no illusions. He had another hour, maybe less, before he lost consciousness. If he didn’t find a path, a hollow, anything, he was a dead man.

  He broke through the trees, stopped short on top of an overhang of saturated jungle rot. Quickly, he scanned the shadows.

  Branches broke somewhere behind him—a brief warning before another burst of gunfire. The slap of the bullet hit his thigh, the white-hot stab of pain shot through his hip.

  His leg gave out from under him, bringing him to his knees. Suddenly, the slope collapsed beneath him. Grasping at air, he hit the side of the precipice. His body tumbled over thorns and rocks and broken trees. His ribs slammed together, knocking the wind from his chest, setting his wounds on fire.

  Without warning, he hit flat ground, barely missing the canal edge and the water beyond.

  He struggled to rise against the swirl and pitch of his head. Acid clung to the back of his throat. Suddenly, a foot slammed into his chest, knocking him back into the mud.

  “Going somewhere, West?” A laugh, thick with pleasure, rumbled above his head.

  Unconsciousness slithered through him, blurring stark lines into murky shadows.

  “Or are you just waiting for me to send you to hell?” The man ground his heel into Cal’s wound. Pain screamed through Cal’s gut.

  “Haven’t you heard, Solaris?” Cal struggled to get the words out before blackness engulfed him. “Hell’s my playground.”

  Chapter Two

  Washington, D.C., Midnight

  Present

  Winter encased Capitol Hill in a slow, deep freeze. The wind howled through the cement and steel of the parking structure, each gust strengthened by the moonless sky, the threat of snow in the air.

  Calvin West slid out of his pearl-black sports coupe and scanned the rows of parked cars. Fluorescent lamps spotted the ceiling, casting the garage in an artificial glow of light and shadows. Jetlag had settled into his muscles, making his shoulder ache, his knees stiff.

  Almost forty, he was getting too damn old to be chasing ba
d guys across seven continents.

  Not that he would get any rest soon. Not with a plane to catch at Dulles in less than four hours.

  With a shift of his shoulders, he fought off the fatigue, promising himself a nap during the trip to Caracas.

  The shadows drew his eyes and a cold whisper of warning settled at the base of his neck. His gaze shifted over the dark corners.

  Nothing.

  But he didn’t shrug off the unease. After thirty sleepless hours, anyone might be paranoid. But paranoia kept you alive.

  He reached into his jacket and pulled his .45 automatic pistol from its shoulder holster. Slowly, he lowered the gun to his side, confident the weapon remained out of sight from the casual observer.

  Heels tapped against the cement from behind him. Swearing, his finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Cal.”

  A woman stepped from the shadows into the stark lighting. She wore a navy blue wool suit. Its jacket tailored and trimmed to hug each dip and curve of her slender form, while the skirt, cut pencil-straight to midthigh, exposed long, shapely legs. The kind that male eyes admired and female’s envied.

  Thick, mahogany hair was swept back and tamed into an elegant swirl that lay at the nape of her neck. The style accented the delicate, triangular shape of her face, the high classic cheekbones and the stubborn, but distinctly feminine slant to her jaw.

  Professional. Sophisticated.

  And sexy as hell.

  The hum of awareness shifted points of contact, hitting him just south of his waist.

  He reminded himself that in his line of business, sexy was a commodity, not a comfort.

  “Julia.” Cal thumbed the safety, then slipped the gun back into his shoulder holster. After buttoning his suit jacket, he turned fully and faced her. While her appearance was not unexpected, Cal’s irritation poked at him. “The President’s private secretary should know better than to sneak around in the dark.”

  “Sneak? Not likely,” Julia Cutting responded with just enough disdain to tighten her prim little mouth. “I’m here on business.”

  “At midnight?” He leaned a hip against the side of his car. The chill of the metal matched the chill in his voice. “Isn’t it a bit late to be running President Mercer’s errands?”

  “No. Mercer never worries about working outside civilized hours. You know that as well as I do.”

  Cal raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Waiting sometimes worked better than words.

  It had been a year since he’d last seen her. Her eyes vivid with rage, her skin flushed from her temper when she’d slapped his face and stormed out his door.

  “This would be a hell of a lot easier if it was official business,” she commented dryly. “But it’s not. I need your help, Cal. On a personal matter.”

  Julia wasn’t exactly the type to need anyone, so the admission, he was sure, came at a high price.

  “My help.” He understood what was coming and the dangerous game he was about to play. Half truths, full deception. Take no prisoners. For the good of king and bloody country. To hell with integrity and compassion.

  To hell with love.

  The muscles constricted between his shoulder blades, forcing Cal to shift them under his suit jacket. “And why would you need a British attaché in the middle of the night?”

  “We both know you’re more than a British attaché.” Julia crossed her arms. For warmth, defensiveness or plain frustration—he wasn’t sure.

  But the need to find out nudged him.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Jason has disappeared.” Her voice was low, her words smoothed into rounded syllables with a clipped, no-nonsense rhythm—the kind that only old money and blue-blooded, east coast schools cultivated.

  But there were times, in the past, when he had stroked her soft skin and her voice hitched and sighed into a sexy, offbeat tempo that had hummed through Cal’s blood—arched and bumped against his libido.

  “Not unusual, considering his choice of career.” Fighting back his train of thought, Cal straightened from the car and shoved his hands into his pants’ pockets.

  Jason Marsh had been classified as missing in action for a week. Cal found out the day before and caught the first available plane out of London.

  “They told me he died in the line of duty.”

  “Who are they?” he asked with just enough disdain to indicate vague politeness. Not serious interest.

  “Jon Mercer and Ernest Becenti.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your loss, Julia. But if the President of the United States and the Drug Enforcement Agency’s Chief Administrator told me someone was dead, I would tend to believe them,” Cal commented, adding just enough harshness to discourage argument. “Now if that’s all, I’ve had a long day.”

  The slight intake of breath, the darker flush of pink in her cheeks told him he scored a hit. Still, her feet stayed planted firmly in front of him.

  “Too bad, Cal.”

  Stubborn woman. Silently, he swore. “Go home, Julia.” Because he was tired, and understood the dangers of her involvement, his tone turned from harsh to ugly in the space of a heartbeat. “Let the government do what it does best. They’ll make sure your husband’s body gets a proper burial.”

  “Ex-husband,” she corrected, her chin set, her eyes narrowed. “You’re still having a problem differentiating between the two.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed, the word silky, its edge razor sharp. “Yet, you’re out here in the cold on Jason’s behalf.”

  “I’m the only family he has,” she defended. “Just because the President has given up on Jason, it doesn’t mean I will.”

  Both President Jonathon Mercer and First Lady Shantelle Mercer considered Julia Cutting more like a surrogate daughter than as Jon’s private secretary.

  It was rare for a president to choose someone barely in their thirties for such a high post. Some rumors suggested a more intimate relationship existed between Mercer and the young woman, but Cal didn’t believe it. He’d spent enough time mucking around with human slime to recognize integrity when he saw it. Julia Cutting wore hers like a shiny suit of armor.

  While his own had tarnished many years before.

  “Jason is alive, Cal.”

  “You sound very sure. Do you have any evidence to back up your suspicions?” He hit the button on his keys and popped open the trunk of his car. His hand hesitated over the large pink teddy bear stuffed beside his suitcase. Its white bow tie and the girly black eyes, framed with long, sewn lashes, stared back at him.

  With a muttered curse, he grabbed both the bear and the suitcase.

  Her eyebrow rose in a delicate sweep when she spotted the teddy bear. “Yours?”

  “A present for Jordan Beck and his wife, Regina. She’s pregnant. I just found out the baby is a girl,” he explained, not quite understanding his sudden need to. “I’ve been out of the country.”

  Jordan Beck was one of Cal’s closest friends, and at one time, an operative with Labyrinth—a black ops division of the CIA.

  Jordan had recently been elected to the British Parliament, and possibly, was on the fast track to being Prime Minister of England.

  If the political rumors were correct.

  “You must have been out of the country for quite a while then.” When Cal glanced up at her, she shrugged, then took the bear from him. “They found out the sex a long time back. Regina’s due in a month.”

  Car tires screeched, vibrating the steel beams and concrete of the upper parking levels.

  Cal frowned; their position in the garage left them too exposed. “We’ll finish this conversation in private.” He grabbed his suitcase and shut the trunk. “Where’s your car?”

  “I took a cab here, then came up through the back stairs.” When he took her elbow, she fell into step beside him. Just three inches short of six feet, her long legs kept stride easily with his. “I still have the stair key you gave me.”

  “Why didn’t you wait for me in
the apartment then? I gave you that key also.”

  “Actually, it’s sitting at the bottom of the Potomac. Where I threw it.”

  Cal glanced up, but let the comment pass. “Any reason why you’re using the back door?”

  “Seemed to fit with the cloak-and-dagger theme you’ve managed to surround yourself with lately,” Julia commented. “Besides, it wouldn’t do for me to be seen going or coming from your apartment.”

  “I remember a time when it didn’t bother you.”

  “There was a time it didn’t,” she responded quietly. “But things change.”

  “Julia,” he said slowly, not liking how easily the name rolled off his tongue. Too intimate. Too many memories.

  Ones that set his blood on fire and his protective mode into overdrive.

  “What makes you so sure Jason isn’t dead?”

  “Someone left his file on my coffee table,” she responded. “Inside were documented letters from President Mercer and Ernest Becenti disavowing any knowledge of Jason.”

  Cal stopped midstep. His hand tightened and turned her back into him. “How in the hell did they get into your apartment?”

  “You don’t have to yell, I’m standing here in front of you.”

  “Answer the question,” Cal ordered, but his voice lowered a few decibels.

  “How should I know? My security system was intact.” Her eyes flashed with temper. Just enough to warn him of the anger, simmering beneath the surface. “I’m not the enemy here, Cal.” She tugged against his hold. “And you’re hurting me.”

  Cal loosened his grip, but didn’t release her. Not yet. Not before she was safe in his apartment. “What did the police say?”

  “I didn’t call them.”

  “Bloody hell.” Cal swung open the stairway door, checked the hallway for any movement, then pulled her through after him.