by Julie Leto
“Who are we meeting again?” Marisela asked. Dion had briefed Frankie in the car, but she hadn’t paid close attention. She’s been too focused on the lure of the city.
“Dion and his partner, Pan.”
“Don’t these people have normal names?”
Frankie snorted. “Those aren’t their real names. We’re working with Titan operatives. They all have code names.”
They’d briefly touched on that topic during their training, but since neither she nor Frankie were official agents, they hadn’t bothered to take on Titan monikers.
“Can’t they pick better names than a fifties rock star and a little boy who flies to Neverland and never grows up?”
Frankie tossed Marisela a small leather pouch. “That’s not what the names mean. Dion is short for Dionysus.”
That rang a bell. A school bell. “From mythology?”
“You paid attention in English class?”
She shrugged. “The teacher was a hottie.”
Frankie shook his head and chuckled. “All the operatives for Titan have names from Greek or Roman mythology. It’s a tradition or something.”
She perked up, interested. “What’s yours?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Come on,” she said, disbelieving. “You’ve worked with this group before. You’re telling me they never got around to giving you a name?”
Frankie dumped his pouch on the bed. Several miniature electronic devices spilled out, with hair-thin wires and feather-light power packs dangling from the ends. Marisela recognized the communications apparatus and slid onto the bed beside Frankie.
“I don’t want a name,” he answered.
“Why? Is Apollo already taken?” she quipped. She didn’t remember much about mythology except the teacher had been a major hunk and the girls had taken to calling him Apollo because he was the god of hunks or something.
“Who?”
“Don’t screw with me. If you know Dio-whatsis, you know Apollo.”
“Dionysus. God of the vine.”
“Does this agent drink?” she asked, concerned.
Frankie chuckled. “After a successful mission he might down a few, but he came from the wine country in Italy. He collects wine. That’s his claim to fame.”
“And Pan?”
Frankie’s brow scrunched. “Don’t remember. Something about getting into a lot of trouble.”
“Do all the names reflect the agent’s personality?” she asked, wondering if the Greeks or Romans ever conceived of anyone as screwed up as she was.
“Nah. There’s a female agent named Nike and she runs like a duck.”
Marisela laughed. “What’s Blake’s code name?”
Frankie frowned. “Zeus, of course.”
“What was he, king of the gods?”
“Bingo.”
Figured. “Why didn’t we have to learn all these names?”
“It’s need-to-know. You’ll pick it up.”
She untangled a tightly knotted line on one of the power cords, then handed it to him to attach to the correct device. Glancing under her lashes, she wondered if now was the time to brooch a topic she’d wanted to bring up for days. “Why don’t you work full-time for Blake? He seems to want you.”
“For this mission.”
Marisela shook her head. “No, I think he wants more. He acts all cool, but I think he wants you permanently on his payroll and that’s why he set you up for that arrest back home.”
He was half-way to inserting his earpiece when her claim arrested his attention.
“How did you know that?”
“I didn’t.”
“You guessed?”
“Seemed logical. Blake loves to show his power, like he did with me when he shanghaied my parents. You were about to tell him to shove his job offer up his ass, so he had you arrested just to show you who was boss.”
“Yeah,” he said with a grimace, then inserted the earpiece and connected the line to a power pack he then attached to the back of his collar. “He showed me, didn’t he?”
She shrugged. “You still would have beat the rap because the charges were bogus. Even if his attorney hadn’t gotten you out, your parents would have mortgaged their house a third time to hire a lawyer to spring you.”
“They didn’t bail me out when I got arrested the first time in eighty-nine.”
“You were guilty then,” she pointed out.
“Good point. Blake is power-hungry, Marisela. He’s good at what he does, but his need to be in absolute control makes him dangerous to his agents. Remember that.”
Marisela chased off a chill while she connected the wires of her earpiece to the power pack she’d stick in her bra. The last thing she needed right now was to doubt the man calling the shots only minutes before she departed on a potentially deadly mission.
“He’s run Titan well so far,” she ventured.
“He doesn’t run Titan.”
“Of course he does. Lia and I checked him out. He’s all over the Boston and New York papers and trade magazines, accepting awards, testifying in court.”
Frankie completed his communications task and turned to organizing his ammunition. “He’s the top dog in the States, but his sister oversees the entire operation from Europe. The major action is across the ocean, babe. Don’t let Ian fool you. If he screws up, Brynn will jerk the whole shebang out from under him without a second thought.”
“No love lost?”
He shrugged. “They get along okay. But they’re competitive.”
Marisela couldn’t imagine what kind of ball-breaker this Brynn would have to be to match her brother’s intensity, but she decided she wanted to meet this chick someday. Maybe she could give Marisela some tips. Or vice versa.
“And you know all this…?”
Frankie glanced sideways, a nearly imperceptible shift of avoidance. “I keep my ears open.”
Yeah, and she was a natural blonde. Frankie had some personal connection to Ian Blake, possibly his sister, too. Maybe a love affair between him and Brynn? That sure would explain the animosity arcing between Ian and Frankie during nearly every interaction she’d witnessed.
“You only signed on with Blake this time because of me.”
“Yeah, you’re irresistible,” he quipped.
“There is that,” she agreed, “but you’re the one who gave him my name, so you felt responsible for making sure I got out of this alive. Am I, right?”
Frankie grunted in response.
“I can take care of myself, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“So you’ve seen. You’ve trained with me, Frankie. All week. And you’ve known me practically all my life. I don’t want you going into this mission tonight thinking its your responsibility to save my ass. It’s not.”
“You’re wrong, Marisela,” he snapped, taking the rest of his equipment and heading to the wobbly table and chair beside the door. “It’s my job to save your ass and it’s your job to save mine. That’s why we’re partners.”
Marisela grimaced. She’d obviously made some sort of secret agent faux pas, and with tensions running so high, there wasn’t much she could do about Frankie’s sudden anger. She checked the watch Max had given her, which had a mini-GPS system and tracking device inside. They had less than ten minutes before their ride to the marina arrived. She’d best concentrate on preparing her gear instead of chatting over old rimes.
She clipped a speaker to her neckline, constructed with the same beads that decorated her spangly top. The credit card-thin power pack attached to a line that edged her bra strap and then tucked beneath her cleavage. As she worked, she replayed the mission plan in her head. Ochoa and his family—his third wife and toddler son—were scheduled to leave Miami for Boca Raton in an hour with a small, four-man crew and three bodyguards. Two bodyguards and the wife and child, who had been visiting the woman’s family in Ft. Lauderdale, would be detained shortly and held by Titan until the entire mission was
complete. Ochoa and his personal bodyguard, however, were another matter entirely.
Attending a meeting in a well-guarded safe house, Ochoa and the bodyguard would remain untouchable until they boarded the boat. Intercepting him before that point would arouse the suspicions of Perez and his men, who were, reportedly, monitoring the Toscas’ work from a safe distance. Though the crew of the Sharp’s Destruction had already been replaced with trained Titan operatives—all of them former Navy SEALS—taking down Ochoa and the bodyguard would be up to Marisela and Frankie. The crew had to concentrate on piloting the boat a safe distance from the marina, before she and Frankie blew it up. Once Ochoa and the bodyguard were neutralized, they would hand the pair off to Dionysus and Pan, who would transfer them to individual small watercraft that could jet away undetected.
She and Frankie would remain aboard to set the charges, giving the Titan crew time to make a getaway. Frankie and Marisela would then board the Sharp’s Destruction tender and depart, using a remote device to detonate the explosives. With the right timing, the explosion would cover the escape of the crew. Ochoa and the bodyguard would be transferred to the same safe house where the wife and child were being held and the mission to infiltrate Perez’s inner circle would be complete.
Frankie’s watch beeped again.
“Got everything?” he asked.
She checked her weapon, her ammunition, and her communication devices. Frankie went into the bathroom and they tested the equipment one last time.
“You there?” she whispered, talking into her neckline. “I’ll always be here, vidita,” Frankie answered.
She grinned. Good. He wasn’t pissed anymore. She didn’t want to go into the operation with things left unsaid or tense between them. When he emerged from the bathroom, one look told her she had nothing to worry about.
“Let’s do it.”
* * *
“The wife and child are secure,” the agent reported, causing a quiver in Marisela’s stomach. It had begun.
“Casualties?”
That voice Marisela recognized. Ian Blake. He and Max were coordinating the mission from the Oceanus and monitoring the conversation over their communications link. Funny how much sexier Blake’s voice sounded when he wasn’t in the room with her, looking at her with eyes that implied, ever so slightly, that she didn’t measure up. She didn’t know exactly where she got that impression—if he didn’t think she was good enough, he never would have hired her. And yet, she couldn’t shake the insecurity, no matter how much she hated it.
Hopefully, pulling off this plan would put her anxiety to rest… for good.
“One bodyguard wouldn’t come along quietly and he got off a round before the darts took effect.”
“Anyone call the cops?”
“Negative. We intercepted on the deserted highway as instructed. The body will be found by morning.”
There was a pause, then Ian responded, “Forget about him. Ochoa considered him expendable, we’ll do the same.”
Marisela winced at the cavalier words, but she wasn’t naive enough to think Blake was exaggerating. These gunrunners and arms dealers were ruthless people. For all anyone would guess, the guy was popped by his own people.
“Frank, what’s your ETA?”
Frankie glanced out the window. “We’re entering the marina now. Where’s Ochoa?”
Another pause then Max’s voice. “You have ten minutes on him.”
Frankie acknowledged the information, then looked at Marisela with piercing eyes. “Ready?”
God, was she? Her heart suddenly leaped in her chest and lodged in her throat.
She managed a nod.
Frankie fisted his hand over his communicator. “You sure?” he whispered.
God damn him. Why did he have to be so frickin’ concerned?
Again, she only nodded. If she spoke, either her voice would crack or she’d say something she’d regret later.
“Marisela, I’d like to hear your affirmation for myself,” Blake said.
“Ready,” she managed.
“Good.”
The car pulled to a stop behind a small outbuilding just inside the marina. Frankie unloaded first, then came around to Marisela’s side, opened her door and took her hand. With a large smile, she slipped her palm into his and exited the car, straight into his arms. She planted her lips on his and though their tongues clashed and Frankie slipped his hand around her waist and pressed her flush against his body, the kiss lacked intimacy, expectation. But to anyone watching, seen or unseen, they were two ravenous lovers headed for a carnal rendezvous on any one of the luxury yachts moored at the high-priced marina.
Frankie’s chuckle quaked through his chest and into hers. “A shame this is all for show.”
She swiped her tongue over her lips. “A crying shame.”
With her head on his shoulder, her arm hooked around his waist, they laughed as they walked toward the docks. At nearly midnight, there weren’t many people around, but lights and music spilled over the water from occupied yachts. They headed toward the largest boat docked in the last slip—Sharp’s Destruction.
Frankie pretended to rub his nose, activating the tracking device on his watch. Marisela did the same, pressing the side of her watch against the hilt of Frankie’s gun, tucked beneath his jacket. From this point on, Ian would have an electronic image of where they were at all times.
“We’re approaching the Destruction,” Frankie reported. “Are we clear?”
A man dressed in a white T-shirt and pants wandered onto the deck. He had a lit cigarette in his mouth, which he spit into the ocean, barely smoked.
The visual signal.
A second later, Ian broke in. “All clear. The crew and an additional unaccounted for bodyguard have been removed from the ship.”
A chill slithered along the back of Marisela’s neck. “What other surprises aren’t we prepared for?” she asked, her voice soft.
Ian picked up her whisper. “Stay in the game, Marisela. You’ll be ready for anything.”
She glanced at Frankie, who merely shrugged. Not exactly an overwhelming vote of confidence, but she noticed that the closer they got to the gangplank, the quieter and more contemplative Frankie became. His gaze narrowed and his eyes dilated, the pitch center nearly overtaking the inky brown irises. With her arm around him, she could feel his muscles bunch and tense, like a panther, ready to strike at the first sign of prey. They stepped onto the boat seconds later and the instant they disappeared through the door that led to the main salon, they broke into action.
Frankie contacted the Titan crew and verified that the ship was under their control and ready for immediate departure. The cigarette-smoking crewman strolled back onto the deck and busied himself with casting off the lines. Marisela unzipped her light velvet jacket and dug into her blouse to readjust the credit card-sized power pack that had been jabbing her in the tits since they got out of the car. She rechecked the position of her speaker and then dressed again, turning to see Frankie staring at her with lust-filled eyes.
With Blake listening, she simply quirked an eyebrow. As if he hadn’t seen her in less than a black lace bra before.
“I’ll never get tired of looking,” Frankie said, his eyes raking over her with enough fire to burn away the last of her nerves.
“I didn’t copy, Frank. Repeat, please,” Ian ordered.
“Never mind, bossman. We’re preparing the hit.”
“Understood,” Ian answered, sounding more than mildly annoyed. “Ochoa is entering the marina as we speak. Radio silence until he’s down.”
“Copy.”
Marisela pulled out her gun, not her cherished 9 mm, but a special weapon she’d worn tucked in the back of her pants. She loaded her ammunition—a half dozen small darts filled with a sedative that would render the man unconscious until they transferred him off the boat. Frankie had the same weapon, as well as a 9 mm semiautomatic and a backup Smith & Wesson. After one last check in the lamp light, Marise
la slipped into a closet while Frankie took his place on the outer deck, prepared to take down the bodyguard while he did his initial sweep of the boat.
Inside the closet, the tattoo of Marisela’s heartbeat echoed in the enclosed space, filling her ears with the music of her own fear. Her mouth dried and she clamped her lips, forcing her breath through her nose. Her eyes remained trained through the slit in the door, which she’d left ajar. If Ochoa didn’t get suspicious and shoot first through the flimsy wood and metal, she might just get a clear shot.
She heard voices outside. Frankie answered in a flawless Venezuelan dialect. He’d just given Ochoa the all-clear to board the boat and apparently, he’d done a good enough job of mimicking a crewman’s accent to pass the test. Soon after, two sets of footsteps clattered on the outer deck.
Ochoa burst into the salon and Marisela swallowed a gasp, not prepared for the man’s size. She’d known he was big, of course, from the recognizance reports, but reality and adrenaline made him seem more like a giant. Easily six foot six and three hundred and fifty pounds, Ochoa lumbered into the stateroom and made the luxurious space seem very, very small.
A rough-edged scar sliced down his cheek from just above his left eye to the sharpest edge of his chin. She’d noticed the scar in the photograph, but he hadn’t looked quite so menacing in a shot taken with a telephoto lens.
When he shouted for his wife, Marisela checked her gun again. When he marched across the room to the door that led to the head, she slipped the barrel through the crack in the door. Before he’d hooked his hand on the door handle, she fired. At close range, the sharp edge of the dart slid effortlessly into the muscle just between his shoulder blade and his neck. Because of his size, she fired a second round. He grunted, reached back in vain, then tumbled to the floor.
“Ochoa’s down,” she reported.
“Proceed to the engine room,” Ian ordered.
“Where’s Frankie?”
Before Ian could reply, Marisela heard the engines of the boat, which had been idling when they boarded, roar to life. The deck rocked beneath her boots and she had to grab a handhold to keep from tumbling backward into the collection of coats and jackets stored in the closet.