by Kim Karr
But I know it’s him and I’m going to nail his ass to the wall. With the help of a man named Cleo. Even if it’s the last thing I do.
Gin puts a hand on my shoulder. “Caleb man, chill. We have time. It hasn’t been that long. We just have to wait this out. If we pull that alarm and the target doesn’t respond, but runs instead, we can kiss our last lead goodbye, and this operation too.”
Yeah, I know that all too well. Fuck! I can’t risk losing it. Losing him. I need his help to get that son of a bitch.
The lead before this one didn’t end well—gunfire, shattering glass, and sirens were all that were left after I abandoned the plan—the plan to bring in the asset that would take me to Leonardo’s door.
That fucker took the easy way out—shot himself in the temple. He was the one name on the list besides Cleo that was nearly impossible to track. He was also the one name on the list that had enough interactions with the painter himself to help bring his empire crumbling down.
With that lead gone, Cleo is all we have, and he’s a long shot, but the only hope we have left.
“Just confirmed the sighting was a false alarm. The unit in the old factory is still empty. The target is nowhere in sight,” Rice says, tossing his phone on his desk and walking toward me.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck.”
“Caleb, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.” He thrusts an envelope in my face. “Take this money, grab a seat on the next commuter, and go home to see your family.”
I shake my head no.
He slams the envelop into my chest. “We got things around here for a few days. You’ve been working around the clock for weeks, and you know you can use some time off, not to mention, you need it.”
“Not now. It’s not a good time to ghost.”
“Go, man. We’re here keeping things buttoned down. We’ll notify you if anything comes up.”
I nod, knowing Rice is right. “Okay, okay, I’m out of here—for tonight, but no promises about the fucking plane.”
Going home in the middle of an operation, this operation, doesn’t feel right.
Still, after the last failed attempt, I know I need to take a small breather or risk my temper getting my ass suspended, again. I’m strung so high right now, I can barely breathe.
It’s just I’ve been under for so long, it’s hard to see straight. I’ve become Caleb Holt, special taskforce commander. Somehow, I’ve lost who Caleb Holt, the man, actually is. And the worst part, I don’t think I want to know.
Being part of a unit formed to obliterate the negative impact the Mexican Drug Cartel is having on the state of California will do that to you.
Or to me, anyway.
It’s become my life.
My war.
My havoc.
And I don’t think I can do anything else.
Hey, I grew up enamored with James Bond and John le Carre, studied history in college, and have a passion for the right side of the law. All I ever wanted to do was hunt spies. So when I was recruited into the FBI’s Special Task Force division right after my first tour, I wasn’t about to turn it down.
No one knows, though. I had to lie to my friends and tell them I was going back to Afghanistan, when I was actually headed for Special Forces training.
It wasn’t that far off from the truth. I was going to hell, just a different kind of hell.
At first, after my training, I went undercover in the cities bordering Mexico. I’m not going to lie—it was rough. I’d alternated personalities. I was a drug dealer, a tweaker, a financial broker, a computer analyst, and finally settled on the cover that worked best—a security expert.
My latest gig though, it’s the biggest.
Pulling closed the door of the small, shabby office in Ocean Beach that serves as our cover for the security office, I look into the dark night. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I turn the corner. Everything is quiet, as always. I hate the quiet. Fucking despise it.
The team has had eyes on the old cigar factory building for the past two weeks. Ever since we learned that’s where the shipments were being sent that Cleo is purchasing off the deep web.
After the discovery, we quickly moved base locations. Not sure how long we’ll be here since to date there has been no sign of Cleo going in or out. Hell, there’s no sign of anyone at all going in or out. The place is practically deserted. It could be a dead end. In fact, it more than likely is a distraction to keep us from the prize. Cleo, himself. He’s one smart dude.
Still, I have hope.
There’s also another way.
A more dangerous one.
Going undercover as a security expert, I not only have a visual on the ultimate target himself, I’ve been working security detail at his office.
I just need a break.
An in.
It seems like it will never come.
Eyes on the prize, man.
Eyes on the prize, I remind myself.
This guy is tough—he’s a particular fucker. No one moves up the ranks in his organization until he says so.
Security.
Security.
Security.
It’s fucking everywhere.
Being around him, even only as a guard at his office, it’s easy to see why he’s the sole remaining kingpin. He’s unnamed. Unknown. Hiding in the shadows and living in the open at the same time.
He’s also the most lethal of the five.
Kills anyone who gets too close.
And yet, this fucker is a businessman who runs most of San Diego. This criminal is Leonardo—the man behind the Mona Lisa. This guy’s real name is Enrique Cruz.
Enrique fucking Cruz, I’m coming for you.
Chapter 7
God’s Plan
Caleb
THE GRAY MORNING light does nothing for my dire mood.
I’m still undecided if I should leave in the middle of an op and need to work out my confusion. After tying my sneakers, I fly out the door and go for a one-mile run, do one hundred pull-ups, two hundred push-ups, three hundred sit-ups, and then go for another mile—this time with a weighted vest.
When I’m done, I still haven’t decided. My workout didn’t help relieve the stress. If I don’t hurry and decide, I’ll miss my flight anyway. Problem solved. Not really. I pace the sidewalk with my hands on my head trying to figure out if I should stay or go.
Ford comes running up behind me. Out of the six of us, Ford and I are probably the most alike, and therefore talk the most. But no matter the dynamics, we’re a team—there’s Drum, Gin, Rice, Ford, Bond, and me.
“Man, seriously, you need to take some time for yourself. Now, get out of here. If anything starts to go down, you can get back here in plenty of time,” Ford assures me.
“Fuck yeah, you’re right,” I relent.
“And make sure you get laid,” he smarts.
Ignoring him, I head to the house I share with the guys in Ocean Beach and pack my shit before taking an Uber to the airport to catch the next commuter flight to Laguna Beach.
My brother Jason will be shocked to see me. I haven’t gotten to see him since he remarried his ex-wife, Serena, or my nephew, Trent, either.
Jason, like me, is FBI, or he was. He and Serena split because of the deep cover job he had taken. He was deep into bad shit, the same bad shit I’m still deep into, and she couldn’t see past it.
Lucky for him, he finally pulled back, but only after his son got lured into the world we were buried in. I still can’t believe neither of us never knew one of those fucking kingpins had discovered who we were.
Although we could never pin my nephew’s addiction directly on the cartel, Jason and I know it was them that lured Trent in—because of us.
Fuck, I want to pull my hair out when I think about it. Those fuckers had him buying and selling for them and then got him addicted.
To save his son, Jason had to make all the evidence of Josh Hart’s involvement with the cartel disappear, and I had to help him. Fucking shame. Josh happ
ened to be the sucker who was looking for money from both ends—working both sides. Screwing everyone and himself in the process.
I helped Jason with the cover up to protect my nephew. I don’t love myself for it, but I did what I had to do.
No one on my team knows what I did.
That I withheld the information my best friend, Ben Covington, had given me on Cruz to save my nephew. The information that he’d gained, and then been forced into witness protection because of. The information that almost cost him his life. The information that might have brought Cruz down.
Unfortunately, with no links to Cruz or the cartel, the Feds booked Josh Hart on a pony charge, and he got five years—he should have received life for what he did.
I zip my bag closed and try to suppress the memories that always surface when I have to go home.
They’re not joy or happiness, though.
They’re feelings of guilt and betrayal . . . my guilt and my betrayal for the things I was forced to do. The things I’m not proud of. The things that will haunt me every single day of the rest of my life.
Just like they do now.
Chapter 8
Rockstar
Caleb
MY PHONE RINGS and wakes me out of a deep sleep.
It’s early Sunday morning and I’m a little disoriented at first, but my brain works fast as I search for my phone.
I’m alone.
I didn’t hookup last night or the night before or the night before that. Three nights and I wasn’t interested enough in anyone to make the effort.
That’s really fucking sad.
Then again, when your life is a lie, you can’t ever get too close with any one person. Random hookups with chicks you don’t know only put them in harm’s way. I’ve been feeling this way ever since I betrayed the man whose life I fucked up.
Actually, ever since I started feeling like a piece of shit, chasing away the brutality of what I see, what I do, by burying my dick in some stranger’s pussy just hasn’t happened.
Sure, feeling constantly on edge is hard on the body, and yes, I miss fucking, miss it a lot. I think it is time to get back in the game. Tonight.
“This better be good,” I answer looking down at the wood I’m already sporting.
I really should have gotten laid.
“You’ve been promoted,” Ford bellows into the phone.
“Fuck, yeah,” I shout, pumping my fist in the air.
“Cruz wants to meet with you today at five. I have a plane waiting for you at the airport,” Ford tells me.
My head hurts, a dull ache deep in my brain pounds, but I jump up immediately. “I’ll be there in plenty of time.”
“We’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“Hey, any movement in the warehouse?” I ask.
“Nada.”
I look around at the few items I have to pack. “When I get back, I’m parking my ass inside that building during my free time. Cleo has to be getting in and out without us knowing.”
“Whatever, dude. It’s not like I wouldn’t notice,” he scoffs as if I just insulted him, and then hangs up.
No time to worry about hurt feelings, I clean up, grab my shit, and ghost. Ghost, my nickname. Ghost, what I’m good at. A ghost, who I am.
The drive seems to take fucking forever even if it only minutes away. I don’t know why I just didn’t elect to drive all the way back to San Diego rather than take the commuter flight. It might have been faster.
I sip on a bottle of water and pull my cell out, knowing my best friend isn’t going to answer because he’s with that chick he moped over my entire trip in Laguna. Such a sucker.
The call connects. “Hi, you’ve reached Ben Covington. You know what to do.” A beep follows, but I disconnect the call and toss my phone onto the passenger seat of the rental car.
Ben and I have been friends since we were seven. I might get pissed at him, he might get pissed at me, we might toss each other around, but he’s like a brother to me. We always have each other’s back, or we did until I fucked up. Fucked up in a way he doesn’t even understand.
I met Ben in the second grade—we were in Miss Novak’s class and he was staring out the window . . . he hated being indoors and never could keep his focus in class. The teacher asked him a question that he didn’t hear. I jabbed his foot and muttered the answer under my breath. After that we were buddies for life.
When I finally make it to the airport, I find the private jetway and things move much faster.
As I rise into the sky, I glance out the window to the place I’ve always called home and wonder if I can really call it that anymore.
The plane heads south and I close my eyes, leaving that world behind.
Thinking about the case, I know this has to be my time because if not, it’s probably my last shot, maybe even my last breath. If I get what I need, though, it will be worth it—and the last four years of my life will finally come to culmination.
Seems bittersweet.
When the door of the small plane opens, my circle of five is waiting for me. Cruz isn’t the only one with a six-man team.
Wait, there’s only four. Someone is missing.
I’m sure for a good reason.
My heavy combat boot touches the ground, and I sense movement to my left. I spin away and twist my body just as the cool metal tip of a Berretta lodges against my temple.
“Not quick enough, Ghost,” a husky voice mutters.
Yeah, like I said, I’m Ghost. They call me that because I can slip in and out of any situation unnoticed. But I find the term of endearment fitting because to me, being the soul of a dead person thought living, describes me to a tee.
“Not so fast, Ford,” I ascertain as I grab his hand by the wrist and rocket my body into his, sending him tumbling backward onto the pavement.
With him out of commission, I wheel around.
With a devilish grin gracing my lips, I go for my own pistol inside the waistband of my jeans. But he’s fast and kicks my shin, sending me barreling on top of him. We roll around one or two times until I have the opportunity to disengage. I hop to my knees then my feet and finally, I pull my weapon. He’d be dead if this were real.
“Fuckkkk,” Ford yells in frustration. He can never get me.
“You’re still not fast enough,” I shout over the sound of the engine. My adrenaline spiking from the impromptu little exercise.
So, that’s what the fucker was up to instead of greeting me.
He shakes his head in disgust. When he sits up, I extend my hand to help him to his feet. Ford is the youngest in our group but also the most hotheaded, second to me, that is.
Gin pats him on the shoulder. “Maybe you’ll get lucky next time.”
He cocks his head and wipes the sweat from his forehead glancing at Gin with a disconcerted look. “Isn’t that what Drum tells you when you’re crying the blues that your wife has a headache—again.”
“Fuck you,” Gin says shoving him back. “I get laid more than all of you combined.”
“That’s bullshit,” Bond interjects. “I got laid three times yesterday. What about you?”
Gin rolls his eyes. “Your own hand doesn’t count.”
Bond throws him the finger. “Just so happens, I met a girl who couldn’t get enough of me.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that was the reason,” Gin sneers.
Bond diverts the conversation and looks at me. “Did you finally get laid?”
“None of your business,” I answer.
“That’s a no. Wait much longer and your dick is going to forget what to do.”
I flip up both of my middle fingers. “Not likely.”
We could do this all day. We know each other inside and out. Our triggers. Our likes. Dislikes. Moods. Everything.
“Enough of this crap. We have work to do,” Rice sighs. He turns around and heads for the black SUV already running with Ford licking his wounds behind the wheel.
Rice is the oldest in our group
, and ever since the incident with our asset, he’s been taking the lead. He never loses his shit. And he always keeps us on the straight and narrow.
Ford’s glaring at me. I smack him playfully on the head when I hop in the car. “You got me, you just needed to pull the trigger faster. Don’t hesitate next time. Okay?”
He nods, understanding that the slightest bit of hesitation in a real situation could cost him not only his life, but any of ours, as well. “Yeah, man, I do,” he says and then presses the gas.
I turn to Rice. “Any updates?”
He nods. “Finally got approval for cameras in the warehouse storage units. Twelve has a number of brown wrapped packages stacked inside it, along with a few large trunks.”
“Did you get inside?”
He shakes his head. “It’s a no-go until we have something to substantiate the entry warrant.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of do now and ask permission later?” I joke, but I’m totally serious. Enough of this by-the-book shit. It’s getting us nowhere.
“You know I can’t do that,” he tells me.
“By the way, which of Cruz’s six-man team did you knock out?” I ask.
He looks at me amused. “None yet.”
“What do you mean? Ford said I was in,” I blurt out, glaring at Ford as he pulls out of the airport.
“You are. You’re just not a part of his six-man security crew, yet.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t fucking tell me I’m on kiddie detail, because you know that won’t get me anywhere.”
His grin grows wider. “I’ve got one better for you. Turns out, Cruz has a mistress he’s been hiding, and he’s worried about her security, so he’s decided to assign someone to her full time.”
Interesting. Somehow, we missed that.
“And Ghost,” he pats me on the shoulder, “you’ve been promoted. As of today, you’re no longer subcontracting for him. You’re officially on his payroll.”
Not exactly thrilled because I’m not sure that role is going to get us what we want, I ask, “Do you think breaking ties with the security office cover is worth it for this? Is she allowed in the house?”
He shrugs. “No fucking idea, but it’s all we’ve got. And it looks like she’ll be invited to the New Year’s Benefit, so that will be your in.”