Monk (K19 Security Solutions Book 7)

by Heather Slade

  “At least we know what we’re dealing with when it comes to FARC, the government, and even the cartels. For me, the big unknown is the Islamics,” said Striker.

  “What’s your take on Jimenéz?” Razor asked.

  “Don’t trust him,” answered Monk.

  “Yeah? What’s your take?”

  Monk scrubbed his face with his hand. “Think about it. Jimenéz agrees to meet with Striker; Juan Carlos is killed between the time you leave the States and arrive in Colombia; Ghafor moves the arms, and the peace treaty falls apart.”

  “Who do you think is orchestrating this?”

  “One of the cartels makes the most sense,” Striker said to Razor.

  Monk nodded. “Keep going.”

  “Which one has Jimenéz in their pocket?”

  “All of them. There are no good guys,” Monk murmured. “We should let ’em annihilate each other.”

  “If only,” said Striker. “What about the plane? You think this is a coincidence, Monk?”

  “Fuck no. Somebody set us up.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “How’d you find out the plane was in the air?” Monk asked Razor.

  “Jimenéz contacted me.”

  “Exactly. Here’s my question—how the hell did anyone know that I was the handler on the op? Someone like Jimenéz could’ve assumed you were the lead, but why would Onyx pull the trigger on the flight plan without checking in with me first?”

  “You didn’t hear a word from him?” asked Striker.

  “You don’t think that’s the first place I went? Not a fucking word.”

  “I heard you were on board,” Monk heard a man who had just walked onto the plane say to Striker. “How the heck are you, Ellis?”

  “You know Razor Sharp and Monk Perrin. Boys, this is Trap Flannery. We go way back to my first day at the agency.”

  “We haven’t met although I’ve heard of both of you.”

  Monk nodded in response but didn’t say anything. He looked beyond the two men, relieved when he saw Mantis and Dutch board the plane.

  “Hello, boys,” said Mantis, shaking everyone’s hands.

  “Heard some of ours are MIA,” Dutch said to Monk before turning to Striker. “Can’t believe you didn’t call me.”

  “Heard you were retired.”

  THE MINUTE the plane landed in Columbia, Striker’s, Razor’s, and Monk’s phones started blowing up.

  “I’ll call Cope,” said Striker, putting the call on speaker.

  “DEA agents found the plane,” the man told them.

  “And?” Striker shouted.

  Monk’s head shot up.

  “I’m waiting for confirmation as to the specifics, but the word I received was there were three critically injured and one fatality,” Cope told him.

  “Goddammit.” Striker swore. “Where are they?”

  “As you know, the plane was found in Macuira National Park. Because of the situation in Venezuela, the survivors were airlifted to the university hospital in Magdalena. I’ve made arrangements for a private aircraft to take you to Simón Bolívar International Airport where a car will take you directly to the hospital.”

  “Who’s the fatality, Cope?” Striker asked, making eye contact with Monk.

  “I’m sorry, Striker. I don’t have confirmation on that yet.”

  “Who knows about this?”

  “Which part?”

  Striker rolled his eyes. “The next leg of our trip.”

  “Right now, you, me, the owner of the plane, Mantis, and Trap. He’ll make the rest of the arrangements as soon as you’ve deboarded.”

  “Tell me, Cope, do the DEA agents think the crash was accidental?”

  “Not sure yet, but there’s a crew headed to the wreckage to investigate.”

  “Where’s the black box?”

  “With the DEA until the investigators arrive.”

  “How soon until we head out?”

  “Like I said, Trap is making the arrangements.”

  “What about the rest of our team?”

  “Working on transport for Doc, Gunner, and Eighty-eight now.”

  “Ranger and Diesel?”

  “In the air. We’ll make that determination after you arrive at the hospital.”

  “Thanks, Cope. If you hear anything about the condition of our team, contact me immediately.”

  “Roger that, and, Striker, Godspeed.”

  “Hey, wait. Who’s the plane’s owner?”

  Cope hesitated. “I can’t tell you that, but I need you to trust me.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Razor. “Why won’t he tell us whose plane we’re flying out on?” Razor asked.

  Monk turned and saw Trap headed toward them. He jumped up and stalked over to him, slamming him up against the wall of the cabin. “Whose plane is it? Tell me right fucking now.”

  “Franz Lehrer’s.”

  Monk released the pilot and shoved him away. “We’re taking a fucking Armenian-born drug baron’s plane? In what universe would anyone agree to this?”

  “The one where the CIA is working with him to take down the Cali Cartel, FARC, and Petro Santos.”

  Striker shook his head, muttering Monk’s thoughts exactly. “Jesus Christ.”

  What this meant was the FARC combatants and the Colombian government weren’t falling apart after all. Instead, they were working together, along with Mao’s Cali cartel, to ensure an end to Latin America’s oldest and most stable democracy.

  “What about Ghafor and the weapons?” Monk asked.

  “Buenaventura is in Medellín-controlled territory.”

  “Ghafor’s working with the CIA,” said Striker.

  “You didn’t really think we were that stupid, did you, Striker?”

  “Not all of you.” Striker made no secret that he had zero respect for Money McTiernan, who had orchestrated Ghafor’s supposed exile.

  Monk didn’t agree with him. His experience was that Money knew a fuck of a lot more than he ever let on.

  “Don’t underestimate McTiernan,” said Trap, reiterating Monk’s thoughts. “You didn’t suspect a thing.”

  “Who supplied the weapons?” Striker asked.

  Trap looked at Monk.

  “United fucking Russia,” Monk answered.

  Striker believed the CIA gave Ghafor free rein. Monk didn’t agree with that assessment either. He’d known Money and the rest of the powers that be had something up their sleeve. He just hadn’t known what.

  What Monk couldn’t see past though was that because the CIA didn’t read them in on it, their plane had crashed and someone on board died. If they’d known what they were walking into, there was no way in hell Onyx would’ve put that plane in the air without Monk’s direct authorization.

  Monk listened as Striker walked them through his summation.

  The CIA put Ghafor exactly where they wanted him and gave him a specific mission—to help them get rid of Santos, put Marquez back in power, and save the crumbling democracy before it was too late.

  The money, which Monk guessed came from the CIA, flowed through the Medellín cartel, to the Islamic State, to UR, who then supplied the weapons—believing the endgame was to reinforce Santos’ power.

  Instead, Ghafor made arrangements to have the arms shipped to Colombia. With that kind of fire-power, Franz and the Islamic State would have the combined ability to take down the Santos administration as well as FARC, and thus, put the CIA’s man back in office.

  If word of this got out, that the company collaborated with one of the largest drug cartels in Colombia, it might bring the agency itself down. The US had recently lost one president due to one of the biggest conspiracies in the nation’s history. The one K19 found themselves in the middle of was almost as big.

  “How high up does this go, Trap?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  Striker looked as angry as Monk had a few minutes ago. “Three of our team are critically injured. One is dead. I want to know
who’s responsible.”

  Trap shook his head. “I’m sorry, Striker.”

  “Why was our plane in the air in the first place? No one from K19 authorized Onyx’s flight plan. No one pulled the trigger on that part of the mission. I want to know who did, when, and why.”

  When Trap shook his head again, Striker pushed past him and got off the plane. A few minutes later, he came back and got right in Trap’s face.

  “Someone on that plane was in on this. Who was it? Tell me right fucking now.”

  “Corazón.”

  “Who was she working for?”

  “Santos.”

  Monk sat down when Striker did. If he hadn’t, his legs would’ve given out. Razor walked over and put his hand on Monk’s shoulder.

  “I gave you specific orders to finish out the op. This isn’t on you, Monk.”

  “The fuck it isn’t. I knew she was dirty. Knew it.” What he left unsaid was that because he’d followed orders, there was a chance either Onyx, Tackle, or Halo were dead. Unless she was the one who died, the minute he had the opportunity, he’d kill Corazón with his bare fucking hands.

  Trap and Striker were still talking about her, but Monk tuned them out. When he heard Striker say, “She was the fatality,” his head shot up.

  “Affirmative,” said Trap. “We believe she was able to convince Onyx that they had the go-ahead to deploy.”

  Onyx must’ve somehow figured out Corazón was intercepting the messages and then knew she’d lied to him. Maybe he even realized she was working for the other side. His guess was that once Corazón realized he was on to her, she’d tried to kill him. Or vice versa. They wouldn’t know the whole story until Onyx was able to tell it.

  “I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around this,” said Dutch. “Corazón and Onyx were tight.”

  “The rest of your team has arrived,” said Trap, looking out the window.

  Before anyone could stop him, Monk stalked out onto the tarmac. When Doc got off the plane, Monk walked up to him.

  “Corazón is dead. She was the double-agent.”

  Doc looked into his eyes but didn’t say anything.

  “I need to go in and get Onyx out of there. Not just him. Tackle and Halo too. Don’t fight me on this, Doc.”

  Like Razor had, the man put his hand on Monk’s shoulder. “Name your team, and before you say anything, I’m your second.”

  “Mantis and Dutch.”

  “You got it.”

  23

  “Oh my God,” said Saylor when Razor came to her house a few days later to tell her everything that had happened.

  “Monk is in Columbia now with Doc, and they’re arranging to bring Onyx, Tackle, and Halo back to the States.”

  “Is it safe for Onyx to travel?” Razor had told her that he was in a coma and in the ICU at the hospital in Columbia.

  “We have a team of doctors and nurses flying back with us. It’s his only chance, Saylor. We can’t leave him there.”

  “How is Monk?”

  “The last time you asked me that, I told you he was wrecked.”

  “And now?”

  “It’s a hundred times worse.”

  “What can I do, Raze?”

  “When I figure that out, I’ll let you know.”

  “When you talk to him, tell him…”

  “I’ll tell him the truth.”

  Saylor’s eyes met her brother’s.

  “If there was ever a time he needed to know that you love him, it’s now, Sis. And don’t even try to tell me you don’t.”

  “We haven’t said those words to each other.”

  “Like I said.”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  “You understand you can’t tell anyone else what I’ve told you. Not even Mom.”

  “I do, and I want you to know how much I appreciate you trusting me.”

  “Like I said, you’re in love with Monk. You deserve to know what’s going on in his life.” Razor winked and stood. “Oh, we thought it might be a good idea to spend Christmas in Annapolis again this year. That way, we won’t be far from DC.”

  Saylor cocked her head.

  “We’re taking the boys to George Washington University Hospital.”

  Christmas was still a couple of weeks off. Hopefully she’d be able to talk to Monk between now and then to confirm that’s where he’d be. If Razor was going to tell the man she loved him, she wanted to see him in person to affirm it herself.

  —:—

  Monk hadn’t left the ICU since they arrived at the hospital. After seeing Razor right after he’d gotten out of a coma, it was hard to imagine that Onyx ever would. The man’s extremities were all in casts, and he had tubes in his nose and mouth. Very little of his face even showed between those and the bandages covering his head. It had taken a few tries, but eventually, he understood what the nurse was trying to get across to him in broken English.

  “Him. Talk,” she said again and again.

  Monk wondered how the hell Onyx was supposed to be able to talk with all the fucking tubes in his mouth. Finally he realized she was telling him to talk. What she didn’t understand was that was equally impossible.

  He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, so he just sat there until the nurse told him to take a break. When he went out into the waiting room, Doc was sitting alone, looking at a magazine.

  “That in English?” Monk asked.

  Doc shook his head. “I’m looking at the pictures.” He turned the magazine around so Monk could see the scantily clad Latino woman on the page. It reminded him of the time he and Onyx were in Brazil and two women who looked like they were decked out in Vegas showgirl attire, approached them on the street. They wanted five hundred reals, or about one hundred US dollars to allow Onyx and Monk to take a photo with them. Granted, neither man had asked. Monk shook his head and laughed.

  “What?” asked Doc.

  “Just remembering something that happened when I was on an op with Onyx.”

  Doc scrunched his eyes. “I take it, it’s a funny story.”

  “Yep,” said Monk, knowing exactly what he was going to do once the nurses let him back in to see Onyx.

  ONCE HE GOT STARTED, Monk thought of countless stories to tell Onyx. He had so many that he started writing down reminders when he thought of them. He didn’t limit them to things that had happened between just the two of them; there were plenty of other things that had happened with other agents, even with civilians, that Monk could tell him about. He even told him about playing the pig game with Saylor’s daughters and how they kept insisting he shriek “Soooooie.”

  “Everything is ready,” Doc told him the next time Monk came out of the ICU. “Once we get our men on the plane, we can go home.”

  “I know you hate being a passenger, dude, but just this once, you gotta,” said Monk, leaning over his friend so he was close to Onyx’s ear.

  “You’re a good man, Monk,” said Doc when they walked out of the ICU behind the gurney carrying their teammate.

  Monk shook his head and pointed in front of them. “That’s a good man right there.”

  24

  “Shh,” said Saylor, walking over to turn up the volume on the television.

  “What?” asked Poppy, looking at the screen. “Since when do you give a shit about South American politics?”

  Saylor held up her hand and listened to the reporter say that Colombia’s president, Petro Santos, had been assassinated. He also reported that the man had recently been linked to the Cali drug cartel.

  Carlos “Mao” Deodar, leader of that cartel, had also been assassinated on the same day. While he was killed in a different part of Colombia, it was believed the two deaths were related.

  An emergency election was being called, in which former President Juan Marquez was predicted to be re-elected. If so, it was expected that he’d take office immediately and restore normalcy to the embattled nation.

  Razor had come over a second time to tell her that
Onyx was still in a coma but believed to be stable enough to be transported to the States. That was ten days ago, but she hadn’t heard a word from Monk in that time.

  Razor had also told her that the other two men, Tackle and Halo, were being taken to the same hospital as Onyx, but were expected to be released in a matter of days.

  Tomorrow they’d be leaving for the East Coast to spend Christmas at Gunner’s family’s home in Annapolis, like they had the year before.

  “I take it the news about Columbia has something to do with Monk,” said Poppy, motioning to the TV.

  “Indirectly, but yes.”

  “Have you heard from him?”

  Saylor shook her head.

  “Did you try calling him?”

  She hadn’t, and she didn’t intend to. She needed to see him face-to-face, and that’s what she planned to do.

  —:—

  “You gotta take a break,” said Striker, coming in to find Monk by Onyx’s bedside, reading a book aloud. “It’s fucking Christmas, man. Onyx’s family is here. If not them, let some of us take over, even if it’s only for a few days.”

  “Never been big on holidays.”

  “This isn’t your responsibility.”

  Monk stood up so fast the chair he’d been sitting in toppled over. “Get the fuck outta here,” he seethed.

  “Hold on a minute. This was my op, Monk. You feel guilty? Guess what? So do I.”

  Monk motioned Striker out of the room and followed him. If what the docs and nurses had told him about Onyx being able to hear them talking was true, he didn’t want him hearing what he and Striker were fighting about.

  “It isn’t the same—”

  “It’s exactly the same. In fact, if anyone should be here day and night, it’s me, not you.”

  “It isn’t your call.”

  Striker scrubbed his face with his hand. “I know it isn’t, Monk. I’m trying to give you a break. Let me.”

  “I didn’t ask for one.”

  “Jesus,” Striker mumbled. “How about this? Why don’t you come to the house for Christmas at least, so you don’t spend it alone.”

  “You think the man fighting for his life in that room should spend it alone instead?”

  “He isn’t alone, Monk. His family is here.”