Air rushed through Nicole’s lungs. She curled a tight fist around her empty shot glass. “You’re unbelievable, Aagaard. Remind me never to recommend you to head up the DEA’s sexual harassment training seminar.”
The rims of Ryan’s nostrils tensed. “Right. It’s always my fault, never yours. There are a hundred different ways you could handle men hitting on you, but you choose to cop an attitude and then blame the fallout on anyone with a cock. You’re a beautiful woman, Nicole, and when men admire your looks, it’s not an insult to your abilities or your character. It’s just admiration. At work, the guys lay on the smack-talk because they know it bothers you.” He chopped at empty air with his hand. “You put every man who crosses your path to a test, but he can never pass it because you set him up to lose every damned time. Why?” he demanded. “What the hell are you so afraid of?”
Afraid of? Nicole’s throat cranked into a knot. Anyone who hadn’t lived with fear—anything from low grade dread to outright terror—as a constant companion in his life shouldn’t be allowed to speak of it so blithely.
“Is it because of who you really are?”
She managed to get some of the air in her lungs exhaled. “If this is a See’s Candy analogy again, Ryan, then—”
“No,” he cut in. “I’m talking about your father’s true identity.”
Metal cables in her stomach pulled taut and bile burned up her throat so quickly it was hot in her nose before she could swallow. She coughed, took a quick drink of her beer, then forced herself to draw a slow, even breath and calm the panic jumping in her veins. No way Ryan could have that kind of intel on her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ryan leaned back in his chair and paused, the ensuing silence humming with all kinds of Aagaard melodrama. “A buddy of mine is in the marshal service,” he told her. “In witness protection.”
All the blood poured from her head. The room spun. She curled her upper lip; if God liked her today, He’d help the expression come off as disdainful rather than sickly.
“You really don’t think I would work with someone I didn’t know everything about, do you?” A smug look came over his face, quintessential Know-it-all Aagaard. “Your father’s name was Manolo Muñoz before he changed it to Salazar and—Sit down.”
She had lunged to her feet at the sound of her father’s real name, her chair shooting back with a harsh scrape. The loud pounding of her heart filled her ears—probably the whole bar. The lesson had been pummeled into her since childhood that discovery equaled death. She could only react by running away.
“I’m not finished speaking,” Ryan informed her coldly. “Sit. Down,” he repeated in the voice he used when he was pulling rank on her.
She pulled her chair back in and sat. Her legs were about to buckle, anyway.
“Your father was a key lieutenant in the Medellín Drug Cartel, serving leader Carlos Enrique Lehder-Rivas until the man was extradited to the US in 1987 and sent to prison. Apparently your father didn’t want to be a deputy to anyone else, so shortly thereafter he turned state’s evidence.”
Nicole gazed down at her hands. Her fingers resembled lifeless, flesh-toned caterpillars in her lap. So, Mister Egotistical Douchenozzle didn’t know everything. Manolo had met and fallen in love with Hawaiian beauty, Kalani, got her pregnant with Nicole, and that’s why he’d decided to turn over a new leaf.
“So Lehder-Rivas trots off to jail and your father goes into WITSEC with his pregnant wife.”
She focused on a chipped fingernail. “Do you also know the brand of coffee I drink, Aagaard?” The flip tone she’d attempted was somewhat lost in her struggle to keep her voice from trembling.
“I know that the Medellín Cartel used FARC for their security during the time your father was part of the organization.” Ryan’s voice lowered. “I can guess exactly what you’re thinking, Nicole—that taking Carrera down will kill off some ugly ghosts.”
Head still bowed, she closed her eyes.
“If this is why you push men away, then I’m telling you to stop.” Ryan’s voice tightened. “Your father’s past doesn’t matter to me. I still want to be with you.”
She blinked at her fingers. Wait… This was just another ploy to get into her pants? She snapped her chin up. “Aagaard…wow…I’m honored, truly, that a man of such legendary stature would be willing to slum around with the scum of the earth like me. But—”
“Dammit,” he gritted. “Don’t twist this into—”
“I will never be with you,” she bit out, “you unprincipled slimeball.” She stood. “And as soon as this mission is over, I’m getting a new partner. Meanwhile, O’Dwyer, Hammond, and I busted our humps today preparing for an operation to dethrone one of the most heinous drug lords in history. I don’t care if you feel uncomfortable about this mission, if you think it’s too dangerous, or that I’m in it for my freaking ghosts. We are doing it, Special Agent Aagaard. Unless I hear a cancellation order from a DEA head honcho way the hell higher up the food chain than you, it’s happening. In the interim, please feel free to contact our supervisor and express your concerns about me. You know, my boo-hoo attitude and my too-stringent professional boundaries that stop me from yukking it up with my drug enforcement buddies when they proposition me in the locker room.”
Ryan’s eyebrows crammed together in a thunderous look.
“And don’t forget to tell him how I’m setting aside my dignity tomorrow, as well as my safety, for the good of the drug war. And please, oh, pretty please, mention my connection with FARC. The Medellín Cartel may have disbanded, but Lehder-Rivas still has plenty of followers, and since I had to drop out of WITSEC to join the DEA, my butt is hanging out in the open. Information about my true identity would definitely get me killed.” She laughed, a short burst of frost. “That would really stick it to me for daring to cop a fucking attitude with you, right, Aagaard? Silly ol’ me, refusing to suck your dick all the way up the promotion ladder. Ha!”
Ryan’s face turned a deep shade of magenta.
“And, hey, coach, one last thing. Thanks for the pep talk. You know, I’ll feel so much more confident going into tomorrow’s mission now that you’ve made me feel like the lowest common denominator on the team.”
“Nicole,” Ryan growled. “I didn’t—”
“No,” she snapped off the single syllable like a curse. “You’re done.” She braced a hand on the table in front of his beer mug and leaned into him, her voice so low in her throat, it felt like it was choking her on the way out. “And your marshal buddy who gave up confidential information about me…? He’s on his way to becoming a shopping mall security guard.”
She turned on her heel and stormed out into the balmy Colombian night. Long strides took her toward the parking lot where her car was…and who should she happen to run into on the sidewalk? Mierda. She really wasn’t in the mood for this.
“Hey,” O’Dwyer called to her. He was with Blond Pilot, who was still utterly unable to acknowledge that she was more than a life support system for a pair of breasts.
“Hi,” she said shortly, struggling to control the emotions her fight with Aagaard had stirred up.
O’Dwyer came to a stop in front of her. He was dressed in jeans, heavy boots, and a dark gray T-shirt that managed to hug his V-shaped torso without looking tight. The result was staggering. She pulled her eyes away, blood rising into her cheeks. Here she’d been giving O’Dwyer all sorts of grief in her mind for checking her out, but, really…was she any different? She cleared her throat and gestured at O’Dwyer’s head. “So have you finally cooled down?”
He smoothed a hand over his bare skull and grinned. “The haircut is helping.”
She glanced away from his smile. Stay focused on this as a mission. “Well, I should—”
“We’re staying at the Bogotá Hilton a few blocks away,” O’Dwyer said, “and they told us this was a good place to eat.” He gestured at the bar.
“They’ve got great burgers. The beer’
s even better.”
“I’ll check it out,” Blond Pilot said and went inside.
A Colombian couple strolled by, moving in the lazy way of people who lived in extreme humidity.
O’Dwyer stepped closer. “Hey, are you okay?”
His warm-bodied nearness and the question startled her. She took a swift step back. “What, uh…?” Well, I just had a knock-down-drag-out with my partner, who outed my true identity, and now you’re standing here, making me realize that I do tend to enter most male relationships with don’t-even-think-about-it-buster leading the way…does it show?
“You seem a little off,” O’Dwyer added.
Apparently so. “Well, my legs are sore from all that running today,” she hedged.
He laughed. “Actually, mine, too.” He pointed a finger at her. “But don’t forget who admitted it first.”
She stared at his finger. He had nice hands, his fingers tapered but strong-looking with well-formed knuckles. He probably made a very masculine-looking fist. More heat crept into her face. “It’s a bad habit of mine, you know,” she stumbled on, “pushing myself too hard.”
He paused. “I do know,” he said softly.
Her breathing skipped out of rhythm. His tone implied an intimacy with the subject that did weird things to her insides. More belly squish? Dios mío. What was the Colombian equivalent of hara-kiri? She needed to do that. “Well, I have to go. Bye.” She turned and started quickly for the parking lot, shivering when O’Dwyer’s “Have a nice night” caressed her spine.
Chapter Seven
Ten miles off the coast of Isla Gorgona, Colombia
Nicole swallowed hard for the third time as the deafening whop-whop-whop of the helicopter blades pounded into her head and vibrated up through her seat into her body, gyrating her like she had a fat burner vibrator belt wrapped around her body. Her vision jerked, her teeth clacked whenever she unclenched her jaw, and her boobs bounced like she was on a hard, downhill run. Or made of Jell-O.
Hammond’s easy drawl came through her headphones. “Weather is CAVU20 to the moon today,” he commented to O’Dwyer. “Sweet.”
“After that socked-in hell weather the other night,” O’Dwyer agreed, “this is most definitely sweet.”
Nice to know O’Dwyer and Hammond were feeling calm as the Dead Sea about all this. Just another day in the line of fire for them, ho hum.
Wham! A huge jolt of turbulence rocked the aircraft. The bottom edge of Nicole’s ribcage slammed into her stomach, and she gasped. Santo Cristo—! The aircraft began to rattle, rattle, boom, bam, shaking so wildly around her that springs and gizmos in their sex toy bag had to be popping lose. Not to mention every screw, pin, and rod on this POS helicopter.
“Isla Gorgona bearing 3-5-8,” Hammond reported. “Five miles out.”
“Have you got a visual on the Colombian Air Force?” O’Dwyer asked.
“Negative.”
“Shit,” O’Dwyer hissed. “Throttling back speed.”
Ka-bam! The upper portion of Nicole’s spinal cord rammed into the base of her skull like a broomstick into a ripe melon. It was impossible that this bucket of clattering bolts could endure such violent turbulence and not come apart. She gripped the edge of her jump seat, her breathing speeding, and stole a glance at her backseat companion. The bald man called Bomber had a black, steel-toed flight boot casually jammed against the airframe to brace himself. Should she find comfort in his blasé attitude?
“Whoa, check out the bend in those trees,” Hammond remarked. “Wind must be going forty knots. This is going to be choppy once we get into those high winds.”
Nicole stretched her eyes wide. They weren’t in the high winds yet? No comfort. Comfort gone.
“The Colombian Air Force is late,” O’Dwyer observed tautly.
“You want to abort, or give it—? Tally ho!” Hammond exclaimed. “I mark three aircraft at our ten o’clock. Look like Broncos.”
Nicole glanced out the door window, but it faced the three o’clock position, so she only saw a bunch of blue sky doing the jitterbug.
“Affirmative,” O’Dwyer came back. “I have a visual on three aircraft at ten o’clock high.” The helo picked up speed. “Let’s hope that wedge is open, or Carrera’s RPGs will make this a very short flight.”
Nicole’s heart beat faster. In their pre-flight briefing, they’d been presented with the disconcerting intel that some of Carrera’s guards carried Rocket-Propelled Grenade launchers and Stingers, either of which could be used with lethal effect to shoot down a helicopter. Rivulets of sweat slid between her breasts and down to her waist, forming a ring around her belt. Normally the heat didn’t bother her, but it had to be a hundred and twenty degrees in this freaking helicopter.
A yelp was jarred out of her as Zeus reached his mighty hand down from the sky and bitch-slapped the tail of the helicopter to the side. The aircraft swung, jerked, shuddered. Santo Cristo Jesús, had they been hit? Wacka-wacka-wacka. It sounded like they were coming apart!
“Five degrees right,” Hammond instructed in a calm tone. “You’re skirting too close to the boundary of our wedge, LZ.”
“Roger that.”
The bottom half of the helicopter skidded out from under them, sending the aircraft tipping over ninety degrees. All right, not a full ninety, but her belly was telling her brain it was that much. She tightened her grip on the jump seat until her knuckles hurt. Stomach acid sloshed up into her throat. Saliva flooded her mouth and her esophagus pumped.
Bomber, who had been studiously ignoring her, probably because of her Bouncing Baby Boobies display, now handed her a bag.
A bag? She swallowed convulsively. It was a barf bag. Squeezing her eyes shut, she crushed the bag in her fist and called up every iota of willpower she owned to force the bile back down her throat. Maybe her first thought should’ve been the need to cultivate her rep as an unshakeable ass-kicker of drug lords, but somehow it popped into her mind that if she was going to have to kiss O’Dwyer soon, she didn’t want to taste like vomit.
The helo tail rocked wildly, jarring her eyeballs against her closed lids. She bumped shoulders with Bomber, and then—clunk! Her boobs gave a final hard joggle.
“Son of a bitch,” O’Dwyer growled.
He was cursing? Did that mean they were dead? She pried open her eyes, spying a string of windblown trees out the door window. No. Unless Heaven was Isla Gorgona, they’d made it.
“Our timetable is shot to hell,” O’Dwyer ground out. Up ahead in the cockpit, she saw him tear off his helmet and leap out of the aircraft.
“Bringing engines down to idle,” Hammond said.
Bomber unbuckled and hauled open the side door, exposing a tropical island paradise: waving palms trees, thick vegetation, richly turned dark earth on a path. Any second a loincloth-clad waiter would appear with a tray of mini-umbrella-bearing cocktails, Hawaiian music accompanying his arrival. O’Dwyer suddenly materialized in the side door. “Can you run a six-minute mile?” He slung the pack of his whore clothes onto his back and grabbed the bag of sex toys. “That’s about all the time we have.”
Her fingers shook as she threw off her helmet and unhooked her seatbelt. “Yes.” She grabbed her own backpack of sleaze attire and jumped off the aircraft, her knees nearly caving in. Freaking rocky flight.
They took off down the hill together.
She stumbled in the soft dirt, the rubbery muscles in her legs refusing to respond efficiently to her command to accelerate into bionic speeds. She watched, sweat draining down her face, as O’Dwyer pulled ahead. Within several more strides, he had a good lead on her. She started to breathe heavily.
You can never let yourself fall behind, mija. Never.
She pushed herself harder, her heart banging for freedom from the bars of her ribcage. Air hissed between her teeth as her lungs fought for necessary oxygen. Her lips went numb and dots prickled at the sides of her vision. Mierda! She made herself slow down. It was either that or risk a humiliatin
g wussy-faint. Don’t do my wilting flower femininity any favors. Right. Hahahaha! A maniacal laugh bubbled up her throat followed by a scream of frustration. A six-minute mile wasn’t a breeze, but it should’ve been do-able for her. Mister God Of All Aviators had done it.
Down the dirt path, she saw O’Dwyer waiting near a clump of eight-foot-tall bushes, thickly leafed over most of its girth, but thin on the right. This was the area they’d designated from the satellite photos as their takedown point. On the other side of those bushes was the path the whores took, leading from the boat dock to Carrera’s hacienda. These bushes were conveniently near a concealing bend in the road.
O’Dwyer turned around and tapped his watch at her.
A scream hammered against the grate of her teeth. Yes, I get it, we’re late. Or just she was the one making this mission go up in smoke. She slammed to a halt in front of O’Dwyer, temples pounding and lungs heaving. “What now?” she gasped out.
“Change of plans,” O’Dwyer whispered back. “We take down the hookers first, then swap our clothes.”
“What?” she panted. “We didn’t miss them?”
“No. We lucked out. Listen.”
From several yards down the path on the other side of the bushes, Nicole could hear a shrill female voice. ¿¡Qué mierda con estos zapatos, acabo de comprarlos y ya están rotos!?
She caught O’Dwyer’s gaze, the throb of her pulse speeding into her throat. “The woman broke her shoe,” she muttered.
O’Dwyer nodded. “That held them up. Now we have the time we need. The luck of the Irish.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “You can thank me later.” He made a quick scan of her. “You…okay, by the way? Kind of didn’t expect you to be late coming down that hill.”
She used the heels of her palms to sweep the sweat out of her eyes. She was never one to make excuses for a poor performance, but O’Dwyer deserved to know if he could count on her. “That helicopter ride was, uh, a little on the bumpy side for me.”
His chin began to pull in.
Wings of Gold Series Page 5