Grave Peril_Military Romantic Suspense

by Emily Jane Trent

  Other cars slowed or changed lanes to get out of harm’s way. Rip got as close as he dared, and shot at the tires of the getaway car. But he missed. The vehicle was at a distance and moving too fast. It was dangerous to get closer.

  Rip kept the car in sight, but stayed back. The vehicle merged onto Highway 225, heading toward the Port of Houston. He couldn’t lose them. If Lela was stowed aboard a ship and taken out of the country, Rip would have no hope of getting her back. Once Lela was secured in cartel territory, she’d be gone for good.

  The car exited at Barbour’s Cut and made a left. At a cross street, the gangsters didn’t stop for the signal, and nearly clipped another car coming through. There was not a second to waste, so Rip followed without slowing.

  Buildings to the right blocked visibility, and as Rip cruised through the intersection at top speed, a truck approached. Leaning into the corner to avoid collision, the motorcycle skidded, dragging Rip with it for a short distance. Then he flew off and the bike continued on its trajectory.

  On the other side of the intersection, the truck ran over the bike, but Rip didn’t stop to survey damage. He was only blocks from the port, so he took off running. He sprinted like he was going for the hundred-yard dash record. At a corner, he stopped and grabbed his side.

  His injury had healed enough for normal activities. Apparently, running as hard as he could wasn’t one of them. To hell with it—that was a minor concern. Lela’s life was all that counted.

  Panting hard, Rip made it to the docks and hid behind a container. He spotted the black car, but no one was inside.

  He worked his way along the dock, looking for any sign of the cartel. There were plenty of dockworkers, but not the men he was after.

  Near a boat, he spotted a couple of thugs with the same tattoos as the others. He made progress up the dock, staying out of sight until he was close to the two acting as sentries.

  Rip came up behind one and chopped the back of his neck, knocking him to the ground. He’d be out for a while, maybe permanently. The other drew a gun, but Rip grabbed his wrist and twisted. The gun fell. A hard blow to the gut, followed by an elbow thrust to the temple, took him out of action.

  Crouching down, Rip stepped aboard the boat, then made his way along the starboard side. The engine started up, the hum vibrating the hull. It was a propeller craft, so he guessed Lela would be transported out of the harbor then transferred to a larger ship.

  Two gang members were dragging Lela, with her kicking and resisting. There was a beefy dude on her left and a taller one on her right. Each one had an arm. The tape over her mouth muffled her screams. She couldn’t fight, because her arms were taped to her sides. It was just as well, since Lela would have given them her worst.

  But fighting those vipers, she’d likely be killed. Rip would take care of them for her.

  Without a sound, Rip sneaked up behind and put a gun to the back of the beefy man’s head. “Let her go.”

  The tall one pulled a knife, and Rip snatched it right out of his hand. The idiot lunged for it, but a stab to the gut stopped him cold.

  The beefy thug swung at Rip, who ducked then shot the man in the knee. He sealed the deal with another shot to the shoulder.

  With the gangsters out of commission, Rip scooped Lela into his arms and carried her to the back of the boat. Gunshots would have attracted unwanted attention. When out of sight, Rip removed the tape from Lela’s mouth.

  “Rip…oh my God. They were going to kill me.”

  After removing the tape from her body, Rip pulled her close. “I’m here, darling. You’re with me.”

  Then a noise alerted Rip and he pulled his gun.

  A cartel minion appeared from around the corner. “Well, isn’t this touching?” The gangster pointed a gun at Lela. “Throw your weapon overboard or I’ll shoot her.”

  Rip hesitated, but then tossed his gun into the water.

  The intruder wasn’t quite as big as the others had been, but his expression revealed a greater confidence. His dark eyes were like marbles, dull and devoid of life. His shirt was tight across his chest and rode up his arms, revealing the bulge of his biceps.

  He had the type of tattoos the others had, but the art on his arms signified something more. Down one forearm were the letters D E A T H.

  Over the bicep of his other arm was a long gold dagger with an elaborate etching on the hilt. “Are you the asshole who stabbed me?” Rip said.

  An evil grin stretched his lips. “The name is Almanza, a name you’ll remember. I’m not done with you, SEAL.”

  Rip was familiar with the gang and the tattoos, but this one was obviously elite. Judging by the body art and the assassination attempt, he was an enforcer.

  “Your boyfriend isn’t going to live much longer,” Almanza said, waving the gun at Lela. “Then you’ll be ours.”

  The asshole’s threat enraged Rip. He’d had enough. He hadn’t made it this far rescuing Lela just to let this creep take her.

  Almanza swaggered over, a smirk on his ugly mug. He pointed the gun at Rip. “It’s going to be such a pleasure ending your life. You’ve been a pain in the ass, SEAL.”

  In a flash, Rip whipped his arm at the assailant. The gun flew up, out of his hand, and skidded out of reach. From that point, it was hand-to-hand combat, Rip’s specialty.

  He threw the first punch, and Almanza reeled. But he recovered fast, and laughed at his challenger. It was a mocking sound, further infuriating Rip and making him want to take the bastard’s head off.

  Launching into battle, Rip got in several kicks and heavy blows to the man’s head. But Almanza was a worthy opponent. It seemed that he’d been trained for street fighting. The fight was brutal, and one of Rip’s eyes was swollen nearly shut.

  The fighting continued, one hard blow after the other. Several times, Rip had him, but the evil son of a bitch kept fighting. Then he got in a heavy punch to Rip’s side, and another.

  A groan from Rip garnered a smile from Almanza. Through heavy breathing, the assassin said, “I see my dagger did some damage. I’m here to finish the job.”

  Rip put his hand on his side and came away with blood. The stitches must have opened up.

  “Fuck you, asshole,” Rip said, and, with a growl, went for him.

  But Almanza fought back harder, using a combination of wrestling tactics and street fighting. Rip punched repeatedly at the man’s face, his gut, any available body part.

  Then, in one swift move, the gangster was on top of Rip with a knee on his wound, pressing hard.

  Rip felt lightheaded, looking into the gangster’s beady eyes. A dagger held to his throat succeeded in keeping him still.

  “What a surprise,” Almanza said through rancid breaths. “I have you where I want you.” He glanced at Lela. “Don’t make a move, or I’ll slit his throat.”

  Rip saw the glint of the assassin’s gun on the deck to his right. Lela was to the left, so had no hope of grabbing the weapon.

  The assassin held the dagger to Rip’s jugular, appearing to savor the moment before the kill. The situation had gone from bad to worse.

  Rip’s side hurt like hell, and he was losing blood. He was Lela’s only savior.

  Almanza laughed, one short huff. “I know you,” he said. “I recognize you now, SEAL.” He chuckled. “It’s been a long time.”

  Rip stared at the slimy creep. “What are you talking about?”

  “Third Ward Bar…I still remember,” Almanza said. “I hadn’t been with the organization long then, needed to prove my worth. And your little sweetheart helped that along.” He chuckled. “Ripley McConnell…I didn’t think I’d cross paths with you again.”

  A light bulb went off in Rip’s head. The past loomed up and offered a memory he’d sooner forget. But this asshole was staring him in the face. Then it became clear what he’d referred to. It had to be.

  “Almanza…you’re Villareal?” The assassin gloated, and Rip knew for certain. Fucking Almanza Villareal. “You’re still a
live?”

  Rip seethed with the urge to wring the creep’s neck. “You goddamn heartless animal. You killed Isabel. You were the one her brother came to. And you killed her…just for the thrill, am I right?”

  “I don’t remember the names of victims,” Almanza said. “But if you’re referring to that little Mexican bitch, then yes, I was the one. She was one of my first kills, a casualty of war.”

  Almanza had killed an innocent woman. That had been the start of a long career. And he’d been killing ever since. Rip had searched for him, bribed sources to get information on where Villareal was hiding. But it had been fruitless. He hadn’t been able to get retribution for the murder of Isabel, a woman as kind as Villareal was evil.

  Fury surged in Rip’s heart and tore at his tortured soul. After all this time, the murderer was still thriving, tending to business as usual—killing for profit. The man was a predator. His menacing face hovered inches from Rip’s, his sour breath suffocating.

  “And now I’m going to kill you,” Almanza said, pressing the knife to Rip’s throat.

  Lela gasped and put her hand over her mouth. Once the assassin slit Rip’s throat, Lela would have no chance at all.

  Chapter 19

  Rip stared into Almanza’s eyes, holding his attention, not daring to look at Lela. The assassin was arrogant, heady with power, and confident his victim was about to take his last breath. Rip locked on to the murderous gaze, seeing the soulless creature behind the empty eyes.

  The blow to Alamanza’s head was hard and swift. Lela threw the fire extinguisher, knocking Rip’s executioner off balance. For a split second, the pressure of the knife against Rip’s throat relaxed just enough.

  In a blur of action, Rip grabbed Almanza’s wrist and gave it a sharp twist, snapping the carpal bones. The knife dropped to the deck, accompanied by a cry of agony.

  Rip clutched the assassin’s right forearm, holding it to his chest, and simultaneously wrapped his legs around the man’s right shin. With a grunt, Rip hefted Almanza’s body off his chest and rolled on top of him.

  With a double punch to the face, Rip strived to knock out his opponent. But like an angry grizzly, the asshole emitted a primal growl and bucked, tossing Rip off his ribcage. Then he wrapped his one good hand around Rip’s ankle to turn it with enough force to shift him off and get free.

  Almanza leapt to his feet and faced off with Rip. He danced around like a heavyweight boxer. The pain in his wrist didn’t appear to slow him down. He kicked, missing when Rip dodged.

  “You screwed up, SEAL,” Almanza said. “I’m going to torture Lela, long and slow, before I kill her.”

  Rip lunged at the murderer, head-butting into his chest. Almanza flew back and stepped on his own gun. His foot slipped and he lost balance. His knees crashed against the side of the boat.

  Almanza fell over backward into the water, but his high-pitched yell was quickly silenced. Rip raced to the stern to look over. Blood swirled in the blue-white churn of water from the propeller. The gangster had done a back bend over the side, landing headfirst in the steel propeller.

  Lela stood behind Rip. “Is he dead?”

  “He’s gone.” Rip wrapped Lela in a tight embrace. “Almanza won’t be hurting anyone again.”

  “I was so terrified.” Lela clung to him, her forehead against his chest. “He was the one, wasn’t he…Isabel’s murderer?”

  The impact of what had occurred hadn’t fully sunk in. After all these years, the killer had emerged from his rat hole. And Rip had the retribution that he’d sought for so long. At the time of Isabel’s death, Almanza had been small fry. But he’d carved out his status within the cartel ranks, and had been killing ever since.

  “At first, I didn’t recognize him,” Rip said. “He wasn’t that muscular, didn’t have the fancy tattoos.”

  Lela looked into his eyes. “Rip…it’s over.” She pulled her arm away from his waist and sucked in a breath. “You’re bleeding. I have to get you to a hospital.”

  The predator was dead, the cartel defeated. There was no reason not to seek medical care. God knew he was a wreck, unable to see out of one eye. Plus, he was leaking blood like a sieve.

  *****

  Rip had one arm around Lela’s shoulders. She couldn’t fully support his body weight, but assisted him to walk. He stepped off the boat, then she followed and resumed her position. He walked away from the pilotless craft, its engine still humming.

  It had been a traumatic few hours, but Rip was renewed. An enormous burden had been lifted from his shoulders. The best thing was that Lela could go home and see her family, continue with her life. The danger had passed.

  Rip walked down the pier to the main dock, weakened from the battle but inspired by the outcome. Pain pierced his side but he muffled a groan. The bleeding was under control. Lela had found some first-aid supplies and wrapped his abdomen.

  The gunshots hadn’t alerted port security, as he’d anticipated. Rip would contact Travis and have him handle things, make the proper reports.

  Rip and Lela stepped onto the main dock and came face to face with gun barrels. Several men pointed weapons, but only one had Rip’s attention.

  The man in the middle didn’t hold a gun, which meant the others were his security. The leader wore a designer suit without a tie. The shirt was open at the neck, and tattoos covered his chest, neck, and face.

  He sported a belt with a gold rectangular buckle, studded with emeralds. His shoes were alligator, and shone like a mirror. The gold rings and diamonds on his fingers gleamed in the sunlight. At a glance, Rip assessed that the tricked-out suit cashed out at about five grand. The jewelry had to be worth a small fortune.

  “I’d like to invite you aboard my yacht.” The gangster was shorter than his cohorts, but his commanding presence indicated high rank within the cartel.

  The invitation wasn’t stated as an offer; it was a command. Lela held tighter to Rip. “I have to get him to a doctor.”

  The host’s eyes were devoid of emotion. “He won’t be needing one.”

  Then the security detail escorted Rip and Lela to the destination, with the boss behind them. Not far up the dock was a superyacht. The monstrosity glowed white under the bright sun. It was multileveled and as large as a small cruise ship.

  CERBERUS was printed in black on the white paint. The lettering was underneath a graphic design of a three-headed dog with the claws of a lion, a mane of snakes, and serpent’s tail. It was Cerberus, the guard dog of Hades.

  Rip supposed that made the cartel boss the devil incarnate.

  The guards ushered Rip aboard, and he guided Lela in front of him, so he could keep an eye on her. The boat was a floating mansion. There was a wall-sized waterfall cascading into the swimming pool on the lower level.

  There was a lounge area with curved leather seating and carved wood tables. And one level down was a theater with a commercial-size movie screen. The incongruity of criminal occupants partying in the luxurious accommodations wasn’t lost on Rip.

  Before the group reached the rear deck, the engine of the opulent craft roared to life. Rip was running out of options fast. Once out at sea, or worse, in Mexican territory, the cartel would be in control of their destiny.

  Rip took stock of the surroundings. The boat had been prepared for action. He spotted machine guns, knives, and even grenades. The captain of this floating artillery wasn’t likely to lose control of his ship. With all the weaponry and the soldiers aboard, it would be a nearly impossible feat to commandeer the boat.

  Along with the weapons of defense, the yacht was equipped for safety. The fire extinguishers were in appropriate places. Life preservers were in colorful stacks. And flares for signaling distress were handy. There was a pile of them.

  That made Rip wonder if the flares had passed the expiration date. He doubted keeping the items current or staying up to date with regulations was part of cartel mentality. With enough heat or pressure, expired flares could ignite, so they were a fire haz
ard. Flares could be as dangerous as they were useful.

  The yacht backed out, disrupting the calm bay and heading out of port. Rip and Lela stood on deck by an open door. “That’s the engine room,” the cartel boss said. “I’d give you a tour, but I have other more urgent matters to attend to.”

  Lela stood close to Rip. “Who are you? What do you want with us?”

  “You didn’t really think that Almanza was in charge, did you?” His expression lacked any human quality. His eyes were unblinking, like those of an animal about to pounce on its prey. He didn’t look away, didn’t move a muscle.

  “He’s dead,” Rip said.

  The deep-throated chuckle sent a chill up Rip’s spine.

  “You did me a favor,” the boss said. “Almanza was inconsequential. It was time for him to go.” He gave them a cold look. “I’m the leader of the organization.”

  Oh, shit. If this dude was who Rip thought he was…

  “The fear in your eyes tells me that you know of me.”

  Jesus…the uber-criminal Omar Zapatero, leader of one of the most notorious cartel branches.

  “Yes, I control Le Sicarii.”

  The man was savage, terrifying. Rip would not allow him to interrogate Lela.

  “You may call me Zap, as I am known throughout my country.” The boss’s polite demeanor did little to disguise the villain that he was.

  “You were the senator’s contact?” Lela said.

  “I’m the one who’ll be asking the questions.” Zap’s reputation was known beyond the borders of Mexico. He was brutal, without conscience, and had no mercy for his fellow man.

  Rip was clear about the type of man he was dealing with. Zap had no honor or loyalty. He craved power for power’s sake. The money was a bonus that came along with it.

  “I’ll tell you that Ortiz has been a disappointment,” Zap said. “But he’s replaceable.”

  Lela was in an untenable position. Even cooperation with Zap wouldn’t spare her.