by Laura Kaye
“Built in chance to grab Garza if we don’t manage it sooner.”
“Let’s hope we do.” For lots of reasons. Not only didn’t they have all week to nab him, not with Church looking for them, too, but no way did Marz want to bring a shit storm down on the heads of a bunch of innocent civilians. No way did he want to do that to Emilie.
The rest of the trip back to the Rixeys’ Hard Ink building was quiet, and Marz was glad for it. Glad to have the time and space to put his house in order before they were back in the thick of it again.
When they returned to the sprawling red-brick warehouse that had been their temporary home for the past week and a half, most of the group was hanging around mission HQ—also known as Marz’s computer station—and waiting for them in the gym. Nick and Becca, former teammate Shane McCallan and his girl, Sara Dean; and Easy and Sara’s younger sister, Jenna, all stood in a circle talking.
Marz’s gaze scanned the group. Blond-haired Becca was Charlie’s older sister, Nick Rixey’s new girlfriend and, mostly important, an ER nurse. Between her and Shane, who’d been trained as their intelligence officer and a backup medic for their A-team, their ragtag group had enough medical expertise in-house to deal with all but the most critical cases. Damn reassuring on a night like tonight, when they might encounter just about anything.
Next to Shane stood Easy, being his usual reserved self but also looking a bit more relaxed than he’d been in days. Marz’s stomach twisted as his memory replayed the pain in Easy’s voice from just a few nights ago, as he’d confessed to having suicidal thoughts. Scared the shit out of Marz, because he couldn’t afford to lose one more of these guys. Not after he’d just gotten them back. None of them could—and now that they knew the beast he’d been battling all on his own, they’d damn sure get him the help he needed.
“Hey,” Marz said, shaking hands with each of the men in turn. Becca gave him a hug that made him smile. He’d liked her from the beginning, but the minute she’d apologized to the team for her father’s actions and promised to help them right the wrong done against them, they’d become loyal friends forever.
As someone who hadn’t really had a family until he unexpectedly found it in the Army, he knew exactly what that kind of loyalty meant. And Becca had put her actions where her words were every single day since. Not to mention her money, since she’d funded a lot of their operation with her lying father’s life insurance money. Talk about your ironies. So, she was the real deal.
Like Emilie.
Aw, hell no. Not doing this right now.
Right.
“Good work down there, man,” Nick said. “You two found some damn fine intel.”
“Not to mention the mother lode of assets,” Easy said, rubbing a hand over his dark head.
Nick nodded. “It’ll allow us to get totally squared away with the Raven Riders and pull the Hard Ink building off the table as collateral. We’ve set up a meet with the club’s leaders for tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” Marz said. The Raven Riders were a local outlaw motorcycle club that had helped them with two ops against the Church Gang last Friday night. With the club’s assistance, they’d been able to rescue Jenna Dean from Church’s number two, take out the gang’s main headquarters at the Confessions strip club, and intercept a guns deal such that his team had walked away with both the guns and the cash. It had been a triple whammy of awesomesauce for them, and the trifecta of bad luck for Church. And none of it would’ve been possible without the Ravens. But they didn’t ride for free.
The door to the cavernous gym opened and closed on the other side of the room, and Marz turned to find Charlie and Nick’s younger brother, Jeremy, crossing the room, the little German shepherd puppy named Eileen dancing at their feet. The pup was an amputee just like himself, and a sweet little thing, too, even when she was being a monster.
In typical Jeremy fashion, he wore a raunchy T-shirt. This one was white with black writing and a hand pointing downward. It read, “May I suggest the sausage?” Marz sniggered as the two guys joined the group.
“Welcome home,” Jeremy said, clasping Marz’s hand and then Beckett’s. Over the course of the previous almost two weeks, Marz and Jeremy had grown fairly tight. Jeremy didn’t have the arms training to assist with their missions in the field, but he’d been a quick study where their computer and communication needs had been concerned, so the two of them had spent a lot of time together as Marz brought Jer up to speed.
Marz handed Jeremy a plastic bag. “Got you something,” he said.
Jeremy tugged the gray shirt out of the bag and held it up. He chuckled and his pale green eyes flashed between the shirt and Marz. “Nice pick, my friend. Very nice.” He turned the shirt around so everyone else could read it, showing off the N-O-R-E-G-R-E-T tattoo inked onto the backs of his fingers at the same time. Everyone chuckled.
“I still can’t get over the sausage shirt,” Jenna said, tucking a strand of long red hair behind her ear. Her other hand held Easy’s.
Fact that three of Marz’s teammates had found people they cared about in the midst of this clusterfuck had Marz thinking about his evening with Emilie. Damn it all to hell.
“Where do you even find a shirt like that?” Jenna asked to more laughter.
“Tip of the iceberg, Jenna. Trust me,” Becca said as she threw a smile at Jeremy.
Marz nodded at Jenna, truly admiring how she was coming out of her shell. After being kidnapped, drugged, beaten, and bruised, he could hardly blame her for holding back and keeping to herself at first. But as the bruises around her eye and mouth faded from purple and red to that odd yellow that signified healing, so did her shyness. In fact, she seemed even more outgoing than Sara, her big sister.
“Becca’s right,” Jeremy said with a wink. Always the flirt.
“Charlie,” Becca said. “What the hell are you wearing?” All eyes turned to the quiet blond standing beside Jer.
Charlie glared at Jeremy. “I told you I should’ve put this on inside out.”
“No, man. That’s a classic.” Jer crossed his arms. “Ignore them.”
Sighing, Charlie looked at his sister. “I got tired of wearing scrubs and sweats everyday so Jeremy lent me some clothes.” His dark red T-shirt had a drawing of a smiling fire extinguisher that said, “I put out.” More laughter went around the circle. Since both of the Merritt siblings had been attacked and their houses had been ransacked, they’d been forced to flee without any belongings, and Charlie hadn’t been well enough after his rescue to go buy anything new.
“If this means we get twice as many dirty tees a day,” Jenna said, “I totally approve.”
Laughing, Nick rubbed his hands together. “All right, everyone. As entertaining as my brother’s T-shirt collection is, let’s get down to business. We have an op to plan and it’s getting late.”
THREE HOURS LATER, the team—with a little help from some allies—had taken up positions around a three-story, red-brick row house in the Franklin Square neighborhood of Baltimore. Shane, Marz, and Beckett were set up in the narrow street out back, while Nick, Ike Young, and Miguel Olivero were set up in the shadows along the side. All six would enter and clear the building. Ike was Jeremy’s employee at Hard Ink and a leader of the Raven Riders. Miguel was Nick’s police-officer-turned-PI friend. Both men had helped the team before. Easy had taken up a sniper position somewhere on the other side of the street to make sure no one escaped out the front, and Jeremy was waiting with a van two blocks away for the signal to haul their asses out of there.
Their objective: capture Manny Garza.
The quiet street hosted a mix of dilapidated and renovated houses, the kind of place where suspicious noises outside had neighbors drawing curtains closed and shutting off lights. Perfect for their needs. Garza’s row house fell somewhere in the middle. Not boarded up but not well taken care of, either.
“Let’s get some readings, gentlemen,” came Nick’s voice through Marz’s earpiece.
�
��Roger that,” Beckett said.
Crouching in the shadows of an overflowing Dumpster, Marz and Beckett used the cover of darkness to scan the building for occupants. Better than going in blind. Earphones on, Marz scanned for voices while Beckett used his camera to scan for the interruptions to WiFi waves that would represent bodies and movement.
“Basement and first floor appear clear,” Beckett said in a low voice, tucking the device back into his bag. “But I can’t get a good read on the top floor from here.”
“All’s quiet,” Marz said, repacking his equipment.
“Prepare for breach and CQC,” came Nick’s voice. CQC. Close-quarters combat. Something they’d trained for and used extensively in Afghanistan. But Marz sure as shit never thought he’d be using it here at home.
“Got ya covered,” Marz said to Beckett as he made his way to the back door. An expert at all things mechanical, Beckett made lock picking look like he was swiping a hot knife through soft butter.
“I’m in,” Beckett said a moment later.
“Go on my count,” Nick said.
Marz readied his weapon. Beside him, Shane did the same. Marz’s body was a coil ready to spring.
“Three, two, one, go.”
Because they had more experience, Beckett, Marz, and Shane entered the breach first and quickly cleared the first hallways, doorways, and rooms. Speed, thoroughness, and decisiveness characterized their movements. They stood ready to use gunfire or other aggressive means to control the space and subdue any defenders, but as long as things remained quiet, so would they. No sense alerting the neighbors who might either alert the authorities or, worse yet, the local thugs—which might just include the Churchmen. And wouldn’t that be a pain in the ass.
While Ike and Miguel stood sentry over the first floor and covered their sixes, the other four cleared the basement. They repeated the procedure on the upper level, too, all the while Marz’s heart thundered in anticipation of capturing Garza. Problem was his instincts jangled that their efforts were a bust because this house, in fucking typical Garza fashion, was a ghost town.
When Marz and Beckett had secured the top floor, they turned to look at each other. Beckett’s scowl appeared as pissed as Marz felt.
“Goddamnit,” Beckett bit out, starting down the steps.
“Zero unfriendlies,” Nick said, frustration clear in his voice. “Split up and let’s find something to make this worth our while, gentlemen.”
“Might as well stay up here with me,” Marz said to Beckett’s back. The guy turned around and came back up.
Finding something useful to them was either going to be really easy or really hard, depending on how you looked at it. Because the place didn’t appear well inhabited even though there were signs of life. A very few signs of life. So searching wouldn’t take long, but they weren’t likely to find much, either.
Downstairs, Marz had noticed relatively new cable jacks in the living room that proved the place had been used and improved recently, but there were no electronics. In fact, the room boiled down to a ratty old couch, two crates for a coffee table, and an ancient standing lamp. The dining room was empty, and the kitchen had a microwave and little else.
Upstairs, all of the rooms were empty except one—the rear bedroom contained a cot. Not a bed, but a standard barracks cot like the kind they’d had during training. One square and one oblong disturbance to the dust on the bedroom floor proved something had recently sat there, but no more. And the closet was empty, too.
Marz flashed a light in the heating vent, felt around the inside of the closet for any hidden panels, and got down on hands and knees to look at the bottom of the cot. No goodies anywhere.
As he stood, he stared at the cot for a long minute, and got the gut feeling that Manny Garza was one of those guys who couldn’t assimilate back to civilian life. The sparseness of the house, the very presence of the cot, the square corners and taut pull of the Army-issue blanket, all spoke of a man who hadn’t let go. Who maybe even couldn’t let go.
It wasn’t uncommon. After years of living within the regimentation and command structure of the military, and after a long time of enduring high-stress, crisis situations, the loosey-goosey relaxation of normal life just grated on some men, leaving them unable to train themselves out of warrior mode and into civilian mode. Add to that the fact that images of wartime experiences often played like a nonstop horror movie on the inside of your eyelids—no matter how well adjusted you were—and some soldiers found themselves wishing to go back or unable to return despite the fact that their boots were firmly planted on American soil.
These kinds of adjustment issues were often tied up with undiagnosed PTSD or other disorders. Marz had seen it again and again among the men and women he met in the hospital, at PT, and even at his prosthetist’s office.
And thinking that Manny Garza might not only be neck-deep in drug, gun, and human trafficking on behalf of one or more criminal organizations but also not quite right in the head? That didn’t bode well for them.
Emilie.
Oh, shit.
How much did she know about her brother’s mental health? She was a psychologist after all. Surely, she’d recognize the signs? But would she help him? Protect him? Turn him away? And what would she do if she both knew he wasn’t well and knew what he was involved in.
Damn, it would be nice if every time they learned something it didn’t raise a half-dozen new questions.
Marz peeked into the bathroom—the shower, the linen closet, and the medicine cabinet were all empty. One long-dry towel hung on the back of the door. Just for shits and giggles, he lifted the lid on the toilet tank to make sure nothing had been hidden inside. And that was a big fat no.
One thing was clear. Garza had gone ghost. Recently, if Marz had to guess. Maybe after Friday night when Church’s empire went down in flames? No one left here who could say for sure.
“Got something,” Shane said through his earpiece. “Kitchen.”
Marz and Beckett double-timed it downstairs and joined the group congregated in the small space.
“Gun-cleaning kit,” Shane said, waving to the tools and bottles he’d spread out on the counter. He tapped his finger against a dirty black cloth. “But this is what interested me,” Shane said, and he unfolded the fabric.
It wasn’t a cloth, but a T-shirt. Something that became more apparent as Shane stretched out the chest part of the fabric to reveal a logo.
A medieval helmet in profile with the words Seneka Worldwide Security stacked beside the image.
“Sonofabitch,” said Nick. “Garza is SWS.”
Seneka Worldwide Security was a defense contractor and security services provider known for recruiting SpecOps guys upon retirement or discharge. And a corporation that ran some sorta business through Pier 13 at Baltimore’s marine terminal, where the Church Gang, including Garza, had conducted a major drug deal—not to mention some downright sickening human trafficking—not even a week ago.
“Or he was,” Marz said. They’d suspected Church’s use of that pier wasn’t coincidental and might’ve been evidence of a tie between the gang and the contractor, but now they had proof. Not definitive, but as close as they were going to get. Garza either was or had been an SWS operative.
And that gave them a direct connection between the Church Gang, the heroin trade, Afghanistan, and Army Special Forces personnel. Moreover, Seneka was one of only four providers the Defense Department contracted for equipment, materiel, and services in support of counternarcotics activities in Afghanistan. In country, Seneka mentored Afghan officials in drug interdiction and counternarcotics, and trained the police in counternarcotics. Some of the same kind of work their SF team had done. Which meant they had access to product. Lots of access.
Damnit. Seneka was right in the middle of it all.
“Garza being SWS makes him doubly useful,” Beckett said. “First, because he’d be able to identify the players on the other side of that drug deal. Second, because
he’d be able to provide proof that Seneka formed the definitive connection between the Churchmen’s heroin trade and Afghanistan.”
“Was just thinking the same damn thing,” Marz said, his brain reeling. They’d just significantly narrowed the degrees of separation between the Church Gang’s activities and the ambush and frame job that had killed their friends, ended their careers, and tarnished their honor.
It was crystal fucking clear that people involved in counternarcotics—like their own commander—had been and likely still were taking the Afghani drugs that were supposed to be destroyed and selling them abroad, including back in the States. Given the charges of corruption that Congress, the media, and foreign governments often leveled against SWS, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine them engaging in a little extracurricular activity. Especially of the incredibly lucrative kind.
Seneka operatives weren’t called mercenaries for nothing.
Nick leaned back against the counter. “The operatives who work for Seneka make the Churchmen look like kids playing cowboys and Indians. Shit.”
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Shane said. “You know, every time we peel back a layer of this onion, the sting is going to get worse and worse, right?”
Blowing out a long breath, Nick nodded. “Bring the shirt. Let’s clear out of here and take this conversation back to Hard Ink. We’ve got some strategizing to do.”
Chapter 8
Emilie sat at her kitchen table in a shaft of early morning sunlight and stared at her cell phone. Time to call her mother about Manny. She didn’t want to put it off any longer, not with the party looming and Manny’s behavior on the decline.
She’d meant to do it last night, but the unexpectedly wonderful surprise of her date with Derek had taken up the whole evening, and it had been way too late to catch her mother by the time Emilie had gotten home.