A hefty six-foot three Vietnam vet, Roy was also the go-to-guy for anything explosive ordnance related and one of the easiest men to work with. How a sixty-year old guy still looked and acted like one of the younger guys in the office was a testament to his inherent aptitude for his high-risk EOD career. Roy was a hard man to rattle.
“Stay put.”
“Copy that,” Roy replied. “Got your eyes on?”
“Always.”
Roy meant the miniature video camera attached to the stem of Connor’s Ray Ban sunglasses. Whatever he saw, it recorded. That Roy even asked was enough to inform Connor that Roy had his ears, the portable parabolic listening dish, already on and transmitting.
Until now, their targets had made good progress toward the cartel camp, which stood west of their current location. So why had they halted directly beneath Connor’s position at the edge of the river? Did they know they were being followed? Tension tap-danced across his shoulders.
He recognized all the players from the intel briefing preceding the Sonoran Operation: Jose Ibarra, the slim and trim second in command to Miguel Ramirez, the despicable cartel boss. The two locals with Ibarra were Maka Taufa, boss of a local West Valley Tongan gang, and his buddy, Roger Paxton, a local bad boy.
Both looked none too happy. Had to be because of the gorilla blocking the trail behind them. Nestor Martinez. Known murderer. Cartel muscle. Brutal enforcer. Yeah. Something nasty was in the air. Connor could almost smell it.
“So tell me, Señor Taufa,” the impeccably dressed gentleman below inquired of his nervous compadre. “What do you want now?”
Rolling his index finger over the zoom on his mini-cam, Connor brought Taufa’s face up close and personal. He pressed the button and took two stills, one of Ibarra, the other of Taufa. Zooming out, he snapped a wide-angle shot of the foursome.
The odd alliance of a Mexican drug lord with a Tongan street gang in the middle of Utah emphasized the awful way of the world. When drugs, money, and greed were involved, anything could happen. Ibarra had enlisted the Tongan’s gang as additional muscle to keep the illegals in line. Didn’t look like it was working too well.
Straining to hear Taufa’s reply, Connor cocked his head, but the man had turned his back to him. Judging by the dark expression on Ibarra’s arrogant face, Taufa hadn’t provided the right answer. He acted guilty, lowering his head and toeing the gravel path at his feet with his boot.
“Let me get this straight.” Ibarra cocked his head, his lip curled and his pencil thin moustache twisted in a sneer. “They told you no? And you let them?”
Taufa nodded quickly, again mumbling too low for Connor to hear.
“Free?” Ibarra rolled his shoulder as if that word annoyed him. “Just because they are in America does not make them free. Remind them where their true loyalty lies. Help them remember how much they have to lose.”
Taufa raked his hand over his head as he responded again with what must have been another bad answer.
Ibarra’s dark brows angled into a severe V. “They will do as they are told, or they will pay with the blood of the families they left behind. I know every barrio and village in Mexico. Tell them that.”
The Tongan’s head bobbed. Again he looked over his shoulder at Martinez, his answer drifting up to Connor. “Trust me. I will tell them.”
“Go then. Don’t bring your troubles to me again. It is not for me to keep your people in line. Next time I will not be so understanding.”
Taufa nodded vigorously, one foot already pointed downhill.
Ibarra looked straight up at Connor. Connor held his breath. For a second, he thought he’d been made, but no. Ibarra hadn’t seen him. He was only toying with his prey. Distracting him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he whipped a pistol out of his denim jacket, turned and fired a single shot. The roar of the shot echoed from canyon wall to canyon wall while the shocked Tongan clutched both hands to his bloody chest.
“Oh, crap,” Connor whispered.
“Holy shit!” Paxton jumped back a step, bumping into the business end of Nestor’s rifle.
The Tongan boss swayed before he pitched face first to the ground. Martinez pushed Paxton into Ibarra’s line of fire. He stumbled to his knees with his arms clenched in prayer. “No. Please. Don’t kill me. I’m too young. I got kids. I got—”
“Connor?” Roy’s alarmed voice hit Connor’s eardrum louder than he expected. “You good?”
Connor tapped his mic once in answer to let Roy know he was still on task. He knew Roy was panicked, but Roy needed to hush. Was Paxton next?
“You will do as you are told.” Ibarra’s face was now less than an inch from Paxton’s.
Taufa’s buddy nodded vigorously. “Yes-s-s, I – I c-can. I mean, I w-will.”
“Then make an example of this piece of shit for all to see.” Ibarra kicked the dead man’s booted foot.
Paxton kept nodding. Sweat glistened on his face. If he licked his lips anymore, he could pass for a lizard.
“Let everyone know what will happen to stupid peons who think they are free just because the move out of Mexico. Can you handle that simple order or must I do it for you?”
“No, sir. I got it. I do. I will,” Paxton agreed quickly. “I sure as hell can do whatever you want, Boss.”
Ibarra sneered. “Good. Martinez will make sure that you do.”
“Yes, sir.” Paxton kept on sniveling and agreeing. “I’ll make it happen. Just you wait and see. The families will remember this. It’s gonna be good.”
Ibarra tucked his pistol back inside his jacket and walked away. Still sniveling, Paxton lowered his face to the dirt.
“Talk to me, Connor,” Roy insisted. “What the hell just happened?”
Connor rolled to his back. The palest blue sky stretched overhead. He swallowed hard. “Paxton just got promoted.”
Rain. Again.
Junior Agent Isabella Ramos’s flight was weather delayed, and for Seattle in June, that was saying something. Rain was the Northwest’s flavor of the month from September clear through May. Year in and year out, it didn’t fluctuate unless Mother Nature decided to send... You got it. More rain.
She snagged another magazine from her carry-on: the Leatherneck’s Gazette, a damned good read and USMC down to its staples. She might not be in the Corps anymore, but that didn’t make her less of a Marine. Reading about the previous job she still loved helped pass the time and take her mind off her problem. Sitting in the middle of the bustling SEA-TAC airport concourse without so much as a holster on her hip or under her arm made her feel naked. Travelling commercial air sucked since 9-11.
It had gotten so that a gal couldn’t fly anywhere with her nine-inch blade, much less her trusty six-shooter. A smile tugged the corners of her mouth. Six-shooter nothing. She’d be packing two pocket pistols and extra mags if she had her way, but not today. This morning her cargo pants pockets were empty except for a couple cellophane packs of saltine crackers.
Damned Transportation Safety Administration. The TSA’s concept of perceived security ruffled every last one of her feathers. Disarming law-abiding citizens did nothing to protect travelers. Not really. It was not her they had to fear. It was that other guy, the one who didn’t let rules and regulations get in his way when he had an airliner to take down. But here she sat, neutralized and paralyzed along with everyone else and all because the folks in charge thought compliant people solved the problem.
Her left eyelid twitched in annoyance. The nation’s paranoia over possible terrorists in every shadow had now made her one of the dependent ones. Izza hated being helpless. Made her feel like a little girl again. Defenseless. Trapped. Weak.
She flipped another page and stifled the creeping tension in her neck that always accompanied a civilian infested flight. A military hop would have made more sense, but no. Now employed by Alex Stewart, one of the few men on the planet she respected, she had to behave. Follow protocol. Make him proud. That meant flying the friendly skies whether
she wanted to or not. Might as well read. There wasn’t much else to do.
“Hey, Izza.” Mark Houston, her agent in charge, flopped into the seat beside her. Although not an actual Senior Agent, for this op he might as well be. He had her in seniority and experience with The Team, and he was one of Alex’s right hand men.
“Hey, Mark,” she answered indifferently.
“I brought you another cup.” He waved the piping hot beverage under her nose. “You seen Morgan yet? He was supposed to meet us at the gate.”
She pointed to the bookstore across the hall, accepting the Starbucks without looking up any longer than she needed to. “Thanks. He’s shopping. As usual.”
Mark was an excellent example of everything good about working on The TEAM. Calm under fire and levelheaded, he was one of her favorite co-workers. He looked out for everyone, even Alex.
Her nose twitched. Whatever body wash he’d used in the shower this morning smelled pretty fine, too, the perfect combination of manly with a hint of vanilla coffee bean. That was Mark to his toes—tall, dark, and borderline sexy. The feminine streak she usually suppressed sprang to life at the thought of this guy in the shower scrubbing his chest and abs with that body wash. Mark. Naked. Soaking wet. Hmm. If he wasn’t married, and if she weren’t tied down like she was, oh, the music they could make together.
“Hey. You awake?” He bumped elbows with her, jolting her out of her lust-filled reverie.
“Yeah. Hi,” she muttered, hoping her errant thoughts did not reflect in the heat flaming up her neck, but darn. How a big guy like him managed to move as gracefully as he did still caught her attention. Pecs and biceps rippled beneath his black polo as he tucked his carry-on beneath his seat. Mark was built in a big boy, bouncer kind of way, the perfect inverted powerhouse triangle if she ever saw one. Only she wasn’t looking.
Thankfully, the latest custom sniper rifle advertisement in the magazine caught her attention. She buried her nose in the article. The less than five K price tag made it affordable in her line of work. Mental note to self: talk with Alex. The TEAM can stand a weapons upgrade.
Mark stretched his long legs into the aisle in front of him and pressed his usual large vanilla blend to his lips. The man liked his coffee weak and sweet. Not her. Black, hot, and strong. She didn’t care what fancy name they gave it as long as it brought a quick spike of caffeine with it.
Izza took another hit off the hot beverage. Yeah. She needed a new rifle like she needed a hole in her head, but the composite stock and butt pad looked sweet. Mark was a definite no-go. The rifle, however, had possibilities.
Rory Dennison yawned from the chair opposite Izza. The man could literally sleep anywhere. She toed his boot, just to aggravate him, but he didn’t rise to take the bait. He was another good-looking agent, taller, athletically slender, and twice as polite as Mark. Even now, instead of rudely sprawling over three or four seats just because he was tired, Rory sat with perfect posture in one seat, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes closed. The irony didn’t escape her that she, the only female agent present, was hands-down tougher than any of the guys she was travelling with. Meaner too. She’d have taken as many seats as she needed if she were tired. Why not? There were plenty.
Then there was Morgan Humphries, light brown receding hair, bookworm, and boring as all get out. She brought USMC magazines to occupy her mind when forced to fly. He, on the other hand, ran for the nearest bookstore and bought the latest Wall Street exposé or something equally as dull. She toyed with the concept of designing her own AR. He preferred the world of investments. Go figure. An article on a .338 Lapua caught her eye. Morgan and his big brain were forgotten.
“Not again,” Mark grumbled, slapping his thigh with the palm of his hand. “Our flights cancelled again. How do you guys stand to live here? It’s always raining.”
Izza looked up. The arrivals and departures monitor across the aisle fluttered as all departure flights were cancelled. This was their second weather delay in as many days. Damn it. She didn’t want to waste time waiting for a flight she didn’t want to be on in the first place. “We’re never getting to Utah at this rate,” she muttered. “Why don’t we drive? We’d get there sooner.”
Mark turned halfway in his seat toward her and stretched, cracking his vertebrae with a pop-pop-pop as he flexed that magnificently muscled bod. “I think you’re right. All this sitting is hard on a guy.” Another stretch in the opposite direction and his spine cracked again.
She had to look away. He might be spoken for, but damned, he was one sexy beast. And he smelled good, too. She took another deep breath of vanilla and Wild Man Mark before she shut down her out of control feminine receptors and forced her sex-starved brain back to the business of how to get to Utah.
“You want to see if we can get our luggage back?” she asked, energized at the possibility of leaving modern air travel behind. If they were headed back to their office for a Team vehicle, she could swing by her apartment and be armed like any respectable sniper in no time.
“It’s probably already onboard.” His dark eyebrow spiked in mischief. “Are you going stir crazy, too?”
“What do you think? We’ve been sitting on our thumbs for two days now. Come on. Call the game due to rain. Utah is calling my name. Bet it’s not raining there.”
“You might just be right.” Dark brown eyes twinkled. Junior agent or not, Mark Houston was the perfect team lead for this assignment. He always listened, a rare trait among men in her estimation.
Morgan wandered out of the bookstore, his arms full of actual, hardcopy books. “Hey guys. What’s up?”
“What’d you do, buy the store out?” Mark pulled his bag from under his seat.
Morgan beamed. “They have a clearance table with lots of good deals if you’re interested. I’ll go back with you.”
“Let me get this straight.” Izza didn’t even try to suppress her sarcasm. “You carry a butt load of books when you’re travelling light.”
Morgan shrugged. “I like books. You like guns. Not much difference in the weight ratio if you ask me.”
Izza was on her feet by then, taking her cues from Mark. The minute he stood, she was out of there. “Come on, Book Boy. We’re moving out.”
“We’re what?”
“Flight’s been cancelled again,” Mark explained as he pushed out of his seat and headed toward the airline’s information counter. “We’re driving instead. I’ll see about getting our luggage off the jet. Wait here.”
Relief flooded Izza right down to her boots. She took a cleansing breath and stowed her magazine. The day might just turn out after all.
Despite his glasses, Morgan squinted at the departure monitor to his right before his gaze strayed to the bookstore behind him. “When are we leaving?”
“No way.” Izza shot him her best drill sergeant stare-down. “I’m not waiting around here just so you can shop.”
She jerked her bag off the floor and slung it over her shoulder. There were only two books she needed to get her hands on in the next month or so, both user manuals. One was to argue her case for new hardware with the boss and prove it with cold hard facts. Alex was like that. Hit him with statistics and rock-solid evidence, and he believed. Out came his wallet, and Izza was happy.
The other user manual she needed was written by that guy, that—what was his name?
Oh, yeah. Mr.—no, wait. Dr. Spock. Yeah. Him. The baby doctor.
Two
“I really didn’t see that coming,” Roy muttered darkly.
Connor walked silently beside him, his empty Camelbak hanging off one shoulder, his full backpack off the other. After calling in the murder they’d witnessed to local authorities and answering a battery of questions at the local precinct in downtown Salt Lake City, they were finally on their way back up the canyon to meet their DEA point of contact. It had already been a helluva day. Thankfully the arresting officer placed a call to Governor Baxter’s office as Roy requested, or they’d s
till be stuck at the station.
Despite the pleasant fragrance of Ponderosa pine and Douglas fir drifting through the dry mountain air, Connor’s stomach roiled in protest at Ibarra’s cold-blooded execution. The SC was damned nasty, but what had Ibarra meant about making an example of the dead man? Connor knew what it meant in Iraq. Mutilation. Debasement. And other foul things he didn’t want to remember. Could the SC be that barbaric? Here in America?
A bitter taste lingered at the back of his throat. The scariest puzzle to the morning came when Taufa’s body disappeared from the scene of the crime before the police arrived. All that was left was a bloody splotch on the gravel to confirm Roy and Connor’s wild claim. He needed a drink.
Roy stopped him in his tracks with a hand to his chest, jerking him out of his depressing thoughts. “Oh, hell no.”
Connor looked up to a thirty-foot long RV. A woman had just climbed out of the brown truck parked alongside it, her hand extended in welcome, and a big smile on her pretty face. “Morning. You guys are late.”
Connor’s mind switched gears the second his eyeballs scrolled up and down the good-looking woman. Short blond hair, tanned athletic legs that extended from khaki shorts and ended in hiking boots, a good combination in his estimation. This gal moved like she knew who she was and where she was going. Confidence radiated across the short distance between them. His pulse quickened just looking at her.
Setting his gear and the empty Camelbak to the ground, he stepped smartly forward to meet and greet. “Agent Connor Maher, ma’am. This here’s Senior Agent Roy Hudson, and you are?”
“DEA Agent Cassidy Dancer at your service.” She offered a solid handshake that he swore lingered an extra second longer than necessary. The twinkle in those deep brown eyes of hers seemed to linger also. “Thought you’d be here a couple hours ago. What happened? You run into trouble on the way out of SLC? Traffic heavy?”
“SLC?” he asked.
“Short for Salt Lake City,” she explained. “You’ll get used to Utah speak soon enough.”
Connor (In the Company of Snipers Book 5) Page 2