And then Delta became an option, and he thought he might make it. No trails, no existence, no life—nothing other than a team he meshed with, who let him dance with his demons without comment. That was how they liked it.
Brock Gamble, Titan’s former second-in-command, was the team leader. He got what made Trace tick, pushing his anger into training and letting him roam wild without any questions.
Brock threw a pile of key rings onto the table. Sudden apprehension tickled Trace’s nerves.
“We’re grounded for a couple weeks.” Brock glanced at Trace. “Temporary, but expect to stay a while.”
Apprehension churned itself into anxiety. “Keys?”
“One of them is for a townhouse, the other a car.”
“Temporary,” Brock had promised. A house and car didn’t sound temporary. The urge to puke hit him hard. He’d been tricked… He had to get back overseas and work on his own projects. He didn’t have time for team building and trust games or whatever else was planned for them.
Jared walked in, cracking his knuckles, and dropped into a chair. A bulldog trotted—slowly—into the room and plopped down next to him. “Never thought I’d see you boys sitting around a conference table.”
No shit.
But no one said anything. Brock leaned forward and ran his hand over his chin but stayed mum.
Jared continued, “As you may’ve heard, GSI is gone, has been for a few months, and we’ve secured their contracts.”
GSI had been a Titan competitor in the black-ops, private-security world. Jared flashed a look at Brock, but nothing registered across either man’s face. But it was noteworthy, if for no other reason than it seemed to create an interesting dynamic between the two.
“You’re still our ghost operations team. But I need Delta filling in where the main team can’t be. Standard jobs based out of the States. Anyone who can’t handle it, I’ll understand.” Jared glared directly at him.
Hell. All eyes in the room shifted to Trace. Great, fuckers. Trace made no show of noticing.
Brock cleared his throat, pulling all eyes forward again. “Everyone good?”
No one said a word, and that was the right response.
Jared nodded. “If you want out of your contracts, that’s fair. I’m changing the ground rules on you, even if it’s only temporary.” He stood, and his bulldog did the same, pacing along the length of the room. “If you want to stay off the grid, go underground, then take a sabbatical. Go off the clock until Delta’s back on the darkest, dirtiest missions that exist on earth.” Trace could feel the eyes begin to drift his way again. Jared cleared his throat. “But for now, until I add a few more bodies to the main team, I need you.”
Brock nodded. One by one, Delta nodded. Ryder. Luke. Javier. Colin. Everyone except Trace. He hadn’t nodded, yet no one seemed surprised.
“Trace?” Jared crossed his arms.
Maybe a sabbatical was what he needed—but what guy in his twenties did that? A guy who was cracking up. The key ring of doom was going to be his death. A car and house? The thought made him itchy. He couldn’t handle the humdrum of civilian life. Seriously, what was he supposed to do? Find an ammo store he liked, buy a coffee maker, and watch TV until Brock called him up and said to grab his go bag?
Grounding the team was a death sentence. Delta was starting to feel like the only way he’d survive after Michael’s death and the questionable falling-out with his SEAL brothers.
Once a SEAL, always a SEAL? Didn’t feel that way.
If Jared would put him to work right away so he didn’t have time on his hands, maybe Trace could handle life with a leash around his neck. He chewed the inside of his mouth. As long as he was busy, he wouldn’t leave Delta. He couldn’t. It was how he functioned at the moment.
Trace squared his shoulders. “If the team’s in, I’m in.”
“First job, high-value-target rescue.” Jared opened a folder and passed out intel packets. “HVT’s Marlena McCloud. Abducted by a South American arms dealer whose legitimate business dealings revolve around sugar production. His name is Marco Romatar. Intelligence has her in his compound in northern South America, somewhere in the Guyana region.”
Trace paged through the packet of papers. He studied the strategic details more than he studied the girl. How hard would it be to pinpoint a chick wandering around the jungle? If he focused on an easy HVT operation, then maybe he’d be able to take a deep breath.
“Guyana? Like the land of Jim Jones and the Jonestown suicides?” Brock asked.
Jared nodded. “Romatar has several sugar growers down there. Satellite images and recon from a British ops team shows them farther back in the jungle. A remote, decently equipped house on a marshy river. Armed guards patrolling water and land. Questions?”
Javier nodded. “British ops didn’t extract?”
“HVT to us. They didn’t know why. I don’t know why, and I didn’t ask. They saw an American, passed the intel along in a friendly, FYI kinda way. She means something to someone. This HVT is a high priority, no other details provided.” Jared turned toward the television screen and picked up the remote. Hitting Play, he went back to his chair, and his dog dropped to the floor as the screen lit up and a surveillance video came to life.
The grainy parking-lot footage showed a woman in heels making her way down a row of cars. A van rushed up. Two men grabbed her. The van peeled out. The entire scene took less than ten seconds.
Jared paused it again. “That was from a secure CIA ops site outside Washington, DC. Underground, security badges, the works. The van was let out by the guard on duty without so much as a second glance, and no one heard from her again. But she fit the description from the British team. We’re not 100 percent confident, but it’s what we have to go on. Brock, more to add?”
“We’re itching to go. It’ll be a complicated extraction, but based on what we’ve mapped out, it’s doable, using local resources and floating the river.” He leaned forward and slapped the table. “We’re a go. Plan to load up in three hours.”
Trace breathed a sigh of relief. Three hours he could manage. The only downside was that he wasn’t in the desert looking for the only thing that might give him peace.
Chapter Four
‡
Marlena woke on the dingy bed and sat up. Days of waking in this compound hadn’t done great things for her belief that she was getting out anytime soon. No one from work would miss her, and she routinely cut classes to keep up with the workload, so none of her classmates would think twice about her absence.
Mr. Romatar was in charge. That much she knew. He was the reason she’d been brought to wherever they were. It was hot and humid. The flight had taken hours, and no one spoke English unless they wanted her to work. Then it was English with a thick accent and a serious agenda. They all called her “the kid,” and it drove her crazy, but they knew what she was working on. They had classified information. She’d known from day one that this stupid job she’d agreed to do for the government would get her killed.
So much for all the security-clearance hoops she’d jumped through and the assurances that anyone who had an inkling of what she was doing was also cleared. You’re safer working with us than you are in chemistry lab. Ugh. Liars.
Mr. Romatar had armed guards, but Marlena mostly met with intelligent employees who asked many questions and took copious notes. Could her project be replicated? How would they make adjustments for any number of caveats? Part of her was pissed that her contemporaries were taking the shortcut in creating their weapons based on her knowledge, and part of her was pleased that they didn’t question what she told them.
And she’d told them only enough. If they tested her descriptions and plans, they would work. If they tried to put various parts together, they would mesh. But she hadn’t told them the one key part to her plan, the engineering component that had taken her a few semesters to figure out. On paper, everything looked as it should. She could swear that she’d shared everything, and
when it didn’t work, she’d have both protected whomever they were intent on attacking and maybe prolonged her life by prolonging her usefulness.
There was a rap on her door, then it swung open. The same man who met her every morning stood there, a container of milk and a breakfast bar in hand. “Ready?”
“I think so.” She smiled because there was nothing else to do. Brian would’ve laughed at her. Called her weak. He would’ve thought she should outwit them. But outtalking men with guns wasn’t her forte. As a matter of fact, if she’d hadn’t been lured in by the idea of being patriotic, she never would have thought about how biological engineering could help protect her country. Now look at her.
Marlena rubbed her temples.
“Miss McCloud?”
Her stomach churned. She’d meant to change her name, wanting nothing to do with her father, but it would’ve messed with all the paperwork it took to keep her college grants and scholarships. Marlena shook her head and stood, accepting the breakfast offerings with a verbal “thank you” and mental middle finger.
*
The HVT rescue op was underway. Trace moved beneath the murky jungle water. His goal was to find the boat that would give them an under-the-radar arrival. He’d drag Romatar’s men down after Ryder picked them off with his sniper rifle.
Trace sighted the rickety jungle boat a dozen yards ahead. Timing was everything, and the Delta team was on point. On land, maybe lounging in a tree, Ryder waited.
In his ear, Titan team leader Brock counted down their plays, as the boat drifted with the lazy current. “Trace: three, two, one.”
With “Go” buzzing in his earpiece, Trace lifted his hands out of the water and caught his enemy, who was dead, thanks to Ryder’s shot. He dragged the man under, submerging the body in two seconds without so much as a splash, then quietly popped back up for the second hit as the swamp boat floated by.
His hands shot up silently a hair of a second after Ryder’s bullet hit his target above the water’s surface. With eyes barely above water, he grabbed the dead man, submerged his body, then pulled himself over the edge of the boat.
“Clear,” Ryder said.
“Move…” Brock’s strategy was going smoothly. They’d take out the two on the boat, take their place, infiltrate the jungle compound, and rescue their high-value target. “Now.”
One short breath later, the guys pulled over and stayed down. Trace posted in the bow, taking the place of the first man they took out. Luke took his place in the aft, guiding the boat toward the dock. Colin and Javier stayed down and out of the line of sight. The boat drifted, docked, and moved to the outside of the house, surrounded by the river and jungle. Their foursome split, hitting their assigned spots.
“Eyes on three tangoes,” Trace whispered.
Luke, Colin, and Javier gave their count. In total, they could see five armed guards on the exterior and no one through the windows. They were going in blind, and wasn’t that a rush. Adrenaline fueled and honed Trace’s readiness, making the tips of his fingers pulse.
“Sniper: go.” Brock’s voice stayed in their ears. “I repeat: Sniper, we’re a go.”
Ryder took out the targets after Roman, a spotter from Titan’s main team, called their marks.
“Breach team, go,” Brock called into his earpiece.
Trace slipped through the back door. Luke moved through a window. Colin and Javier mimicked the action on the side entrance.
Pushing against the wall, Trace scanned the room, subdued the enemy in front of him, and bounded up the stairs, knowing that his boys would cover him when he came back down with the HVT.
He scanned a few rooms. Not what he expected. They were set up like science labs. What kind of high-value target was the woman? He assumed she was an intelligence operative because the details on the woman were generic at best. But based on what he saw, maybe she was a scientist? A teacher?
Trace cleared one room, then the next. Empty.
“Nothing here,” he grumbled.
Team members in the house gave the same responses.
Roman’s voice crackled in his earpiece. Then static.
“Repeat,” Brock ordered.
Once again a crackle, then more clearly, Roman came through. “We’ve got movement. One hundred yards away, tunnel exit. HVT is with ’em.”
Shit. Trace bounded down the stairs. Colin and Luke were behind him, Javier coming broadside. Roman gave directions as the team ran forward. They had no other guidelines than that. Thick brush became nearly impassable. Leaves slapped his face as Trace ran through the jungle, following Roman’s guidance.
Brock called, “If you have shots, you have a go.”
“We’re flying blind here.” Luke’s voice sounded in his earpiece.
“One more second,” Ryder whispered. Two shots fired. “Girl’s alone. Trace, to your left, twenty feet.”
And Trace was there in a second, searching for a screaming woman or for any sign of life. He jumped over a downed tree and pushed through a thorn bush.
There. He caught sight of a feminine shoulder almost hidden behind the tree. The HVT. He went wide, trying not to scare her. She faced the other way as he approached, her head rotating as if searching for incoming assault. Her hair was back in a ponytail, and she stood over two dead men, thanks to Ryder’s shots. She held what had to be one of her captor’s automatic weapons. It was pulled up, ready to fire.
“Behind you,” he said calmly. Last thing he needed was her to take someone out with an accidental trigger finger.
She swerved, the long barrel of the automatic weapon pointed at his face. Her finger was on the trigger. “Go away. Leave me alone.”
He put his hands up. “I’m one of the good guys.”
“Prove it.”
It was almost pitch black out, and the canopy of trees overhead didn’t allow for too much moonlight. But even in those circumstances, he could tell that she was more pissed than scared. And there was something familiar about that voice. Maybe even that attitude.
He tried again. “We’re your extraction team. Put your weapon down; we’re bringing you home.”
She dropped the barrel an inch in the dark. “Convince me you’re a good guy or walk away.” She jerked the gun at him. “Or I’ll shoot you. Your choice.”
His eyes narrowed, annoyance picking at his already uneasy attitude. He didn’t have time for this.
Brock gave orders in his ear. “Acquire the target alive by any means necessary. Confirm.”
Well, their team leader didn’t have a high-powered rifle pointed at his face. “Give me a minute, boss.”
“One minute and counting.”
Great. He turned his attention back to the HVT. “Easy there, girl. I’m American. We’re bringing you back to the US.” He slowly dropped his weapon, letting it sling over his chest. “See, a gesture of good faith. You’re the only one pointing a gun at anyone. I really don’t want to be shot today. Hurts like a bitch.”
Though a point-blank shot by her gun would kill him.
She laughed, and it tickled a memory. What the hell was happening?
“That doesn’t prove anything.” She moved the barrel of the gun away from the center of his chest but not by much. “Back away from me.”
“Or what? You’re going to kill me.” He inched forward. “I’m on a seven-person team of shadows that have you surrounded. I go down, one of them gets you, and they won’t be nice about it.” Surrounded by almost inhabitable rain forest, he had to laugh. “Even if I wasn’t your ticket out of here, what, you’re going to walk to the nearest village?”
She didn’t answer.
Enough. He ducked, lunged, grabbed the assault rifle, and spun her around. They crushed onto the tree that hadn’t hidden her from him, and he whispered into her ear. “My name is Trace. I’m taking you home. Trust me, listen to me, and we both live. Got it?”
Nothing. She didn’t struggle. Didn’t say a word. She wore a thin tank top, no bra, maybe some camo pants. Some
thing familiar, again, grazed the back of his mind.
“You hear me?” He wouldn’t step away from her until they had an agreement. “Nod or speak. No time for a standoff.”
“Trace?” Her voice was hesitant and his reaction definite.
That voice, he knew it. From what part of the world? Or which female op? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t know anyone named Marlena McCloud. He would’ve remembered a name like that. When he first heard it, the name stuck with him, as though it were too soft to be that of an operative or too fluffy to be in intelligence.
She turned her head. Even though the black jungle night hid all details, a sudden, very clear realization settled over him. What. The. Hell. “Mallory?”
“Something like that.” She dropped her head then shrugged out of his hold. He could barely make out her features, but there was no mistaking that voice—just as soft as the name McCloud.
Brock barked in his ear, “Rendezvous. Now.”
Handing her back her rifle, he couldn’t put two and two together. “You know how to use this?”
Because the Mallory he knew didn’t know how to use an assault weapon. She was a pretty girl barely legal enough to be at a bar, an American who had had a couple of beers. She was giggles and gumdrops and nothing that would know how to fire one those babies.
The woman snagged the gun. “Please get me the hell out of here.”
Chapter Five
‡
Marlena’s heart slammed in her chest. The Trace in front of her was the same Trace that she’d been in bed with for a first-name-only good time. Her one-night stand was coming back to haunt her, and it did so in the shape of a jungle-slaying white knight. One-night stands happened, but this didn’t. How could they find each other on two different continents, neither of which she was sure they both lived on full-time?
Nervous energy pulsed through her while she tried to focus on the killers who lurked somewhere in the jungle, not the distraction-worthy, gun-wielding savior pulling her quickly through a wall of vegetation.
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