“Not that … it’s not gonna be as confining, ya’ know. We’ll have our freedom back soon.”
“I trust you, and if I ever have any doubt I just think of my hero on the day you tackled me to the ground at my sham wedding. I didn’t trust you then—but you proved me wrong. I trust you implicitly.”
“I don’t know about hero.”
“Sure you do … don’t you remember how the news nicknamed you ‘Hero of the Bride?’ ”
“You don’t need any bullshit newscast to affirm to you that I’d die for you, and I don’t need to remind myself that if I did get killed then you’d be free of this mess.”
She laughed uneasily turning from him to enter the bathroom with a joke. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that because that-so called freedom means I’d have to enter the dating rat race again.”
“That’s it? That’s all I mean to you? Savage woman.”
Her head peeked out from around the door frame. “No, babe. You also make a mean omelet. That’s why I wanted you to join me for breakfast.”
He laughed.
Ten minutes later, sliding his new driving gloves on, he walked to the Ferrari then took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. Salaam, Mallika, Kalendar Prince, and Elektra played in the west field and the University of Virginia’s ponies grazed in the east field. The rising sun kissed the vibrant green grass, breaking through the rising haze of thick mist and odd chill in the air for a mid-summer morning.
Invigorating. Perfect. Sublime. All fitted how he felt this morning. Liz’s good humor had fueled the air with a freshness despite the fact that they’d been ostensibly living like they were under house arrest. Her smile made everything right.
Behind him, Nick Higgins, another battlefield warrior he trusted Liz with, sat waiting in the H2. Not that he needed a security detail to accompany him wherever he went, but it did make Liz happy until this whole nightmare could be put behind them once and for all. And Higgins was one talented marksman, not to mention an intimidating presence at 6’ 4” of brawn. The man had come to be his right-hand these last three months.
He gave Higgins a wave, turned the key to the Spider, then tapped his favorite album designated for when he was in the mood for maximum overdrive. Just so she could hear it through closed windows, he raised the volume of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” as the sportscar burned rubber down the long drive.
As a precaution, when he reached Pemberley’s gate, he called Dixon.
“Good mornin’, Mr. D,” the older guy cheerfully greeted.
“Good morning. I bet you’re glad for some sun.”
“We sure are. Me and the boys were feelin’ a bit hog tied, but we managed to keep those drones in the air despite the wind. What we couldn’t cover with them, we covered on foot even in the rain.”
“I never doubted that you guys would remain diligent.”
“How can I help ya’, sir?”
“I’m not sure if Liz will call you, but she plans on working out this morning. I don’t think she’ll go riding on the estate, but she may spend some time in the greenhouse until I get home. I just want—”
“I understand, no need to explain and ya’ have my word not to tell her you called me.”
“You know her well.”
“It’s my job to anticipate her … um … spontaneity.”
“You mean impulsiveness. It’s okay, you can say it.”
The guy just chuckled.
“Thanks, Dixon. Thanks for all you do for her, for me.”
“Always, Mr. Darcy. Mrs. D is my number one priority in and outside of Pemberley.”
“I know, and that’s all I ask. The key word is always … even if something were to happen to me.”
“No worries there, sir.”
He clicked off the phone then raised the volume to the next song. Yes, today was gonna be a fabulous day!
***
Tick, tock …
The sniper watched the Ferrari peel out, heavy metal music blasting out the windows. Personally, he preferred kick-ass country, true country boy that he was. His eye remained focused through the rifle scope on the receding tail lights as it gunned toward the entrance gate, followed by a custom—hot off the assembly line—Hummer H2. Iceman had finally left the woman. All the horses grazed, which was good because he liked horses. He’d wait until Darcy was far enough away to not know what hit him in his absence.
Then he saw her pass through the sunroom—hair pulled into a ponytail, workout leggings and a snug-fitting white tank top—before disappearing from his view.
There was no rush; he had the time or perhaps, he was just giving her time that she didn’t have on her side. Call it mercy for having the greatest tits he’d ever laid eyes on.
After fifteen minutes, he heard a faint sound, like a chopper, growing louder as it came toward him, and his eye blinked in the scope spotting one of the sentries bolt from the tree line along the west field, running at a clip. Another burst from the area of the green house, heading toward the mansion; a third flew out of the guard house, also barreling full tilt to where the woman was. Had he been made?
The noise from the chopper blades filled the air around him, and he slowly shifted his gaze to the left. Facing him dead-on through the leaves was a UAC quadrotor aerial drone, stilled eye-to-eye with him. Damn. He’d been made.
As if the tree had come to life, he laughed, raising an arm and flipping the bird to the person manning the recon helicopter from most likely the guardhouse. He had zero worries of his face being made. Apart from the slits in his mask, he was completely covered, right down to the high tech colored contact lenses he wore.
Two heavily-armed goons ran across the field toward him. The sharp shooter, located on the barracks roof, tried to pick him off with a measly .22 caliber rifle, but to no avail. To even the most observant eye, he was part of the tree, covered in leaves.
He braced himself behind the .50 cal when gunfire rained down on the forest from every direction, hitting the ground and the trees, hoping to make contact with him. Hundreds of rounds pummeled around his hide site.
“You’ll never make it to her or me, suckers. It’s time to kick some rich ass,” he said before taking a deep breath, willing his heart rate to lower, and then exhaling. He pulled the trigger. With one of the fastest fingers in the business, he quickly fired off three rounds packed with C-4 and zirconium explosives from the semi-automatic demi-god.
The first round bulleted through the trees, over the field, and into the horse stables.
Boom!
The wood detonated into a fiery geyser at least one-hundred feet into the air, as the hay caught fire.
Boom!
The next burst the greenhouse into flames; glass and wood incinerated on contact.
Boom!
Finally, the security guardhouse blew with a fireball explosion, immediately dropping the drone to the ground.
He’d saved the two best and most powerful incendiary thermite rounds for last. These were not easy to extinguish. He fired into the not-entirely hidden gas line attached to the brick exterior of the house, followed by one to the propane tank in the outside kitchen.
BOOM!
The ground shook when the multi-million-dollar mansion exploded into a towering inferno of red and orange, blowing brick and stone into smithereens like an atomic blast. No one could have possibly survived. Pity.
In under six seconds, the entire estate named Pemberley had been leveled—set aflame.
Billowing black smoke and raging fire rose in the air from each building.
And so it began … Diablo’s hell had cometh to the Iceman.
Fire versus Ice.
1
Girl Power
July 31
Bermuda
Jane Bennet adjusted the pink bubble sunglasses she wore as they snapped photographs of Charlie’s dangling legs one-hundred feet above her. An index finger swipe over the lens zoomed in on his backside, squeezed by the harness and beautifully back dropped by the rainbo
w-colored parasail canopy above him. It was the best way she knew to kill time. Right now, she needed speed and was growing impatient sitting behind the wheel of a boat creeping northeast along the Bermuda coastline at a pitiful 10 mph. It was sheer torture. Like her sister, she was meant for going fast.
Sure, the aquamarine water and the pink sandy beaches were stunning, and the hot sun felt incredible against her tanned body, but she hoped she’d be doing more than catching rays on this scouting mission for Operation Gombey. Certainly more than just driving, monitoring the tow line, or taking “tourist” photographs of watercraft and the shoreline to her left.
Boooring.
Where was the fun? Where were the bad guys and the chance to use some of those gadgets she had lifted from her job at the spy museum or, better yet, her new “skills?” She surmised that part-time employment with Obsidian meant part-time investment in ops.
She would like to at least learn how to work the miniature drone Charlie was maneuvering from up there. From his elevation, and the high-tech bat drone’s distance threshold, he was able to see the entire “suspected” Sanchez-Morales compound in detail. Nicknamed “Batman,” the Army’s small prototype drone for covert surveillance and grenade bombing was silent and with wings instead of propellers; it was the perfect ruse. Not that Charlie actually needed to be up in the air, but he had an itch to go parasailing and stated it could give him a bird’s eye view.
From her position on the boat, she couldn’t see the vast estate hidden behind a twenty-foot wall covered by lush green foliage, but that little gadget and its aerial view was sending vital information back lickety-split to Rick in DC.
As the boat slowly pulled the cloud hopper, the water’s rhythmic lapping against the hull caused her thoughts to drift to her sister, then her internal chastisement over desiring sun and fun of the dangerous kind. What did Lizzy have? Nothing. Her blood boiled, and she fought back the tears that always came when she gave thought to what happened in Leesburg ten days ago.
I want revenge! It’s been two days of recon. Where the hell are these La Muerta Mundial cartel drug trafficking a-holes?! That’s it! No more sweet Jane Bennet. Vengeance for her sister was paramount—and speed—but mostly retaliatory vengeance.
Tapping her iPhone, she located one of her favorite contemporary pop songs, which evoked happy memories of growing up at Longbourn and how they would put on dance shows to early Britney Spears for their parents. Her sister had zero hip-hop rhythm even as a child, but that never mattered. They still had fun. In fact, those were the times worth remembering—when their mother was still around, enjoying motherhood and her daughters. Music was a happy distraction, filling the house and drowning out Frances’s rantings to a husband who wasn’t listening anyway.
“This one’s for you, sissy. In memory of good times, let’s ‘Shake It Off’,” she almost blubbered when the song began. Taylor Swift took over her body and her bare feet shuffle danced in the cockpit, executing her best spin moves and running man slides—bouncing the boat and ignoring that Charlie and his tow line were also feeling the crazy beat.
Now, she was having fun. Yeah, Lizzy would be laughing at her and then say something about how she and Iceman’s tango could beat her club dance moves in a dance-off. She glanced up at Charlie. He had moves! His hip hop rocked almost as awesome as his hip thrusts!
From the corner of her eye, a sleek, black cruiser headed toward them; the red and orange flames painted on the bow seemed to burn as the powerboat skated across the green water, lifting above the waves. It was the second time this afternoon that she’d seen it going in the opposite direction from before, but this time it was closer. The boat passed, creating a choppy upsurge that pitched their little ski boat. “Infierno,” she whispered, repeating the name on the hull. Instantly, she stopped her hip thrusts and quickly took a few piccies of the stern, making sure to zoom in on the name and the men within. One of the guys on board turned around and waved at her, barely catching her in the act, not that he would have known her sunglasses were a spy gadget! What was a girl to do, acting as a tourist, but truthfully an undercover agent for a government-sanctioned assassin organization? What would Caroline do? She would flash a million-watt smile—and Jane did exactly that.
The cruiser turned around to come about starboard side.
“Shit.” Her pulse raced as the two occupants drew closer. Again, she glanced up to Charlie—her happy feet suddenly feeling not so eager to dance but the music continued to blare.
Baring leering smiles, the two men pulled beside the boat. Definitely sexy—and definitely armed. The shorter, slenderer of the two, hot as he was, had a creepy smile and wore a shoulder-holstered pistol below his armpit, and the other looked so hard that she could see his six pack below his tropical wet suit. He wore his black hair pulled into a ponytail and his smile was devastatingly seductive. Leaning onto the transom, Hardbody spoke with an accent. “Are you having fun, señorita?”
Before looking up to Charlie she touched the temple arm of her sunglasses again, replying in a trademark flirty voice. “Oh yes! And as soon as he’s done hogging the parasail, I’ll be up there. But I won’t be going this slow; you can bet on that!” Of course, she giggled. She could hear Caroline’s advice in the back of her mind. “When faced with a lusting foe—male or female—work what you have. Your femininity and your assets are your greatest weapons. Your sister learned that in Paris.” She didn’t know if they were enemies, but the lusting part was there—like super creepily, too. Further, the connection was too great to ignore: One was clearly Hispanic, and she and Charlie were here in Paget to scout a South American drug lord’s compound at the coastline from where they were. Was that too much of a stretch? Were these guys patrolling the shoreline close to the estate’s perimeter or securing the cartel’s drug trafficking to and from the island?
Two sets of eyes raked down her trim form, desire noticeably settling on her new boobs spilling from the neon pink bikini top she wore. Before going in for surgery, she considered that D cups would be the perfect weapon. Looks like she was correct. Arching her back slightly, in a shameless move, she made good use of her career investment, keeping the guys’ attention occupied away from Crash as he drifted behind and above them with the remote control.
The engines chugged as the two boats slowly split the water side-by-side. Jane pointed and remarked with a playful hint of innuendo to the black combat shotgun lying across the seat between them. “That’s a mighty big gun you have there.” Hmm, a twenty-round magazine.
“It is for fishing.”
“Wow. I don’t think they’ll be much left of any fish after that shoots them.” In fact, that Russian Saiga Taktika is so damned bad ass, it’s used by most private security companies in Russia. Charlie had taught her that last month.
“Are you two handsome guys Bermudian police?”
They looked at each other and laughed.
“So, you won’t report us for not using a proper parasail boat, right?” She leaned forward, striking a pleading—yet teasing—pose: one hand grasping the railing, the other taking a few more photos with her sunglasses. “It’s just, ya’ know, for us tourists, $150.00 for thirty minutes in the air is a total rip off.”
“We won’t say a word.”
As expected, dark eyes, again, locked onto her chest when she leaned forward. Hardbody’s interest in her was hardly subtle. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he jumped into her boat; she just smiled and fanned her neck with her hand, working what she had. “The sun is hot today. You must be dying in that black suit.”
As shamelessly as she, he sat upright and unzipped the sleek suit, revealing a firm, hairless chest. Speaking of fish—holy mackerel! A year ago she would have reeled him in … but now she had to throw him back. Her heart and fidelity lay with Charlie now. Still, her chin unconsciously dropped when the guy shimmied the wetsuit to his waist.
That tattoo on his forearm gave her internal shivers; she had seen images of it in intelligence b
riefings. The black spider was the mark of Morales’s dead Russian lover—the one who had the hots for Lizzy and tried to seduce her with a riding crop. Holy shit! This guy once worked for Nadya Karakut.
Pink sunglasses snapped away.
The other guy, she nicknamed Creepy Hottie, lit a joint followed by a deep inhale; the sucking sound snapped her from her fascination with the ink. Almost immediately upon exhale the salt air filled with a cloud of sweet-smelling marijuana.
“I guess that answers my question about you guys being cops,” she laughed, promptly shaking her head when he held the cigarette out to her. They obviously didn’t care that pot was highly illegal or that the island heavily enforced strict gun control laws. But, if they were cartel thugs then they were above the law. Hell, the law was probably on the take!
“You are very beautiful,” Hardbody complimented. “I like American women.”
“Thank you!” she gleefully responded fanning her hand through her salt-tangled locks. “Where are you guys from?”
“He is from London. I am from Lima.”
Peru! Further confirmation. That’s where Operation Macarena was. That’s where they’d kidnapped Rick!
Thankfully, Charlie’s voice came over on the radio. “Yo, Pussy Galore, stop flirting down there and pick up the speed.”
The men looked at each other with a smirk when Charlie teased her using the borrowed 007 chic name. It had become a running joke between them.
“That’s my cue, fellas. I’m outta here.”
“Don’t go yet. Leave your friend up there; we want to party, and he will get in the way.”
“Sorry, guys when he says ‘speed,’ I just gotta fly. Thanks anyway.”
Hardbody reached out, tightly grabbing her wrist. “I don’t think so.”
“Aw, shugga, as sexy as you are …” she whispered, “I have a herpes outbreak right now.”
He quickly let go as if she was hot coal.
With a smile, she gazed up to her lover and waved; he motioned down to her to go faster when they changed their location so he could go higher. Man, if only she could be up there with him. But who’d drive the boat and glean all the information she did in this short conversation?
In Good Conscience Page 2