by Ronie Kendig
As she hurried back, she scanned the parking lot then watched for ten minutes before darting back into her building. In her apartment, she locked the door, slid the chain over, and then went to the two-person kitchenette.
She worked quickly and put her experience, the same one Captain Watters insinuated placed her in jeopardy, to work for her. God had given her a keen mind, and He’d put the captain in her path to warn her of danger. Now … now, she’d make sure to protect herself in the only way she knew how.
Palma de Mallorca, Balearic Sea, Spain
12 June—1730 Hours
A cool breeze wafted off the Balearic Sea, smelling of salt and fish. Dean tugged down his black, nondescript ball cap and shouldered his pack a little higher. Sparkling water nearly blinded him as the Majorca coastline chugged closer. Still weighted over the unsatisfactory ending to his conversation with Zarrick, Dean tried to push aside the anger that she wouldn’t listen. He didn’t want to face losing someone else while he was gone.
Just didn’t make sense. She was smart. She had to know things were escalating.
Powerless to stop her, to force her stateside, he feared she’d end up just like Ellen Green. He and God would have some serious words if that happened.
So many things about Zahrah confounded him. Her faith. Her comment that she had no rights. What was she? A slave? He didn’t get that. Sure, Christians talked about being servants of God. And he was okay with serving God. That’s what he felt he did in the field as a warrior. But he’d never met someone who took that to a literal level like Zahrah Zarrick. It was foolish. Idiotic to intentionally put one’s life in danger. If she died, how could she fulfill her calling?
How can you?
And yet he did it every day. Walked out into the desert with the team, aware that it might be the day he didn’t come back alive. Faced Talib and other terrorists.
But that was different. I’m a soldier. She’s not. She’s … He hated himself for wanting to say a woman. It wasn’t just that. He didn’t have any of those idiotic prejudices. He just didn’t want her to get hurt. Didn’t want that guilt on his shoulders. Not again.
Walk away from it. Had to. He’d done his job to warn her. She made her choice to stay. Now he had to focus on the mission. And that had taken him and the team to Majorca. After much shouting at Burnett for leaving Zarrick vulnerable, Dean knew he’d lost again.
The boat bumped against the dock and the crew set up the walkway. Dean stalked down it and waded through the thick crowd of tourists. He sighted Hawk in a bright Hawaiian shirt chatting up a blond. Dean shook his head and aimed for the rendezvous. At one of the tourist traps, he picked up a prepaid cell phone, a bottle of water, and a bag of nuts. He paid cash then headed down away from the crowds. Down a street and past the church to the condo that served as the safe house to host the team.
At the door, he rapped three times.
“Hold up,” a voice called from deep within. The locks clicked and the door opened. At about six-three, the guy almost looked Dean in the eye. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah. I’m here about the Lotus you advertised.”
“You got the cash?”
Dean held out a stack of bills he’d been given.
The man eyed the money. “C’mon in. We can talk.”
Dean stepped inside. The door slammed shut.
A blow to his back sent him into the wall. Eating peeling wallpaper off a dank-smelling wall, he tensed—ready to fight. But stopped. Knew he was in their territory and if he fought, he could go home free of charge with an extra bullet in his head.
A forearm braced his shoulders as the guy patted him down. The pressure released.
Dean turned, irritated.
Hands braced on his hip, the guy stared at him. “You’re early.”
“Blame it on the boat captain—I hear they’re not reliable.”
A meaty hand thrust out. “Name’s Jaxon.”
Peeling his pride and self off the wall, Dean returned the gesture. “Dean. My team will show up over the course of the next few hours.”
“As scheduled. C’mon back.”
Drowning in the guy’s shadow from a lone window at the back of the anemic hall that led to the rear of the condo, Dean tried to take in the layout. But there wasn’t much to take in. Two closed doors.
“Door on your left,” Jaxon said, “is the latrine. To the right, a closet. And in here, we’ve got everything set up.”
“We?” Dean rounded the corner to find a small kitchen barely navigable. But Jaxon strode onward and palmed a panel. A three-by-four section of the wall popped back, revealing a control box. Jaxon punched in a code and a door whooshed back from the dark cherry wood paneling. Stairs offered an escape from the cramped kitchen.
Taking the steps two at a time, Dean detected a murmur of conversation and hum of devices above him. He stepped onto the next level and stopped. Cables strewn over the floor made crossing it hazardous. A woman looked up from a computer.
“The scrawny guy is Kilgore,” Jaxon said as he moved around him. “That’s my wife, Shiloh.”
“Welcome to the Cave, Captain Watters,” she said, then turned to Jaxon. “Brutus, we got two more on approach.”
“Got it.” He slapped Dean’s shoulder. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be back.”
The sixty-by-twenty room stretched to his right and left, walls blocking the stairs in what seemed to serve as additional rooms. Exposed beams and pipes left the space drafty but open. Dirty, grimy windows blocked anyone from seeing in but allowed natural light to fill the room. Tables and desks littered with computers, monitors, cameras, and a lot of other high-tech gadgetry Dean could only dream of having in the field made the place feel cluttered and unkempt.
A wheeled chair rolled over the wood floor, hopping one set of cables before another tripped it up. Dean caught it, his gaze snapping to the booted leg that kicked it over. Then to its owner.
With a baseball cap on, she spun around, her reddish-brown hair protruding from the cap. “Have a seat. Lot of info, not a lot of time.”
Rolling the seat toward her, Dean eyed her setup, which consisted of multiple monitors. One held a map, one provided a quad-split screen with grainy images that all looked like various angles of the house—which would explain how she knew someone else had shown up—and one held streaming data that hurt his eyes to even glance at. The last held a smattering of images layered on top of each other.
“Kilgore, send me the latest.”
“On it,” the techie said.
“Shouldn’t we wait for my team?”
“We are here, O great one!” Hawk trudged up the steps, arms held wide and exposing his thick muscles in a T-shirt that held a skull with crosshairs, the Hawaiian shirt balled in his hand. Behind him came Falcon and Harrier. “Dude’s giving Knight and his dog a hassle.”
“Kilgore has allergies.”
With amusement rippling through his face, Hawk eyed the geek. “Ddrake can take care of those for you.”
The tech looked up through his eyebrows. “My fingertips hold your lifelines. Seriously want to mess with that?”
Hawk clapped and laughed then his gaze hit the female operative. “Well—”
“She’s taken,” Kilgore said without looking up from his bank of monitors that splashed a weird hue across the pocked face. “And her guy knows how to rip your throat out before you know he’s there. Not worth it.” Now he looked at Hawk. “Please? Will you try to flirt with her so I can watch it happen? I might even video it and put it on YouTube. It’d go viral.”
Hawk cocked a challenging look. Arms went out.
“Hey.” Nodding toward him, Dean tried to intercept. “We have a mission.”
Hawk glared at the tech as he came toward Dean then shifted his attention to the operative in his typical straightforward way. “Whoever your guy is, he’s lucky. If you get tired of him,” he said, eyeing her computers, “I imagine you know where to find me.”
“Especially w
hen you’re unconscious and within range of a Remington 700.” She had an expression that almost dared Hawk to flirt with her.
This time Hawk laughed. “Lady, you are my speed.”
A hand clamped onto Hawk’s shoulder and his knees went out before anyone knew what happened.
“Wanna try that again?” Jaxon pressed his thumb into Hawk’s soft spot.
“Dude,” Hawk said, his face reddening as he struggled back to his feet. “You’re her guy?”
“You got a problem with that?”
“Yes, a very big one,” Hawk grunted. “One weighing”—his gaze traced Jaxon’s frame—”250.”
Jaxon laughed. Released Hawk.
Dean eyed the couple, wondering how that worked. Both covert operatives, both constantly in harm’s way. His mind slung back to Zahrah. Walking away mad. Guilt nagged him as he took the seat Shiloh had offered earlier.
“He has a lethal a sense of humor,” she said. “Prior Navy SEAL.” Pride soaked those words and a hefty dose of awareness that she was poking the ego of every member of his team, including him. Well, maybe not Titanis, who hadn’t shown up yet.
Behind him, Dean heard Harrier and Falcon sniggering.
Rubbing his shoulder, Hawk ignored the proffered help and came to his feet. “No wonder you’re messed up. Navy.” He grunted. “If you need help on how to take down your opponent, I can give you some lessons.”
Jaxon’s eyebrows winged up. “You think I need lessons? Come here, grunt. I’ll show you—”
“Boys, boys,” she said with a wry smile. “Enough with the biggest toys contest.”
“No harm done,” Jaxon said, extending his hand to Hawk.
Glaring, Hawk said, “Tell that to my shoulder,” then shook his hand.
“Okay, so here’s what we’ve got.” She pointed to the topmost image. “It’s blurred because we captured it from a speedboat at about a mile away.”
Dean squinted, though it did no good. A tall man stood with his face blurred below a slick of black hair. He had two women with him. “Who is that?”
“We aren’t sure,” she said. “He showed up about two weeks ago, right about the time your computers started disappearing. He’s Iranian and powerful.” She used her pinky to point out a half dozen other blurs. “His henchmen, sporting some serious firepower. They’re with him 24/7.”
“Nah, he’s not Iranian.” Dean leaned forward, his forearms on his knees.
Falcon turned his hat backward and folded his arms. “Unless he isn’t holding to the tenets of Islam.”
“You’re assuming that because of the half-naked women.” A wicked intelligence lurked behind her blue-gray eyes. “We backtracked the boat to Bandar Taheri.”
“Port doesn’t guarantee nationality,” Dean countered.
“That’s the only picture we’ve been able to capture of him to date, so we’re going to try to get in closer,” Jaxon said.
Dean considered that. Risky. His Special Forces training taught him how to sluice through water undetected, but out in the middle of nowhere, when eyes are on the water constantly and they probably had radars, too? “How?”
Jaxon smirked. “Doing what I do best.”
“What I do best,” she said. “Dive.” She popped up another screen. “This is your target, Ashgar Asad. He’s been glued to Sadri Ali, a known opium supplier who uses the ports here for running his drugs.”
“We don’t care about drugs,” Dean said. “We need Asad.”
“Ya know,” Jaxon said quietly, “I’m really wondering about this mission.”
Confusion pushed Dean’s attention to the former Navy SEAL. “Why’s that?”
Narrowing his eyes, Jaxon locked on to Dean. “Exactly—why? I’ve been tracking these guys for weeks.” He shrugged. “They deal drugs. Party. Live the high life. Nothing else.”
“Two peas in a drug pod,” Hawk said.
“Until Mr. Yacht showed up.”
“That’s where it got weird.” Jaxon eased back and propped against the surface where his wife worked. “The yacht is registered to an Iranian official high up the ladder, but he’s not on board.”
Dean pointed to the blurry-faced man. “That’s not him?”
With a shake of her head, Jaxon’s wife hammered on the keyboard. “This is our rich Iranian. Short, bald, and overweight.”
“I’ve run all the back channels and nothing unusual comes up with Asad or Ali, except that they’ve been ferried out to the boat twice.” With a shrug, Jaxon sighed and rubbed his jaw. “I’ve seen stranger things happen than discovering drug dealers went tech for higher profits.” He nodded to Kilgore. “That’s why I brought him in. That’s his field.”
Tech. Anti-tamper computers. It’d make sense that these things were connected, but how? “What’d you find?” Dean asked.
With a snort, Kilgore looked up from his bank of monitors. “Nothing. A whole lotta nothin’.” A wiry mess of dirty blond curls framed the guy’s face.
They were throwing a lot at him, and none of it sounded good. “Which means …?” Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Jaxon, a brute of a guy, stared at him long and hard. “To be frank,” he said then heaved a sigh. “We’re not sure why you’re here.”
“Which means?” Falcon asked, a bit intense.
“Which means things like this that on the surface are quiet and innocuous”—Jaxon looked at Shiloh then back to Dean—“they blow up in your face. So I recommend you have a very quick, very foolproof exit strategy. Or be prepared to die.”
CHAPTER 21
Palma de Mallorca, Balearic Sea, Spain
13 June—0115 Hours
This mission leaked hazards like a nuclear reactor. One of those leaks could ignite and blow the whole thing sky high, just like Jaxon said.
Midnight rolled around with Titanis a no-show. Dean and Jaxon checked local scanners while Shiloh watched computer logs at the airports and police stations. Nothing. The guy had vanished somewhere between Afghanistan and Majorca. He never made port. Not on a boat, plane, or foot.
Dean flopped on his back and stared at the rafters. Couldn’t sleep. Not with a man missing and a mission promising to fail or get him killed. It left Dean’s mind wide open. Drifting to places he shouldn’t go. To people he couldn’t protect if he died—his men, innocents …
Zahrah Zarrick.
He’d never forget the way her hurt carried so clear on her face. Screamed her feelings. Young, attractive, and so naive.
No, she wasn’t naive. She’d seen too much, both as a general’s daughter and as a missionary, to be naive. Sweet Ara Mustafa was a prime example. Ugh. He’d never get the first glimpse of the little girl’s hand out of his mind. Lifting that cement block, seeing her tiny fingers … the dusty turquoise bracelet …
Dean rolled over, more to turn his back on the deep wound that he’d inflicted on Zahrah than to get comfortable.
Sleep crowded his thoughts and dragged him into its depths. Ara’s hand became larger. Coiled around his grubby fingers. Squeezed. The bracelet, still caked with dirt and blood, now clung to an adult’s wrist. A scream echoed in his mind. The eyes he’d closed became Zahrah’s. She stared at him, blankly, and yet … she fell … farther … farther….
Thud! He looked down, where he felt the impact. Found her lying at his feet. Dead. Panic pounded his chest.
Something hit his leg.
Dean snapped awake, his hand thrusting upward.
“Hey!” The person over him deflected. “Blue! Blue!”
Dean blinked, his heart pinging, as the face coalesced into a recognizable, friendly—blue—form. “Titanis.”
“Listen, mate, we got trouble.”
Coming off his cot, mind alive with the threat of danger, Dean swiped the cobwebs from his mind. “What? Wait—” Dean checked his timepiece: 0300. “You just got here?”
Titanis looked over his shoulder, and that’s when Dean saw Jaxon standing there.
“What’s going on?”
>
“I had a tail,” Titanis said. “As soon as I got off the plane. Wouldn’t have made it but for the kindness of a stranger.” Again, he glanced back.
“I have contacts in town. They watch out for me and vice versa.” Jaxon let out a heavy sigh. “The board’s been lit up since your team hit town.”
Shaking his head, his mind struggling with the news, Dean scowled. This only meant one thing. “They know we’re here.”
Undisclosed Location
It’s just my luck that these guys believe their area is secure. Really, just one sweep by security teams would figure out how wrong they are in that belief. But for now, my secret is safe. And even if they are enlightened, I’ll just send in another device, a different one that will be harder to detect. That’s more expensive, which is why it’s not there now. That and their arrogant assumption of their invincibility.
But Boss Man already knows of their trip to the exotic location.
My phone rings and I glance at the caller ID. “Speak of the devil,” I mutter as I hit jamming frequencies. No way does he need to know my location. Headset on, I hit the ANSWER button. “You rang?”
“Let me inside.”
My heart does this crazy do-si-do. My hick mother would be proud. My elitist father disgusted. In fact, so am I. Pushing to my feet, I wonder how he’s managed to find me. “L–let you in where?” No, this just can’t happen. “We agreed. No face-to-face. No compromising identities.”
“We are beyond that, aren’t we? Do you think I would wire that much money to an account when I do not know the name of the person receiving it?”
My breath catches in my throat, forcing me to cough.
“Open it.”
My eyes slide to the gray walls that have protected my location—me—from discovery. Lent me some anonymity. Or so I thought. “This is a major breach of contract.”
“Do I need to have it blown?”
“N–no.” That could damage the millions of dollars of equipment. That could attract more attention. The hatch-style door to my hovel is locked. Secured. With triple redundancies as well as other security measures, including the bracelet that resembles a POW memorial bracelet.