by Dawson, Zoe
* * *
Hollywood meticulously checked his parachute, rucksack and other equipment he would need in the air and once he set down on the ground. They would be jumping while still in Colombian airspace to avoid the border patrols for Attiago, their designated target just north of Betacas where the hostages were reported by CIA assets as being detained. Kat Harrington, their former CIA liaison, had taken over as station chief and had personally debriefed them along with their new liaison, Jessica Martin, a badass, dark-haired amazon of a woman that Hollywood had already slept with. They had the understanding it was just the one time. So there were no hard feelings. She was a tiger in bed, and he’d enjoyed every minute of her.
The memory of eyes the color of river water with sunlight shooting through it edged into his conscious, and he wanted to nudge it right back out. But the way that face was put together had him going over the experience he’d had with her all over again, aching to get back and delve into the mystery of Willow. It would be complete folly, and more than unease ran through him when he thought of more with her. He gritted his teeth and blanked his mind.
He had to get his head on straight. He was going to be jumping at thirty-two thousand feet above the earth—almost six miles and some change straight up—and hurtling at two hundred and fifty miles an hour carrying one hundred and forty pounds of gear—food, water, tactical items, camping equipment, ammunition, explosives and his weapon. He needed to make sure that gear was distributed evenly to avoid any pitfalls during the initial jump and free-fall.
The danger wasn’t just from jumping out of the plane. An uncontrollable spin was what killed most special ops guys. Hollywood had hundreds of jumps under his belt, so he was confident as could be that he would hit the ground the way he expected to—in one piece.
He sat back down in the webbing as Ruckus held up six fingers indicating that they were six minutes from the jump point.
Hollywood looked over at Ruckus. The guy was a rock, and he gained his confidence from his leader. LT had a natural composure in high-stress settings.
The jumpmaster made the necessary motions to let them know it was time to go. The cargo hold opened with a grinding motion, cold air filtering into the hold. Hollywood rose at the command, and they all shuffled toward the open area of inky black night sky.
When it was Hollywood’s turn, he waited for the lights to turn from red to green and the jumpmaster’s signal. When it came, he threw himself from the plane and immediately stabilized himself. With an economy of movement, he pulled the chute, and it billowed out, stopping him from accelerating. He was used to the hard jolt that threw him forward. Looking down, he saw the unending dark green of the jungle, swaths of straight and curvy lines of the roads and darker ones for rivers. He consulted his compass and made the necessary adjustments to head in the correct direction.
He could see his teammates’ chutes below him, and he endured the cold and the wind until he dropped into warmer air. The humidity and the smell of vegetation rose up as he released his rucksack before he hit the ground, right behind Ruckus.
Hollywood was already getting out of the helmet, harness and jumpsuit as Dragon touched down next to him and Tank, with Bronte attached to him landed as smooth as if he was walking on air.
Once their chutes and gear had been buried, Hollywood accessed his weapon, maneuvered the straps of his sack onto his back and then picked up his rifle, ready for action. Tank took point with Bronte on her leash. She’d alert them before any bad guys would get the drop on them.
This country was as backwards as the Darien and known for being a South American refuge for rebels, murderers and cutthroats. The hostages might have not had a choice as to where they had fled, but Attiago was a really bad choice. He figured death was as well.
They had a fifteen-mile hike through the jungle to get where they needed to go. Moving quietly under the cover of darkness, they had made it about ten klicks in when Tank held up his hand for them to stop.
His deep voice came over the radio. “Bronte’s smelled something, and it ain’t good. She’s acting funny.”
“How?”
“Shaking her head and rubbing at her nose, whimpering. She’s distracted by something foul.”
“Hollywood and Dragon, take point.”
Hollywood moved forward and passed the four SEALs in front of him with Dragon on his tail, who would hang back and provide overwatch while Hollywood did recon. Hollywood slipped through the jungle low and quiet. Then he smelled it, and he knew exactly what it was. His nose wrinkled in disgust. As he approached, the smell got so much worse. He saw the outskirts of a small village ahead of him. Crouching, he studied the area for movement, but there was none. He looked down to find dead rodents and other small mammals.
“Shit.” Walking forward, his body ready for anything, he stopped dead when he got a good look at the village. Horror rushed through him in a way he’d never experienced before. Never had he seen anything like it.
He closed his eyes, swallowing down his bile and said softly, “LT, you have to see this.”
“What the fuck!” Ruckus said when he reached the site.
There were bodies everywhere, bent into grotesque shapes as if they hadn’t died easy. Women and men, young and old and everything between. It wasn’t just the humans. Dogs, cats, everything within forty feet on all sides of the camp were dead.
“Blue?” Ruckus said, his tone telling them he wanted their corpsman to tell them what had happened here.
His teammate walked to the first body and crouched down. He studied the woman whose mouth was open in a scream, her expression telling them the pain had been unbearable. “They look to have been dead for a couple of days. They’re still in rigor.” Blue rose and backed away. “This isn’t good. I’d say it was a nerve agent, potent and deadly. These people died suddenly.”
“Nerve agent?”
All of them knew about tabun, sarin, soman, GF and VX. Sarin was originally a pesticide, clear, colorless, tasteless, and odorless, that rapidly evaporated into a dense gas then sank and lastly, more chillingly, could be weaponized. These people probably didn’t even know what was happening to them. Nerve agents targeted a chemical called acetylcholine, an enzyme necessary for the proper functioning of all the organs, glands and muscles in the body. These people and animals would have immediately gone into convulsions as soon as it was released. Loss of consciousness would have soon followed with breathing failure, paralysis and finally death.
“Yeah, convulsions, foaming at the mouth, everything dead in a radius around the camp. It was most likely released in the center of town. We’ll probably find some more dead animals whichever way the wind was blowing. I’d say it was VX, but that’s been banned. At least, it was supposed to have been destroyed. If someone has invented something even worse…” Blue said, his voice subdued. They had stumbled across something terrifying.
“Take samples.” Ruckus grabbed Blue’s arm. “Carefully.”
Blue nodded and went about his grim task. There was nothing they could do for the people rotting in the sun. There were too many to bury, and the team had three living people to rescue.
Reluctantly, they left the poor victims behind, but it didn’t sit well with any of them. There was no chatter, no conversations, nothing but grim looks and sorrow for the innocent. The ramifications of someone releasing a nerve agent in a small village was telling. They were testing it to see what kind of damage it could do. One drop of it was lethal. If it had been weaponized, they needed to find out by whom and quickly. This was an international problem, and Hollywood was uneasy.
They continued onto Alízon’s compound. When they reached the area, Hollywood was sent on recon. He skirted the camp, staying in the thick jungle while guards patrolled by him only a few feet away. As soon as they passed, he was up, his combat knife in his hand. He made short work of them both.
He crept to the structure just at the edge of the opulent mansion that was golden with the light from lamps placed a
ll over the area. Approaching the residence would mean they would have to neutralize any threat. His teammates were taking care of that. He’d been tasked with finding the hostages.
Hollywood peered into one of the windows. Bingo! A lone guard and three people huddled together in a cell. All of them were sleeping.
He went to the door and opened it slowly. Taking no chances, he pumped a round into the guard then another one for good measure. He put his finger to his lips when one of the aid workers, Julia Donovan, woke up and saw him. He heard chatter over the radio. His team had assaulted the mansion. Julia shook the two men. One was Dr. Frank Lowell and the other an anesthesiologist, Dr. Shawn Burke.
Hollywood took the guard’s keys and opened the door. The distinct clanging of the metal rubbing together brought back memories of when bastards had locked him in a cage. He pushed the thought away and motioned for the three to follow him. “I’m a Navy SEAL.”
“Oh, thank God,” Julia said.
“I’m going to get you out of here. When I tell you to move, you move. Copy that?”
“Loud and clear,” she said as the men nodded.
“Stay close to me.” He peered out at the compound and saw guards running around, some toward the jail. “Down,” he ordered, and they all dropped.
He brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired at anyone who got too close to the building. Someone came through a window, and Julia shouted. He whirled, covering them, as he shot the rebel.
Hollywood looked back out the door and said, “Let’s go.”
The four of them got to the limited cover of the mansion. The fire fight had died down considerably. His team was efficient and fast.
“LT. Hostages secure,” he said over the radio.
“Copy. We’ve captured the mansion and have Alízon. Bring them in. The chopper will be here in twenty to exfil.”
“Copy,” Hollywood said. “We’re secure, but we’re not going to drop our guard. Chopper’s on the way.”
All three of them looked relieved as they started to move toward the entrance to the mansion.
Inside, he found Alízon and the team assembled in her library. They were bagging intel. Hollywood motioned toward the couch. “Have a seat. Dragon, can you find them some water?”
“On it.” Dragon left the room, and all three of them looked at the woman face down on the carpet, her dark hair an inky puddle around her head, her hands flex cuffed behind her back.
Hollywood crouched down so she could see him. “What do you know about those dead villagers?”
“I don’t know anything,” she said.
“Bull, lady. You run this country. You know all about it.”
She spat, and he looked up at Ruckus, his blood freezing when he saw a framed picture behind him. He rose in one quick movement and walked to the picture, his teammates making way as he barreled toward it.
Hollywood pulled it off the wall, his gut churning, everything in him on alert as he walked back to her. He grabbed her by the hair, lifting her head off the floor and shouted, “How do you know this man?”
Her dark eyes went sly, and she smiled but said nothing.
“Who is it?” Ruckus asked grimly.
“Vyncent fucking Eze.”
6
Willow stacked the dishes from the table into the bucket and wiped it down thoroughly. Turning, she grabbed the handles and walked to the kitchen, depositing it by the other dirty dishes.
“Aw, Willow, you’re killing me. My shift is supposed to end in like five minutes.”
“Aw, Lenny, stop bellyaching and do them. It won’t take that long, and that’s what Ron pays you for.”
“Always busting my balls,” he said, flipping her off. She backed toward the swinging door, and when she was half in, half out, she flipped him off right back. Then she turned to find Hollywood standing at the bar, an early morning layer of sexy dark stubble coating that strong jaw. Even the dialogue in her head evaporated like steam.
Oh, God. He’d seen her with her middle finger in the air. She slipped her hand into her apron pocket, hoping that he hadn’t caught her in the act of telling her lazy-assed dishwasher to do his job with a fuck-you back.
But then he grinned, and everything just seemed to blur around the edges. “Does he have a broken nose, slugger?”
“You know California has pretty stringent stalking laws,” she said, her acerbic tone going quite nicely with her middle finger action only moments ago.
“I have business with you. You cannot escape my tracking ninja skills.”
“You don’t have tracking ninja skills. I told you I worked here,” she said skeptically but with a humorous edge, feeling better, energized by the minute.
“Aw, Willow, you’re killing me. Always busting my balls.” He grinned, a flash of white teeth in a charming curve, and without any warning, her heart careened off into a slow, uncontrolled, head-on collision course. When he smiled, he devastated with sensual carnage.
Oh, my God. She was heading into the danger zone. Who the hell was she kidding? She was in the red zone.
“That’s what I’m always telling her,” Lenny yelled from the back.
“Oh, put a sock in it,” she groused back then said to Hollywood, “Don’t encourage him, Mr. Incorrigible.”
“I’m so disappointed you didn’t flip me off.” He looked as innocent as a tempting fallen angel could look first thing in the morning.
“The morning is young.” She scowled at him and slapped a menu down in front of him. “You should order something since I’m working right now.”
It would keep her mind occupied if she had to think about an order instead of how amazing he looked in those snug, old faded jeans, the edges frayed and the knees torn. With his hair a mass of silky spikes, it looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Okay, now she was imagining being in there with him. She had too much of a damn good imagination.
He should have looked disheveled at best first thing in the butt-ugly morning. She’d taken the graveyard shift of the twenty-four-hour diner with only two more hours to go and was feeling incredibly disheveled herself at the moment. He looked like he belonged in a magazine spread showing off those strong forearms and that oh-so-handsome face.
Hollywood picked up the menu. “What’s good here?”
“Honestly? Everything. Ron is an excellent cook, and the food is delicious. I’d go with the pancakes. They come with a fruit butter.”
He straddled the stool and leaned on the counter. It widened his chest, stretching his baby blue T-shirt across the expanse, molding over every muscle he had. She tried not to stare at the way the fabric pulled across his biceps. Or the way it made his shoulders look wider. She made herself focus on his face.
“What is fruit butter?” he asked, his voice dropping slightly and making it sound wholly sexual.
Two could play at that game. “A unique silky mouth experience along with intense fruit flavor. You’ll never go back to plain-jane maple syrup. It’ll tingle on your tongue.”
“Sounds like my tongue will have a good time. I’ll take the pancakes.” Everything in her clenched at the thought of what he could do with his tongue. Exactly the reaction he had probably been going for. Okay he was better at the game.
“Coffee,” she said her voice catching. She cleared it, and he smiled.
“Yes, with—”
“Cream. Got it. I do this for a living.”
“You’re wasting your talent.”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have a famous parent?”
“No.” He looked up like he was remembering something then said, “Joanna Blackmoon remains even to this day relevant, an iconic painter who will move through the ages as fresh as the day she painted her masterpieces. She is the mother of American impressionism.”
“You looked up my mom.”
“Impressive. That is a hard road to travel. But, Willow, no one expects you to be like your mom.”
Old pain and humiliation still had some power
to hurt her. Her words came out harsh. “Oh, yes, they do. They totally expect it so the critics can say, ‘What a disappointment. Not as fresh or innovative as her mother. A pale comparison.’”
“Shit. Those are real reviews, aren’t they?”
“How does your foot taste?” she asked, her lips compressed. She turned and clipped her order slip to a spinning metal wheel. Ron, her dark-haired, middle-aged boss with black glasses, grabbed it up as the bell over the door rang.
“Dumb ass dumb.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve gotten over it.” She hadn’t, but he didn’t have to know that. Those blistering reviews had been when she’d entered art school ten years ago. She’d only completed one semester and had never painted for public consumption again. She came around the end of the bar, and Hollywood snagged her arm as she passed him to wait on the tables of the patrons who had just walked in. His hand was big and completely circled her upper arm with room to spare. His expression was contrite, and she couldn’t quite figure out if he was being genuine or if his goal was to get her into his bed.
His type, she knew. Walkaway Joe. One-night stand Charlie. She knew the score, but she bet he had no idea that she knew it. The trouble was there was more to this man…substance in every line of his body, solid in the way he looked and protective in spades. She and risk weren’t friends. They definitely weren’t on speaking terms.
She covered his hand. “Really, it’s okay.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but she was over trying to impress anyone with her work. She made her art for herself, and that filled her up.
“I’ve got customers.”
He released her, and she took the orders from three tables. Her relief server showed up, and Willow waved to her. Jessica Adams took one look at Hollywood, and her mouth dropped open.
She stood there like a dead fish until Willow walked by and nudged her. “Really, Jess. Breathe.”
