Wait for Me

by Louise, Tia

  Prologue

  Patton

  Seven years ago in a jungle south of the border…

  The clock is ticking.

  We have to move fast or this will go terribly wrong.

  Sweat rolls down my sides, and I exhale slowly, calming my pulse.

  The air is heavy and close, so thick it’s almost visible and so hot it’s almost impossible to breathe.

  Tropical plants form a dense barrier of wide, shiny leaves, and we’re hidden in the brush around a small, cinder-block hut.

  Our target is a green dot on my screen blinking right in front of us.

  He’s here.

  “Moving in, eleven o’clock.” Taron’s voice is low in my ear.

  “Coming up from the southeast.” Sawyer’s distinct southern drawl is a quick response.

  “No noise. No prisoners.” I give the order, firm and clear.

  I’m the leader of this three-man rescue mission, and we won’t fail.

  We surround the unpainted hovel. It’s quiet in the shadows. The windows are black holes with no glass, empty squares that could be hiding anything—watchers with guns, lining us up in the crosshairs.

  Or he could be alone.

  No, it would never be that easy.

  He could be dead.

  My jaw tightens and I push back on the thought. What good would he be to them dead?

  Taking a knee, I slowly lift my gun to my eye, setting my sites on the front door. We’ve been tracking radio signals, emails and IP addresses, until we isolated them here.

  Two weeks have passed since Martin was jumped on a routine fuel run. From what we’ve been able to piece together, they took him down with PAVA spray, a paralyzing nerve gas. Then the videos started.

  Two weeks of grainy images of our friend and fellow Marine tied to a chair with a bag over his head. They’d rip it off to reveal black eyes and bloodstained skin. Then the threats started—guns and money. It’s what they all want. Until now, the moment of truth in the heart of a South American jungle.

  We’re tired, thirsty, and focused on retrieving our friend, kidnapped off-duty in a routine stop on our way to a peace-keeping mission in Caracas.

  Sawyer checks in from his point, and we watch as Taron creeps across the face of the structure, approaching the weathered wooden door. His gun is at his chest as he carefully reaches out and knocks.

  Three sharp raps, and we wait.

  Nobody breathes.

  No response.

  He looks to me, and I give a nod. I’m front and center, ready to cover him.

  Nobody gets past me.

  Nobody takes my men.

  We’re brothers—no one forgotten, no one left behind.

  My heart beats like a mallet against my ribs. As much as we’ve trained, this scene is entirely unpredictable. We hope to have the element of surprise. We hope his kidnappers believe we’re still in Los Cabos, but they could be smarter than we give them credit for. With low growl, I shake my head. Not likely.

  These drugged-up gangsters dared to kidnap a Marine. The only thing stopping us from torching this whole place is my belief we can extract him without causing unnecessary casualties.

  Taron’s jaw is set, the sleeves of his tan shirt showing from beneath the black Kevlar vest are stained with sweat, and his light-brown hair is wet. All our faces are scrubbed with camouflage, making the whites of our eyes seem to glow.

  My breath stills. My cheek is pressed to my gun barrel, and the noise of cicadas rises like a chorus around us. It grows louder, a warning.

  I shake off the thought. Taron is my focus.

  The shadow of Sawyer emerges from the brush at the opposite end of the house. They’re acting on my orders, but we’re brothers. We’ve had each other’s backs since Day One. This is more than a rescue. Martin is family.

  Taron moves away from the concrete wall, and my finger is ready on the trigger. The only thing standing between us and what’s about to happen is a wooden door…

  He lifts his leg and gives the door a sharp kick, sending it flying against the wall with a blast that rattles the quiet jungle. His back is against the wall again, and he holds, waiting for a barrage of bullets.

  None come.

  Three heartbeats, three silent breaths—I give him a nod. He turns quickly, gun at eye level and steps through the space, swinging his weapon side to side. Sawyer is at his side, and I’m out of position moving forward to cover them.

  “Marley!” Taron’s gun lowers, and he rushes forward. I’m at the door to see him whip the bag off our friend’s face, and it hits me like a sucker punch.

  His head drops forward, bobbing like a top. I don’t understand his mumbles. A thick stream of bloody spit drips from his swollen lips.

  Rage mixes with adrenaline. He’s been beaten almost to death, and cords of rope cut into his skin. Taron’s quickly slicing his restraints as Sawyer and I case the hut. It appears deserted, which puts me on guard for IEDs. The unfurnished room has no interior light, casting long shadows in the corners. With a muted thud, Marley’s knees hit the floor.

  Taron bends to help lift him, and that’s when I see her. Green eyes shining like cat in the darkness.

  “No!” I shout as she rushes forward, screaming, just in time for Taron to whip around and see the raised machete in her hand.

  Light flashes off the silver blade, the blast of Taron’s pistol deafens us in the small space, and she drops like a stone, a bloody splatter like a megaphone fanning out on the floor behind her small body. Long, caramel hair fans around her head, and she looks seventeen.

  “God, no.” He lets out a pained groan as the small gun falls to the floor.

  For a moment, we’re unable to move, unable to look away from the girl lying dead at our feet. My eyes heat, but I squeeze them shut briefly, clenching my teeth against the emotion. Marley mumbles incoherent words. He’s barely conscious, beaten almost beyond recognition. I can’t even tell if he recognizes us. The machete is at his feet, beside the dead girl.

  She would have slashed them both if Taron hadn’t done what he did.

  Combat leaves no room for second-guessing. Hesitation is how you end up dead, cut in half by a teenager you’d otherwise overlook. A girl who never should have been here. Bastards using children to fight their battles.

  “Get him out of here.” My voice is a gruff order. When Taron doesn’t move, I raise the volume. “I said GO!”

  He struggles to lift Marley over his shoulder, and Sawyer steps forward to help him. I’m the last one to leave the hut, giving it a final sweep before I turn, in time to see Taron hit the ground and then cry out in pain.

  “Mother—” He rolls to his side, blood soaking his lower back from where he landed on a broken sapling.

  “Patton, stop!” Sawyer yells, and I see the trip wire.

  How we missed it coming in is anybody’s guess. Sawyer hoists Marley onto his shoulders. He’s strong as an ox from working on his family’s peach farm back home. I throw my rifle over my shoulder and lean down, grabbing Taron’s arm.

  “Can you walk?”

  His face is scrunched in agony, but he manages to nod. “Get us out of here.”

  My jaw is tight, my brow set, and I force the determination we need to finish this rescue mission. Our ATV is down the hill, hidden in the brush, and we follow Sawyer, Taron leaning heavily on me.

  His blood soaks through his clothes onto mine, dripping down to his pants. This injury might send him home, and Marley’s worse. We’re all worse on the inside. We saved our man, but we’re all scarred by what we left behind.

  It’s too late to change it. We’ll deal with the scars later.

  When the fighting stops.

  1

  Raquel

  Present Day

  A hot breeze whips through the streets of downtown Nashville, sweeping my light brown hair off my shoulders and throwing my black blazer open. I catch it, holding my bag and clutching my phone to my ear, hanging on my sister Renée’s words l
ike the voice of God.

  “Make friends with Sandra. She’s a good ally.” Renée is encouraging, but my stomach is in knots. “Don’t ask too many questions. If something doesn’t make sense, wait and ask her later.”

  “I can’t ask questions on my first day?” The orange hand appears at the crosswalk, and I take the opportunity to straighten my blouse. “What kind of mind reader do they think I am?”

  “Trust me, Patton Fletcher doesn’t have time to teach you how to do your job.” She sounds like she might be quoting him.

  “I’ve never even met Patton Fletcher.”

  “Who hired you? Taron? He’s the only one who could get away with something like that.”

  “Ah, yeah.” The walk sign appears, and I hustle across the four-lane street. “I interviewed with Taron Rhodes and Jerry Buckingham.”

  “Hmm…” Her skepticism fans my nerves.

  “What?”

  “You’ll really have to be on your toes, then. If he didn’t pick you, he’ll be looking to get rid of you.”

  “Why?” Panic spreads into my chest.

  “It’s just how he is. He likes to be in control.”

  “So what do I do? You worked here.” I push through the glass doors of Fletcher International, Inc., fresh out of Vanderbilt’s Owen Grad School with a shiny new MBA.

  Just like my sister, I graduated in the Top Ten in my class, and as such, I landed interviews with the top firms in the city. I wanted to go to Chicago or Dallas, but my advisor said Fletcher was a great starting point, a real feather in my cap if I could get a good recommendation. I assume this Patton Fletcher knows every CEO in the country… or his dad did.

  When I searched Fletcher International, I found pages of articles on George Fletcher, not so much on his son.

  “Don’t let him push you around.” Her voice turns thoughtful. “I couldn’t tell if he did it on purpose or if it’s just his personality…”

  “How do I do that? He’s the boss.”

  I wonder if she might tell me what happened to her here. My thoughts flicker back to when Renée started as an accounting intern at FII. She seemed to be doing great, one of Nashville Magazine’s “Thirty under Thirty” rising stars in local business.

  She passed the CPA exam on her first try… Then a year later, she dropped off the grid.

  She stopped answering her phone, and when I called the office, a woman said she didn’t work here anymore. I had to leave campus in the middle of exams, catch a city bus across town to her low-rent apartment in East Nashville, where it looked like she hadn’t left her bed for days.

  She wouldn’t tell me what happened—she only said she wasn’t doing it anymore. “It” meant anything having to do with her accounting degree.

  That spring break, I ditched my plans to spend the week in South Walton to help her move back to Savannah, to our parents’ tiny home near the watchful eye of Ms. Hazel Wakefield, their old neighbor.

  Now she helps run Ms. Hazel’s gift shop on Tybee Island and pays for rent by cleaning the old woman’s house, running her errands, and cooking their meals. She doesn’t have much choice since she walked away from her career with nothing but a crushing load of student loan debt.

  “You want my advice on Patton Fletcher?” She huffs a laugh like it will take all day. “Don’t mention his dad. It pisses him off.”

  My brow furrows. “Got it. Anything else?” I’m on the elevator rising too fast. Or she’s talking too slowly.

  “Never wear all black. He hates that.”

  “Shit.” I glance down at my black slacks and matching black blazer. “I’ll have to buy a scarf at lunch.”

  “Nope, he hates scarves even more.”

  “What’s his problem?” My lips tighten, and my urge to fight starts to rise.

  It’s how I got my nickname, Rocky. My dad started it because even as a little girl, I never backed down from a bully.

  “Remember when we were kids, and you liked to say ‘You’re not the boss of me’?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t ever say that to Patton Fletcher.” I’m about to speak, when she adds conspiratorially. “But never stop saying it in your head. I think he secretly likes it.”

  “He sounds evil.”

  “Well…” Her voice goes higher. “Patton Fletcher is a devil. He’s not the devil, but he’s definitely one of them.”

  “I’m not afraid of the devil.” I have no intention of letting some arrogant young CEO scare me away from my dreams—if that’s what he did to Renée.

  The elevator stops with a ding, and I wonder if that’s the reason I said yes to this particular job offer, to prove the Morgan girls have grit, to prove we’re tougher than we look.

  “Whatever you do, don’t fall for him.” Her tone turns serious, and it almost makes me laugh.

  “I have no intention of falling for him.”

  “I checked your star sign this morning. It’s a good day for you to start something new.”

  I’m in the door, and not a moment too soon. When she starts on the holistic remedies and astral predictions, I’m done. “Thanks, sis. Gotta run. Love you!”

  “Love you, too. Protect your chin.”

  “I will.” It’s our usual sign-off, a boxing reference.

  I end the call as a slim young man in a pale blue, button-down and salmon-pink dockers behind the reception desk lowers his phone and gives me a bright smile.

  “Welcome to Fletcher International, can I help you?”

  “Hi, I’m Rock—ah, Raquel Morgan. I’m supposed to check in with Sandra—”

  “Oh! You’re the new hire. One moment, please.” I wait while he punches a few buttons and speaks quickly into the receiver.

  I only have a moment to glance around the immaculate, dark-wood, leather, and glass waiting area before he hops out of his chair, extending an arm toward the door leading to the back offices. “Right this way. Sandra’s waiting for you.”

  “Thank you…”

  “Dean.” He smiles, turning back to answer the buzzing phone as Sandra appears in the hall.

  I can’t help noticing her lavender silk blouse and beige pencil skirt. I feel like the grim reaper compared to the two of them…

  Which is ridiculous! I look very professional in my suit, and I’m wearing a cream silk blouse… I’ll ditch my jacket once I’m in my office. Problem solved.

  “Welcome aboard! It’s so nice to have another girl at this sausage fest.” Her hazel eyes shine behind heavy, tortoise-shell framed glasses, and I like her at once.

  “Yeah.” I glance down with an embarrassed grin. “I feel overdressed.”

  “They say you can never be overdressed, right?”

  “I guess…” I’m not sure what to say. I stand out like a sore thumb, and I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or not.

  Sandra leads me down a corridor with offices facing downtown on one side and cubicles in front of computers on the other. “This is your office in the middle.”

  Does that make me the monkey? I step into a good-sized room with a large window overlooking the river. A dark wood desk holds a newish-looking laptop with a sheet of paper beside it. A banker’s box full of files is on the other side and another is on the floor.

  I drop my bag in the maroon leather office chair. “This is great.”

  “Taron is in the corner office to your right.” She points across her chest. “And Jerry is just on the other side. I think you met them both already?”

  “Yes!” I smile. “They interviewed me.”

  She gives me a wink. “I think they were both concerned about who would occupy this space. Nobody wants a bad neighbor.”

  Everything about Sandra puts me at ease and makes me wonder why I was so nervous. I plan to text Renée the second she leaves and thank her for the heads-up when a dark figure glides in behind her.

  “Sandra, I need you to open a file on the Madagascar account.” A deep, rich voice joins us, and Sandra does a little jump and turns. Dark eyes und
er a lowered brow land on me.

  “Patton Fletcher, meet our new hire, Raquel Morgan. She’s taking over the international accounts for Taron.”

  My heart stutters in my chest, and all I can think is Wow.

  “For Taron?” The muscle in his square jaw moves, and he looks to the right, toward Taron’s office, as if he can see through the wall. For a moment, I wonder if he can… being the devil and all.

  “So yes, Raquel Morgan…” Sandra repeats herself, leaving the introduction open as she gestures toward me. “Patton Fletcher.”

  “Right. Welcome.” He seems angry.

  I can’t seem to find my voice. I’ve never been in the presence of someone so young yet so formidable in my life.

  His dark hair is swept back from his face in glossy waves that just touch the back of his collar, and his shoulders are broad. His biceps strain against the sleeves of the blue blazer he’s wearing, and when he extends a perfectly elegant hand to shake mine—long fingers, neat nails—the black tips of a tattoo peek out from beneath his white cuff. Jesus, take the wheel.

  Our fingers touch, and heat floods my veins. “Thank you.” My voice is practiced calm, but I feel weak. Why didn’t anyone tell me how insanely hot this devil is?

  “Then the Madagascar file will go to her.” He holds a manila envelope toward Sandra, which she passes to me.

  “She’s your girl.” His eyes narrow, but Sandra continues. “Raquel speaks five languages—”

  “Reads,” I quickly interrupt. “Sorry… I’m only a fluent speaker in one. Besides English, of course, but I can read the others fluently. For some reason, reading is easier than speaking.”

  Am I rambling?

  Stop speaking, Rocky.

  “I hope it’s whatever they speak in Madagascar.” Patton’s tone is dismissive, and he pivots as if to go.

  “French.” My voice is a bit louder. “They speak French in Madagascar, and you’re in luck.”

  He turns back, and I smile, doing my best to redeem my wobbly first impression. I’m a professional woman, not some swooning school girl.