by KaLyn Cooper
The first time, they’d both been drunk on their asses. The sex had been nothing more than scratching an itch. The second time, his last night in the country, had been sweet and gentle. Like her.
Anger rose from deep within him as her photograph stared back from his computer.
She was still in Venezuela. They had left her in the middle of a country on the verge of civil war. What the hell was the State Department thinking?
The CIA logo appeared and filled the large screen on the wall at the end of the conference table. Once again, Remi wondered how deep in the shadow world Guardian Security operated. There was a whole lot about this company he didn’t know, but damn, he was learning fast.
“Alex.” The genuine smile on the man’s face made him look much younger, but Remi would put him solidly in his late fifties, maybe even early sixties.
“Since you’re in your office, Deputy Director Gillpatrick, I take it this is an official call.” Alex looked pensive, as though expecting bad news.
The man raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’re going to tell me that you and my niece have set a date.”
For the briefest second, Alex looked stricken, followed by a flash of sadness before he schooled his face. “I wish I could, but with her schedule.” He let the sentence hang.
“I’m working on that.” Tom Gillpatrick seemed to have a gleam in his eyes. “Now, let me tell you what I’m going to do for you. First, we just sent you the latest files we have on the situation in Venezuela. It’s getting really ugly down there.” The CIA man leaned his forearm on his desk. “I want to make sure you understand what you’re getting into. Politically, Nicholas Mendoza has been president of Venezuela for the past four years, finishing out the term of Hugo Chavez. In 2018, the people elected Juan Guerra, but Mendoza refuses to leave the palace, or recognize that his country actually had an election and ousted his ass.”
This was nothing new to Remi. Out of habit, he followed what was happening around the world. He’d been an East Coast SEAL. His team was trained and designated for South America, so he was automatically tuned into anything that happened on that continent.
“Second, you will have files before you leave the country listing our local handlers and contact information.” It felt as though Tom Gillpatrick looked directly at him. “Since you’re going to be traveling with an oil exec, you will find yourself in the jungle as well as out in the ocean checking rigs. We have people everywhere.”
That was reassuring to Remi. He knew how fast a situation could go from sugar to shit. Low friends in high places were always good to have.
“Economically, Venezuela is a mess.” Tom Gillpatrick continued his lecture. “Most of those oil rigs were built by American companies. When their interests were bought out by the Chavez administration, nobody down there thought to negotiate for repair and replacement parts.”
The man on the screen shook his head before he continued, “Venezuela went from seventy-five wells down to only twenty-six as of last week. If there’s no crude being pumped out of the ground, then there’s nothing for the refinery to process, so they are only running at twenty-five percent of capacity. As the number of barrels per day decreases, so do the available jobs, and the economy continues to decline. There are no jobs, anywhere. There’s no food in the stores. It’s the perfect example of microeconomics.”
“But I was there just five years ago, and Caracas was a huge, prosperous city. Are you telling me it’s changed that much?” Remi didn’t know if he was supposed to talk to the deputy director of the CIA like that, but he did.
“Unfortunately, yes.” A video of a highway crowded with people appeared on the screen. “In the last four years, two-point-three million people have left Venezuela.” Pictures of children in rags, begging on the street blinked through every second. The disgusting sight of families sleeping on the streets popped up next. “When the country was prosperous, schools were open year-round. Parents sent children to school because they offered free breakfast and lunch. Education was merely a bonus for the government. Now, no money, no food, no school. These people are starving while Mendoza is shoving gold into Caribbean banks as fast as carriers can take it there.”
Tom Gillpatrick’s face became even more serious. “Alex, I hope you negotiated food for these men because they won’t find any in Venezuela.”
Remi’s eyes shot to the company owner. He was well aware of how much food men at Guardian Security could eat in a single day. These men were very physical, working out with weights, sparring, and running miles every day. They burned three times the calories of a normal adult male.
“No worries. Zon Petrol is taking control of their former compound. They have airplanes with fresh fruits and vegetables arriving every day and an American executive chef on staff.” Alex smiled at Remi. “You aren’t going to go hungry.”
Turning his attention to the man on the screen, Alex asked, “What happened with the old ambassador? What did Chuckie Vance do that was so bad the State Department ripped him out of the country?”
Tom Callahan grimaced. “I’m not sure. All I know is that somebody used the embassy’s open email system to send a copy of a tidy little agreement between Mendoza and several shell companies with Caribbean bank accounts. The ambassador’s name was all over those legal documents. It’s going to take weeks to go through everything they were sent. If you think American legalese is bad, take pity on the poor translators who are slogging through these papers.” He shook his head. “If word of this hits the international press, former ambassador Vance will have a big huge bull’s-eye on his back. For now, the State Department is taking him and his family into protective custody.”
Alex chuckled. “So that’s what they’re now calling Club Fed these days?”
“He hasn’t been arrested. Yet.” The second most powerful man in the CIA drew his lips into a straight line. “They really have put him, and his family, in protective custody. Separately, by the way. But I guarantee he’s being questioned regularly by men trained in this building.”
Even Remi knew that the CIA had perfected interrogation techniques. One way or another, the former diplomat would confess.
“We don’t know everything Vance was into, but it was big.” Tom shrugged.
“Obviously somebody did, though.” Alex placed his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “So, who dropped this huge golden egg in the State Department’s lap?” Alex asked.
Tom’s smile was as wide as his face. “Oh, that’s the kicker. Whoever did this was ballsy. Not only did several people at State get the email, but it was sent to three committees in the White House, and to the President himself. Whoever did this wanted to be sure action was taken against former Ambassador Vance.”
“Please tell me that brave man, and his family, have been moved into protective custody back here in the States.” Dex had always been protective of anyone who did the right thing without being asked. He had been a wonderful commanding officer, always giving credit to his men.
Tom closed his eyes and spoke quietly. “No. And we may never find out. The IP address is an open computer within the embassy. Anybody, everybody, even people dropping in begging for U.S. visas, can use that computer. For security and privacy reasons, that area is not monitored. The bottom line is, we have no idea who sent that information stateside. We should know more about what Vance was up to in a few days. I’ll let you know when I find out.”
Remi hoped that whomever outed the former ambassador was taking precautions because people who lose billions of dollars are not going to give that up quietly. He was going to take a closer look at the entire foreign service staff.
Dex’s phone rang, and he stepped out of the room to take the call.
“Alex, I’ll forward anything new directly to you. I know you’ll do the same for me. Good luck, Remi. CIA out.” When the screen went blank, the CIA logo held for a few seconds before it disappeared.
Dex came back into the room. “James Dunaway’s plane is thirty minut
es out. Time to roll.”
Forty-five minutes later, Remi and his team followed Alex and Dex to the large Learjet that had just pulled into the private hanger at FBO Miami. When the steps came down, the first man out was dressed in camouflage and jungle boots…and a thigh holster. Remi wondered if he had just been fired since the oil executive had shown up with a bodyguard. He kept watching the top of the stairs expecting to see a man in a suit with a pasty-white complexion.
With a big smile, the very fit man strode toward Alex and Dex, hand extended. “Jim Dunaway,” he announced as he took off his sunglasses.
Remi was shocked.
“Alex Wolf.” The two men shook hands. “And this is Dex Carson. He’s your point of contact at Guardian Security. He’ll be coordinating supplies and logistics from the Miami office.”
“Pleased to meet you both.” He gave Alex a big smile. “I’m a little surprised to see the company owner here to greet me.”
“As I said on the phone, we don’t often contract an entire team for an undetermined length of time, so this entire situation is a little different for us,” Alex admitted. “And, this is our first contract with your oil company. Our Houston and Dallas offices have long-term agreements with your competitors to travel worldwide with their executives, but to repeat myself, this is a completely different situation.” Alex’s gaze ran from the man’s short, almost military haircut, to the well-worn boots. “I take it this isn’t your first rodeo, though.”
Jim Dunaway heartily laughed. “No. Not at all. I went Army ROTC to help pay for my degree in geology, so I owed Uncle Sam afterward. I was used to hiking and camping backcountry, so I went Army Rangers. I never felt the need, though, to become special forces.” He glanced back at Remi and his team. “But I understand that a couple of you guys made that commitment. I’m proud of you. Hell, I’m proud of all of you.” He slapped Alex on the shoulder. “Looks like you put together one hell of a team for me. I appreciate that.”
Without missing a beat, he went back to his story, “After I got out of the Army, I went to work for Zon Petrol in their resources department. I got to revisit Iraq from a whole different perspective. I went to China, Nigeria, and even hunted oil in Ecuador and Kazakhstan. Two years ago, they moved me into negotiations, but I find excuses on a regular basis to check out proposed drilling sites. I still like the hiking and camping with my oldest son. He and I are trekking the Appalachian Trail, bits and pieces of the time.”
So much for learning about a man from his resume. None of that information was on the company’s website or in his bio. Remi was impressed and extremely pleased.
A flight attendant exited the plane and approached the group slowly.
“Yes, Ginger?” Mr. Dunaway asked.
“The captain says we need to leave within the next five minutes, or we may miss our unloading timeslot on the other end.”
He turned to the group. “Looks like we have our marching orders. Alex, it was a pleasure to meet you. Dex, I’m sure you will be working closely with my office.” He then faced Remi and his team. “Gentlemen, we’ll have a couple of hours to talk on the plane and get to know each other. We need to board now.”
Three hours later, the jet pulled inside another private hanger where several SUVs and a limousine were waiting. Two of Remi’s men exited the jet first and secured the hangar. The other four surrounded Mr. Dunaway as he was hurried into the limo’s back door.
Remi put himself on point and stuck his head in the limousine. He immediately pulled his weapon and pointed it at the man already seated in the back. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m…I…Embassy…Econ officer.” Beads of nervous sweat gathered and rolled off the man’s forehead. “Joseph Allen. I’m Joseph Allen.” Huge brown eyes stared back at him. Not exactly at Remi, but at the weapon he held pointed at the man’s head. “I’m in charge of the U.S. Embassy Economic Office.” Remi was worried that the balding man in his mid-fifties had pissed his pants.
“Next time, get your ass out of the car and greet your guests standing beside the door.” Remi meant it as an order, not a suggestion.
Mr. Allen looked offended. “It’s hot out there. The car is air-conditioned.”
“And next time, I might shoot before asking who the fuck you are.” Pointedly, Remi looked at the gun still in his hand. He gave the man a shit-eating grin. “So, next time what are you going to do when picking up Mr. Dunaway at the airport?”
The economic officer audibly swallowed. “I’m going to greet him at that door…standing outside…where everyone can see me.”
Grinning, Remi holstered his weapon and called over his shoulder, “Mr. Dunaway, you have a guest waiting for you.” He stepped into the limousine and took a seat where he could keep an eye on the door and Mr. Allen.
Mr. Dunaway stepped in next and shook Mr. Allen’s hand as soon as he was seated. “My security team was just being cautious. As I’m sure you are aware, I’m a very high value target for kidnap.”
“I’m sure your company carries an executive kidnap policy on you.” Mr. Allen said, practically brushing away the concerns.
“Of course they do, but I have no desire to be kidnapped and held for millions of dollars in ransom.” Incredulity was written all over Mr. Dunaway’s face.
“We’re not going to let that happen, Mr. Dunaway.” Remi reassured him.
“I really wish you’d call me Jim.”
“No, sir. That’s against our company policy,” Remi explained, for about the fifth time.
Mr. Allen turned in the seat as though to talk to the driver, when Flynn O’Rourke slid into the front seat. A second later, Gage Ramsey wedged his large muscular body onto the back seat and closed the door behind him. Since both of these men had been SEALs, Remi felt most comfortable with them at his side in case anything went wrong on this very first step of the mission.
He had sent Jake Jamison and Zeb Fletcher, the two former Army Special Forces men, directly to the compound to secure the area. Blake Wallace, the former Marine SpecOps, and Nolan Turner, the former PJ, had been ordered to protect the cargo and be sure all of it safely reached the compound. In their short time together, they were beginning to form a cohesive team.
“You know, you will not be allowed to take the weapons inside the embassy.” Mr. Allen’s tone set Remi on edge.
“We go everywhere armed,” Remi informed the pompous foreign service officer. “We will not allow Mr. Dunaway to enter without us at his side, carrying weapons.”
“The ambassador is expecting Mr. Dunaway,” Mr. Allen protested. “They have many important international issues to discuss. Zon Petrol is vitally important to the future of Venezuela.”
Remi gave him that grin that he was quickly perfecting that said you can either do it my way or it ain’t happening. “No problem. Why don’t you call the ambassador and explain to him that Mr. Dunaway will not be available without his armed guards at his side.” He glanced out the window at the boarded-up shops, people wandering aimlessly on the streets, and sneered at Mr. Allen. “We’ll just drop you off right here and go to the Zon Petrol compound. I’m sure you’ll be able to find your way back to the embassy.”
The man’s eyes went wide as he glanced out the darkened windows. Hurriedly, he dug in his pockets and pulled out a cell phone. The call was brief. In the confined space of the limousine, everyone heard the ambassador agree that the Guardian men could carry weapons.
After checking identifications, the Marine guards opened the gate allowing them access. The chauffeur pulled up the circular driveway to the front door of the embassy. Immediately, three men in green camouflage, armed to the teeth, stepped out from the building.
Remi instantly recognized the Navy SEAL uniforms. “Stay seated,” he ordered Mr. Dunaway as he moved past him.
Gage opened the door and stepped out, giving Remi room to pass, then sat back down inside the limousine and closed the door.
With a single glance, Remi knew everything would be okay. “Rocco?
” Could that really be Blake Wise? It had been at least four years since Remi’s SEAL team and Rocco’s team had been stationed together on a secret forward operating base in Afghanistan. With twenty SEALs crammed together in overcrowded tents, all the men had gotten to know each other very well.
“Boomer? Is that you?” The man to Rocco’s left called out. Remi hadn’t heard his handle used in a year. It almost sounded foreign to him.
“Booooooomer,” howled the man on his friend’s right. He instantly recognized “Ace”, whose real name was Beckett Morgan.
“Fuckin’ A, it really is Boomer,” Cole Kensington “Rex” called.
Remi wondered if the other men from Rocco’s team were there too.
“I was headed out here to check some asshole bodyguards’ weapons, but I don’t have to do that now I see it’s you.” Rocco grabbed Remi’s extended hand and pulled him in for a backslapping man hug. When they stepped apart, Rocco ran his gaze over Remi’s black and gray camouflage utilities. “Are those the new night cammies?”
“No, man. I work for Guardian Security, now. I got out about a year ago.” Remi threw his thumb over his shoulder toward the limousine. “This is a special assignment. I only have two other guys from my team in the car. Is it safe to bring Mr. Dunaway into the embassy now?”
“All your men carrying?” Rocco asked.
“You bet.” Remi grinned and looked at his old friend. “Damn. I’d love to take the time to show you some of the weapons we get at Guardian, but the economic asshole in the car is about to shit himself if we don’t get Mr. Dunaway in front of the ambassador right this minute.”
Rocco grinned and shook his head. “Little Joe is a pain in my ass.”
Remi burst out laughing. “Little Joe. I love it.”
“Signal your men. Let’s get this oilman in front of the ambassador.” Rocco scanned the entire area. “I hate standing out here. A sniper could pick us off so easily.”
Returning to the back door of the car, Remi opened it and was immediately joined by Gage and Flynn. All six men surrounded Mr. Dunaway and escorted him directly to the ambassador’s office.
