Covertly Strong (The Strong Series Book 1)

by N. A. Alcorn

  “What do you think his relationship is with Al-Asaad-Amad?” She pulls her focus away from the photograph and gives him sharp eye contact.

  “Drug trafficking, sex trafficking, and we’re concerned that Hector Arturo seems to share the same ideals—in relation to the destruction of America—as this terrorist organization. Since he’s taken reign of La Familia Arturo, he’s expanded their compound. We have intel that shows him voicing fanatical religious beliefs,” Chief informs as he slides his phone out of his pocket and accesses a video for her viewing.

  The screen shows Hector from a distance, surrounded by at least one hundred people, standing inside of the Arturo compound. The place has expanded since she was there six months ago. It’s downright shocking how large they’ve grown in such short time.

  Everyone within the compound follows him inside, chanting and praising Hector.

  “Lode Hector! Lode Hector!” The sound echoes inside the SUV.

  Hector begins to speak and Sloan’s jaw drops at the fanatic and radical words that are coming out of his mouth. He urges his people to follow him into The New World Order—“Il Nuovo Ordine Mondiale.” He continues to shout and scream untruths regarding the American people and demands that his familia follow his commands—to stand with him and fight for the destruction of the United States. He even goes on to exclaim in Spanish, "Our family doesn’t kill for drugs or money. We don’t kill innocent people. We will only kill those who deserve to die. This is our divine justice, our purpose, our undertaking.”

  The video ends as loud screaming, cheering, and applause take over the room.

  “What kind of fanatical religious beliefs does Hector Arturo have?” Sloan questions as she shakes her head in incredulity.

  “He has his own beliefs. He’s a loose fucking cannon. The man seems to think he’s the next Messiah and has somehow managed to brainwash these people into following his lead.” Chief Dubois rubs his hand across his shaved head before sliding a pair of aviators over his eyes. Frustration exudes from his entire demeanor.

  “Is Al-Asaad-Amad the same terrorist organization that was linked with the Taliban at one point?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I’m guessing Al-Asaad-Amad is supporting this asshole because he’s so anti-America,” she responds with a stern edge to her voice. Having heard the words Hector spoke with such animosity, such distain, has her more than worked up. That appalling human being could make anyone’s skin crawl.

  He nods his head yes and a wrinkle creases his middle-aged brow. No one knows Chief Dubois’s real age. He looks to be in his late forties, if not early fifties. He started shaving his head three years ago when he started to bald and gray. His face is hardened with wrinkles and gray stubble. The CIA has not been kind to him over the years.

  Sloan taps her fingers along the passenger’s side door as she takes in all of the information. “When am I shipping out?”

  “A little over a week. You’ll report to Gillespie Field next Monday at twenty-three hundred hours. Contact your surgical assist and make the necessary plans to bring him along. Arrangements for all of your medical equipment have already been made. You will be performing surgeries for Project Smiles at Hospital San Salvador—a small hospital located fifteen miles from Guadalajara. We will have another agent there working indirectly with you to gain additional intel on this piece of shit,” he informs her confidently.

  “Who?”

  “A new agent—Agent Sims—will be accompanying you. Everything has been arranged. You’ll receive a package with no return address today at fifteen hundred hours. You will need to sign for it. All of the information you need will be inside.”

  A faint sense of uncertainty pricks her gut at the idea that a new agent—someone she has never met or worked with before—will be assisting her on this mission. But Sloan just nods her head in understanding, forcing herself to get past the doubt. Chief Dubois has never steered her wrong or put her at risk. If anything, he’s only been overprotective of her over the past ten years.

  “Good luck, Fifty-Five,” he encourages as she gets out of the vehicle.

  “Thanks, Chief,” is her only response before closing the passenger’s side door.

  She checks her watch as the SUV pulls away and realizes that there is about an hour to spare before she will have to be back to her apartment to receive the package. An extra-long run seems like the best plan of action. She needs some time to process all of the information about her upcoming assignment. She is due to fly back to Guadalajara in a little over a week. That doesn’t give much time to prepare, but this is the norm. Generally, seventy-two hours of notice is the most time agents receive before shipping out on assignments.

  Today must be my lucky today.

  Sloan wishes she had the freedom to run with her earbuds blasting the sultry voice of Jesse Rutherford from The Neighbourhood into her brain, but that’s not an option. She can’t risk putting herself in a situation where she would be unaware of her surroundings.

  She’s always on guard, always prepared, always ready for anything.

  Her shoes pound the pavement in perfect synchronization with her pulse as she makes her way down Seaport Drive towards Fisherman’s Wharf. Sloan is intrinsically aware of her physical condition at all times. Twenty-four respirations and one hundred and ten heartbeats per minute. She’s running at a comfortable pace—not pushing—enjoying the peaceful sounds of sea gulls and the usual hustle and bustle coming from Seaport Village.

  Her eyes assess the residents and tourists who move about one of the most popular places within San Diego’s city limits—a waterfront shopping-and-dining complex adjacent to the bay. It holds numerous shops, galleries, and restaurants that overlook the stunning ocean-blue water. Residents call it The Village. This area is breathtakingly beautiful, with architectural styles that range from Victorian to traditional Mexican. It was planned to be a car-free environment, and she savors the ability to hear every precious sound that’s not interrupted by the noise of honking horns or car stereos.

  Sloan stops along the water’s edge and stretches out her tight muscles. In the distance, a family of four throws a Frisbee in the open grass. The young girl giggles as her father picks her up and throws her into the air. Her blond curls bounce up and down as a warm, refreshing breeze flows from the water.

  The lovely display makes Sloan’s heart ache.

  As long as she’s Agent L-55, she will never be able to have a family. She will never get to experience carrying a child inside her womb or holding her baby in her arms. She won’t get to walk hand in hand with her husband or come home to house full laughter and love. None of those beautiful things are an option.

  She shakes off the depressing thought and forces herself to head back towards the barren studio apartment, taking a different path than the way she came. This is what she always does. Never follow the same schedule, run the same routes, or do anything that could place her at risk for being noticed.

  Just by calculating the distance in her head, she knows she ran a little over six miles—six point two to be exact. She’s been conditioned by some of the toughest military personnel in the country and continues to keep her fitness level in tiptop shape. There is no option for weakness. Weakness only opens her up for putting her life in jeopardy.

  A LOUD BUZZ RESONATES IN her apartment.

  The package is here.

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” she responds into the intercom.

  She heads for the lobby of her apartment building, and a young delivery boy who looks to be in his early twenties stands at the front desk. He’s wearing a bright-blue polo shirt with FedEx embroidered in white lettering. A white ball cap covers his head, slightly shielding his young face.

  “Package for Felicia Santora?” he inquires.

  “That’s me,” she answers with a small, friendly smile.

  She signs the document he places in front of her with quick finesse. The package is concealed in a nondescript, brown cardboard box. T
he item isn’t very large, measuring around eight inches by eight inches, and has to weight under five pounds considering the ease with which the delivery boy holds it in one arm.

  He promptly takes the clipboard and places the package in her hands.

  “Have a good day, Ms. Santora,” he adds as he turns for the door.

  “Thanks. You too.”

  As she heads back up towards her apartment, she notices that Mr. Webster, her seventy-year-old neighbor, drops his keys while trying to open his front door. “I got them,” Sloan says as she hurriedly rushes over to him, picking them up off the ground. “How are you doing today, Mr. Webster?” She unlocks the deadbolt and holds the door open for him. Then she takes his small bag of groceries in her free hand and carries it into his apartment.

  “Oh, honey, I’m doing okay. My back is still hurting me pretty bad these days,” he updates as he follows her into his kitchen. “I haven’t seen you around lately. You been burning the candles at both ends again?”

  “I’m good. Just busy with work.” Sloan sets the package down on the kitchen island and proceeds to empty his bag of groceries, putting everything away in the pantry. This is a normal routine for them. She’s known Mr. Webster since she moved out to San Diego several years ago, and she always makes a point to help him out whenever she can. “We’re going to need to have another lunch date soon…” She pauses and her train of thought stops once she realizes that he’s not wearing his brace. “Where is your back brace, Mr. Webster?” she asks, concerned.

  “Oh, honey, you know I hate wearing that thing while I run my errands,” he responds grumpily.

  “You know you’re supposed to be wearing that brace for at least another three weeks. Your back is still healing from surgery,” she retorts.

  His only response is an irritated wave of his hand as he walks into his living room.

  Sloan hides her laughter. She always gets a kick out of him and his obstinate nature. Mr. Webster is as stubborn as a mule and has been extra cranky since having back surgery three weeks ago.

  The pitter-patter of paws lets her know that Mr. Webster’s miniature schnauzer will be racing towards her any minute. An eager black-and-gray ball of fur comes barreling across the hardwood floor.

  “Hey there, Wally.” She kneels down, petting the dog affectionately between his ears.

  His tail wags back and forth excitedly. After playing around with Wally on the floor for a few minutes, Sloan stands back up and grabs the package off the island countertop.

  “Mr. Webster, I’ll come by later this week and take Wally for a walk, okay? I’m sure your back could use the break.”

  “I’m sure he’d love that, Felicia,” he answers from his favorite recliner in the living room. “He hasn’t been getting as many walks as he’d like since I had surgery.”

  “Get some rest! And put your brace back on!” she calls him to from the doorway.

  After ensuring that Wally is still safe inside Mr. Webster’s apartment and his door is locked, Sloan heads towards her door. Once she’s securely inside, she proceeds to open the box and pull out the small thumb drive that contains everything she needs to know.

  She grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and sits down in front of her CIA-issued laptop. Her eyes start to review everything on the thumb drive. Her mind consciously takes each and every piece of information and commits it to memory. This assignment isn’t going to be like the last time she was in Guadalajara. This time will be a hell of a lot more difficult and undoubtedly more dangerous.

  The goal of Dr. Felicia Santora is to find a way to get inside the Arturo compound with the guise of giving immunizations to the women and children who reside there. Agent Sims will be working indirectly with her in Guadalajara. She knows very little about this agent. He’s young, late twenties, and has only been with the CIA for six months. This is unsettling, but she reminds herself that they shouldn’t have any up-close-and-personal contact while in Mexico.

  Sims’s job is to tap the perimeter of the Arturo compound so the CIA can record every conversation that happens inside. He will set up in a small villa just outside Guadalajara and get as much intel on La Familia Arturo through pictures, videos, and the discreet tracking of members who live within the compound full time.

  His main target will be Nico Delgado, Hector Arturo’s right-hand man.

  Sloan’s main target will be Hector himself, and this will definitely create a challenge. She has to find a way to get into the so-called good graces of the leader of one of the biggest drug cartels in Central America. This will not be easy, but it’s doable. Sloan has never turned down an assignment out of fear, and she’s not about to start now. No doubt, things could get risky, but she thrives off risk. She works well under pressure and in the most hazardous of situations.

  She continues to read through everything, saving only the most pertinent information in code. Once she’s finished with the thumb drive, she destroys it—promptly disposing of everything so there is no trace. This is a protocol that Sloan has gotten very good at. She’s extremely creative when it comes to storing information in places where no one will be able to retrieve it. This is just another part of her job. As a CIA agent, she’s bound to the United States government to handle her assignments in the most covert way. Her biggest priority is to protect her cover and never give international criminals an opportunity to obtain intel on the United States.

  AFTER SPENDING AN ENTIRE AFTERNOON, researching her next mission, she is dressed to impress and ready for her big speech tonight. The dinner is a black-tie affair, and Sloan is enjoying the opportunity to wear something that makes her feel pretty. Her long, brunette locks flow down her back in soft curls. Her makeup has hints of sultriness—red lipstick, dramatic eyes, and thick, black lashes—to accentuate her elegant attire.

  She appraises herself in the floor-length mirror.

  Her brown eyes stand out behind the charcoal eye shadow and mascara. Her body looks svelte and fit in the black, satin, floor-length gown. Her strappy, black heels are the perfect accent to her long, toned legs. The dress has a plunging v-neckline and opened back. This is the kind of gown that would make any woman feel beautiful, and tonight, that’s exactly how she feels. Tonight is a rare occasion. It’s seldom that Sloan gets to take the time to style her hair and apply makeup, and she thoroughly loves this infrequent moment of being feminine. After another quick glance in the mirror, she grabs her black clutch and heads for the door.

  Tonight, she is not armed. The only weapon she has is the small, silver knife that’s securely strapped inside her black, lace garter belt. She will be escorted by a fellow CIA agent playing the role of Dr. Felicia Santora’s driver, Frank. Agent Matthews will drive her to the San Diego Conference Center and patiently wait in the flanks—keeping an eye on her the entire night to ensure that she is safe. This has also become protocol. Since Dr. Felicia Santora has made a name for herself, it’s a given that the CIA must do everything within their power to keep her safe whenever she makes public appearances.

  Once Sloan is comfortably seated inside the unmarked, black town car, Agent Matthews pulls away from her apartment complex and heads for the main road.

  “Ready for your big speech tonight, Dr. Santora?” Matthews glances through the rearview mirror.

  She smirks and nods her head. “I’m always ready, Frank,” she answers confidently.

  “Of course you are,” he adds with amusement. “You look smashing tonight, by the way.” He shoots a wink in her direction.

  “Thanks.” An appreciative smile forms at the corners of her lips.

  Agent Matthews has become a close friend of hers over the years. Their relationship is mostly professional, but occasionally, they’ll grab dinner or coffee when they’re not busy playing covert dress-up with the CIA. He’s one of the most loyal men she’s ever known, and there is no doubt in her mind that she can trust him with anything—including her life. Their relationship has always been friendly in the most platonic form. />
  Matthews actually has a real life outside of his job with the CIA. He is married to a wonderful woman and has two small children who are his world. His family is his top priority, and that’s why he’s essentially retired from being involved with assignments that necessitate traveling all over the globe. His job duties for the CIA are less risky and keep his feet firmly placed on American soil. Sloan highly respects him for this. The fact that he has given up doing a job he loves because he loves his family more proves that he’s an upstanding, respectable kind of guy. He is the type of guy Sloan would go for if she didn’t lead the life she does. Loyal. Respectable. And a heart of gold.

  The black town car pulls into the driveway that leads to the conference center. He promptly pulls up to the front doors and puts the car in park before getting out and opening her door.

  “Enjoy your evening, Dr. Santora,” he offers as she steps out of the backseat.

  “Thanks, Frank. I’ll see you later.” Her smile is small but full of awareness. She already knows she’ll be able to spot him discreetly watching over her during dinner tonight.

  She follows the crowd inside the front entrance and is immediately stopped by a few reporters from a local newspaper with questions regarding future mission trips for Project Smiles.

  Sloan easily slips into her role of Dr. Felicia Santora—answering questions with a professional smile and to-the-point answers. If there’s one thing Sloan has become an expert at, it’s being Dr. Santora.

  “WE’RE GONNA HIT UP GALLAGHER’S after this. You game, West?” Slade inquires as he takes a swig from a bottle of Miller Lite.

  “Don’t give him an option. He’s going,” Julian demands with a smirk.

  Nix chuckles lightly and gestures for one of the servers dressed in black tuxes to bring him another Guinness. “I’m in, but I’m not closing the bar down this time.”