Monk (K19 Security Solutions Book 7)

by Heather Slade

  “Roger that.”

  “Let’s get through this op, and in the meantime, I’ll run some more background on her.”

  “LOOK AT THIS,” Monk said to Razor, pointing at the screen. “They’re moving the arms.” He indicated another monitor. “And look where our friend Abdul is.”

  “Ghafor is back in Columbia?”

  “Affirmative.”

  When Razor left, Monk made sure the monitors were recording properly and went upstairs. He hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. He hadn’t spent time with Saylor; he barely knew what day it was. As much as he wanted to crawl into bed with her, he knew he needed sleep more.

  21

  “Hey,” said Saylor when she saw Monk coming up the stairs. She walked over and put her arms around his waist. “You have to take a break, Monk.”

  “I know I do.”

  “Have you slept at all?”

  “Negative.”

  “Wait here. Don’t go anywhere.” The man was dead on his feet. Where would he go?

  Saylor found her mom next door, talking to Gunner’s mother. “Can you keep your eye on the girls for a little bit?”

  “Of course,” answered her mother, standing. “Where are they?”

  “Next door.”

  “I’ll walk back with you and bring them over here.”

  Saylor kissed her mother’s cheek. “Monk needs some rest. I’m going to let him sleep in your room.”

  “That’s fine, sweetheart.”

  Saylor thanked her mother again and then rushed back over to make sure Monk was still waiting for her. He was, thankfully.

  “Come with me,” she said, taking his hand and leading him over to the stairs. She held his hand as they walked down the hallway. She opened the door to the bedroom.

  “Go lie down, Monk,” she said while she closed the blinds. By the time she lay next to him, he was sound asleep.

  Saylor wrapped her body around him anyway. All that mattered was feeling him next to her. The last couple of days had been so hard. She knew whatever K19 was in the middle of, was something serious enough that it drew everyone here, and yet they rarely saw any of the team members. Razor came up more than anyone else, but it was his house. Every time he did, he immediately went to find Ava and Sam. As much as Saylor wanted to ask him about Monk, she didn’t. She knew better.

  SHE MUST’VE DRIFTED OFF, but woke when she felt Monk stir beside her.

  “I need to get back,” he muttered.

  Saylor looked at her watch. “You haven’t even slept four hours, Monk.”

  “I’m sorry, Saylor.” He brought his lips to hers.

  “You don’t have to say you’re sorry to me. I’m just worried about you.”

  He kissed her again and brought both of his hands to her breasts. “I want you so bad I can’t stand it.”

  Saylor pushed him back on the bed, unfastened his belt, and unzipped his pants. Before he could protest, she kissed him.

  “Let me do this,” she whispered, trailing her lips down the front of his shirt and wrapping her mouth around his hardness.

  —:—

  “Where in the hell have you been?” asked Striker when Monk walked into the downstairs office. Doc, Mercer, and Gunner were there too, and all of them were looking at him as though they expected an answer.

  He pushed past them and sat in the chair next to Mercer. “What’s this about?” he asked.

  “Monk,” said Striker. “I asked you a question. Where have you been?”

  “Sleeping,” he answered without turning around.

  “Rhys.”

  Monk spun around and looked at Doc, who said, “Onyx filed a flight plan earlier today. We aren’t certain of the details, but it appears that he, Corazón, Tackle, and Halo are on their way to Colombia.”

  Monk turned to Striker. “I thought I was the handler on this.”

  “There he is,” said Razor, walking into the office, breathless.

  “Anybody wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?” Monk asked.

  Mercer stood, and Striker sat down in his place.

  “Did you authorize their deployment?”

  “Whose?”

  “Jesus Christ, Monk! Onyx, Corazón, Tackle, and Halo!”

  “You said to put them on standby, and that’s what I did.” What the fuck was going on? “Has anybody made contact with Onyx?” he asked.

  “Negative,” Mercer answered.

  “How’d you find out about the flight plan?” Gunner asked no one in particular.

  Everyone else in the room looked at Razor.

  “I got a call from Jimenéz asking if Striker was on his way. I asked what he was talking about, and he responded that there was a K19 plane in the air.”

  “What did you tell him?” asked Doc.

  “That his intel was bad.”

  “Meaning what exactly?”

  “There was no K19 plane I knew of on its way to Colombia.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me it was my intel that was bad.”

  “Has anyone actually confirmed the plane is even in the air?” asked Gunner.

  Monk looked around the room, but everyone was looking at him. If what they were dealing with wasn’t so serious, he’d get up and walk out. How dare they question him. He’d been in this goddamn room for the last two days. “I hadn’t slept in forty-eight fucking hours,” he muttered.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone you were leaving?” Razor asked.

  “Seriously?”

  Razor stared him down.

  “The last I checked, I was a partner in this fucking firm, and I don’t ask permission.” Monk stood to leave, but Doc put his hand on his arm.

  “Monk, you’re right. What we need to figure out now is whether there is a plane en route to Colombia. Once we’ve confirmed there is, we need to figure out who authorized its departure.”

  “I’ll ask again, has anyone made contact with Yáñez?” Monk spat.

  “Negative,” answered Razor like Mercer had in his absence. “I’ve attempted contact with all four we believe are on board—Onyx, Corazón, Tackle, and Halo. No response.”

  “You believe to be on board? Have you seen the flight plan? What about the manifest?”

  “Negative. There wasn’t time,” Razor answered.

  “How long since you spoke to Jimenéz?” Striker asked Razor, who checked his phone.

  “Thirteen ten,” he answered.

  “It’s thirteen-thirty-five now,” said Striker. “My answer, Monk, is we’ve been trying to figure this out in real time. We need your help.”

  Monk nodded, picking up his phone.

  “Gentlemen,” said Razor, motioning for everyone to leave the room. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we have several women upstairs who have been cooking for the last few days in order to serve a large group of people Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Understood. We’ll eat in shifts,” answered Doc. “I’ll head up and speak with Merrigan. Striker, who do you want to stay down here with you and Monk?”

  “I’ll stay.” Mercer volunteered.

  While they were all worried about eating fucking turkey, Monk was trying to figure out why the hell Onyx would’ve gotten in the air without his okay. Something was seriously wrong, and it was making him sick to his stomach.

  He pulled up the flight’s manifest. “Fuck,” he muttered.

  Striker sat down next to him. “What?”

  “It’s all here. Flight plan, manifest, departure log.”

  “Out of Miami?”

  “Atlanta.”

  “Where are they now?” Striker asked.

  “That’s the thing,” Monk murmured, shaking his head. “They’re nowhere.”

  “Come again?”

  Monk pointed first to one monitor and then the other. “That’s the last flight segment before they went silent. This is a hundred-mile radius.” He motioned with his head to the other two monitors. “These are five hundred and one thousand miles.�
�

  “Have you made contact with Venezuelan air traffic?” Striker asked.

  “I’m doing that now,” Mercer answered.

  “I’m going to ping Razor.”

  Monk nodded; that was a good idea.

  “Get everyone back down here,” Striker said when Razor came rushing in.

  “Roger that,” he said, turning around.

  “The Venezuelan power grid is completely shut down,” said Mercer when the rest of the team gathered in the office.

  “What do you mean?” asked Gunner.

  “The entire country is dark,” Monk answered.

  “That’s impossible.”

  Monk put on his headset and held up his hand, signaling everyone to stay quiet so he could hear the broadcast coming out of Venezuela. “It’s not. President Maduro just announced a state of emergency. Get the feed,” he said to Striker.

  “Here it is,” he said, turning the monitor’s volume up.

  They listened as the country’s current president accused Juan Guaidós, the US-backed incoming leader of Venezuela, of sabotaging the power grid.

  “They have one fucking grid,” muttered Gunner, shaking his head.

  Razor rubbed the back of his neck. “It doesn’t explain why we lost contact, or why the plane isn’t showing up on the radar. Neither would be affected by one country’s grid.”

  “It would if they were diverting and/or blocking signals,” Monk responded.

  “What about Jimenéz?” Doc.

  “My gut is telling me to leave the ambassador out of this,” answered Striker.

  Doc nodded.

  “Anything?” Striker asked Monk, who shook his head.

  “Is anyone thinking the same thing I am?” said Razor, cutting through the uncomfortable silence.

  Doc rubbed the back of his neck with his hand like Razor had. “Four of our teammates are on a plane that was last seen in Venezuelan airspace. We know their government isn’t going to do a damn thing to help us find it. We can’t do this alone. We need to contact the agency.”

  “If we think this plane is down, I’m going in,” said Striker, looking first at Monk and then at everyone else in the room.

  “I am too,” said Razor. “Who’s with us?”

  Monk’s hand went up as did every other hand in the room.

  Striker sat down next to Monk. “You tell me. What should we do?”

  “Best if we split into teams. One to Bogotá and one closer to where the plane lost contact,” he answered.

  “Flying into Maracaibo would make the most sense, but would it even be possible with the power grid down?” Striker asked.

  Monk shook his head. “The closest we can get is Aruba.”

  “Cope can arrange for aircraft and pilots,” Doc told them after ending his call with the CIA handler.

  Monk studied the screen. Fuck. As if this could get any worse. Now there was a goddamn hurricane showing up on the region’s radar. “No one is going anywhere until tomorrow at the earliest,” he said, pointing to a different radar report on the monitor.

  While it was late in the season and both Aruba and Colombia were below the hurricane belt, in order to get to either, they’d have to fly directly through the eye of an impending storm.

  Not only would it ground them, it would make any search for the aircraft and its occupants exponentially more difficult.

  “It’s Cope,” said Doc, looking at his phone. He walked into the hallway to take the call.

  “Where’s the fucking plane?” muttered Striker.

  “Tabon?” he heard Ava call out from the stairwell.

  “Monk, is there anything else we can do right now?”

  He shook his head.

  “Go eat, then.”

  Monk didn’t acknowledge that Razor had said anything to him.

  “He means you,” said Striker.

  Monk turned and looked into Striker’s eyes. “I need quiet to do this.”

  Striker nodded and motioned for everyone to head out. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he told Monk.

  “I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  NAUSEA OVERWHELMED him once everyone left the room. Why in the hell had Onyx filed that flight plan after Monk specifically told him to stand down until he received further word?

  No one else on the team had given him authorization. If they had, Monk would ream their ass for it. He closed his eyes, trying to piece together a possible explanation. He saw one face: Corazón. She had something to do with this; he could feel it in his bones.

  22

  It broke every cardinal rule, but Saylor went looking for her brother regardless. Something was going on, and whatever it was, felt as serious as when he’d been shot. He could refuse to tell her, but she had to ask anyway.

  She found him in the kitchen carving more turkey.

  “Can you take a minute?” she asked.

  Razor set the carving knife and fork down and ushered her out into the garage.

  “Not a word to anyone,” he warned.

  “Understood.”

  “We’ve been dealing with something in South America. There was a K19 team on standby to fly in when we believed it was necessary. We don’t understand why yet, but that plane took off without authorization from any of us. Monk is the handler on this op, so it’s hitting him pretty hard.”

  “Why? Because they took off without his orders?”

  Razor shook his head. “The plane has disappeared. We believe it went down.”

  Saylor covered her mouth with her hand. “I told him he needed sleep…”

  Razor pulled her into his arms. “This isn’t any more your fault than it is his. And you were right, he hadn’t slept in two days, which meant he was a liability to the op. He knew that, which is why he took the break to begin with.”

  “How is he?”

  “Wrecked. We all are.”

  “What’s next?”

  “We’re making arrangements to leave now.”

  Saylor nodded. “Thank you for telling me, Raze.”

  “He’s down there alone. Go talk to him, Saylor.”

  “Are you sure I should?”

  “He needs you.”

  She followed her brother back into the house and then went straight downstairs. The door was open, and she could see Monk looking at computer monitors, but she knocked anyway.

  “Saylor,” he said, turning around and holding out his hand.

  “Razor told me to come down. He told me about the plane.”

  Monk pulled her onto his lap and rested his head against her. She could feel his body shake and the dampness of his tears on her shirt.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  Monk held her tighter, but didn’t say anything.

  He raised his head and spun around with her still in his lap when the monitors started beeping loudly.

  “Go get your brother,” he said. “Tell him we got a ping.”

  “From the plane?”

  “Yes. Go!”

  Saylor ran up the stairs and found her brother where he’d been before in the kitchen.

  “Monk said to tell you he got a ping.”

  Razor dropped the knife and fork, and ran from the kitchen.

  —:—

  “Where is it?” Razor shouted as he ran into the office.

  “Coordinates indicate Macuira National Park. There’s a team headed there now, but with the storm, I don’t know if they’ll be able to reach it.”

  “Any audio?”

  “Negative. Let Striker know.”

  Razor nodded and left the room.

  This was Striker’s op, but there was no way in hell Monk would leave this room himself to give him the update. If anything at all came through from the plane, he didn’t want to miss it.

  “Anything?” Razor asked when he came back downstairs.

  “DEA have the coordinates of the plane. No one has gotten close yet due to the storm combined with the terrain,” Monk answered.

  When
Striker, Doc, and Mercer came in, Razor reiterated what Monk had said.

  “How soon can Cope arrange transport?” Striker asked Doc.

  “Do we know if we can even fly yet? What’s the status of the hurricane?” Razor asked.

  “Planes and crew are on standby at LAX. I’ve been told they’re cleared to fly.” Doc looked at Monk.

  “That’s correct.”

  “There’s a CH-53K out of Vandenberg that can get us to LAX in under an hour,” added Mercer.

  “Get as much of your gear together as you can from here,” said Doc, motioning to the closet that held enough full tactical gear for the entire team. “I’ll give Merrigan an inventory of whatever else we need while we’re on the road to the airfield. She’ll make arrangements to have it delivered to the plane in Los Angeles,” Doc added.

  “You mean planes, right, Doc?” asked Gunner.

  “Affirmative. We’ll split into two groups. Striker, who do you want with you?”

  “Me,” said Razor.

  “And me,” said Monk.

  “Gunner, Mercer, and I will be team two,” said Doc.

  “What about Ranger and Diesel?” Razor asked Striker, who looked at Doc.

  “Let me see what Cope can do. What’s their twenty?” Doc asked Monk.

  “Right outside DC.”

  “I WANT to run something by you,” Razor said to Monk and Striker once they were on the plane that would take them to Colombia.

  “Shoot,” said Striker.

  “I have an idea as to why Ghafor is stockpiling weapons for, or who—FARC.”

  Striker nodded and Monk agreed. Especially given the tentative peace agreement the Marquez-led Colombian government and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, aka FARC, that came into effect in 2016 was already falling apart.

  The treaty had been historic in that it had taken fifty years to bring the conflict to an end, but the implementation of the accord was beyond optimistic. The government and FARC weren’t the only two entities vying for power in Colombia—the drug cartels had more power than each of the two on their own, but less if they joined forces.

  No matter who was involved—politicians, insurgents, or drug barons—corruption was rampant. Not to mention the Islamic fundamentalists who had settled in Buenaventura. The entire country was a ticking time bomb.