Pacific Ocean, five nautical miles off the coast of South America, within Colombia’s sovereign territory
Nicole braced her legs wide apart to steady her balance against the lurch and heave of the fast moving speedboat. Her ponytail rippled out behind her, and the occasional mist of sea spray dusted her cheeks and sunglasses. She was wearing her favorite pair of Ray-Bans, Aviator Classics, polarized for optimum UV protection, plus black cargo pants and a short-sleeved T-shirt of the same color, marked with POLICE on the front and back, under a lightweight bulletproof vest—which was not her favorite. The vest pinched her ribs and added exponentially to the sweat-factor already going on underneath this pie-baking heat and humidity. But better to walk away with some unsightly perspiration stains than not walk away due to a bullet hole in the chest.
She was wearing her badge on a cord around her neck, and as far as weapons went, she held a Colt semiautomatic machine gun in one hand, a Glock 40 pistol sat on her hip, and a Benchmade Automatic Switchblade was tucked in her boot. The blade wasn’t DEA issue, but who cared? Completely matte black in color, and sharp enough to split the down of a baby chick, the weapon was so nasty it generally was only sold to military and law enforcement personnel. She never went on a takedown without it.
Off her port side, a second Coast Guard go-fast speedboat cooked along, its hull bullying through waves with a rhythmic wump, wump, wump. The go-fast sat low in the water, making it difficult to detect by radar, and was equipped with two powerful engines and a v-shaped racing hull. Fast, stealthy, and seaworthy, the go-fast was a favorite of both the DEA and Coast Guard for sea takedowns.
Five hundred yards ahead was the fishing trawler they planned to board.
The speedboats, each manned by two Coasties and four DEA agents, split apart, hers heading right, the other, left.
Gunfire ripped out from the fishing trawler ahead, and Ryan Aagaard, who was driving their boat, rumbled a disdainful sound in his throat.
Yep, total non-professionals. Their speedboats weren’t even within striking range, so the bad guys had just given away their plans for an unfriendly greeting for no good reason. Aagaard loved dealing with amateurs.
“Dissuade them from any more of that shit, Gamboa,” Ryan called back to her.
She picked up her radio and pushed the “speak” button to talk to the lead agent in the other boat. “You cool with me disabling the threat, Jameson?”
Aagaard’s spine stiffened, a sure sign of crankiness over her failure to hop to immediate attention and follow his order. But this was Jameson’s case. He was the one who’d gathered the evidence suggesting this fishing trawler was smuggling heroin for Venezuelan drug lord Raúl Villanueva, then gone through the red tape nightmare of obtaining authorization to board a Venezuelan boat in Colombian waters.
“Go for it,” Jameson answered. “The targets are on the starboard side of the boat, anyway.”
Normally, Aagaard would’ve added something snappish to her, but things had been different between them ever since Ryan had seen Nicole cry. Not that most women would define one rebellious tear as crying, but Nicole did. And Ryan, too, obviously, because he’d started being pleasant to her, and not like when his goal was to get in her pants, but as a friend. Which was weird, but nice, and if she’d had the capacity to feel anything besides numb indifference, she probably would’ve been touched by his effort.
But emotional stagnation had become her roosting spot ever since she’d angrily swiped away that tear and forced herself to focus on nothing but her job as a DEA agent. She’d over-compensated for the wreck she’d been after her mission with Lieutenant Eric O’Dwyer, though, and tucked herself away too tightly. She was aware of feeling really wrong, but she wasn’t about to screw with things; like one of those fancily folded napkins in an elegant restaurant, once the napkin was unfolded, it was impossible to figure out how to get it back to its original shape, so better just to leave it alone.
Unfortunately, keeping everything bottled up inside was usually how people got ulcers. She supposed she’d worry about that when she keeled over.
“All right, I’m going to say hola.” Nicole set down the radio, then propped her foot on one of the speedboat’s passenger seats and pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her hair. Setting the stock of the Colt against her shoulder, she tilted her head slightly and sighted.
She felt Aagaard slow the boat a little, and knew he was keeping a steady course. She stood still for a few moments, letting herself feel the cadenced rise and fall of the boat.
On board the trawler, a Venezuelan aimed a Carbine rifle at her.
“Nicole,” Ryan barked.
“I’m on it.” As the speedboat crested the next wave, Nicole adjusted aim for downward motion and then, just on the descent, squeezed the trigger, releasing a three-round burst.
On the fishing trawler, the Carbine’s snout burst into a bloom of smoking metal petals, and the bad guy dropped the weapon with a shout.
Aagaard whipped around to stare at her, and even though Nicole couldn’t see his eyes behind his mirrored wraparound shades, his abject astonishment was obvious.
She shrugged, like, Yeah, sucker, I so planned to do that. Amazing she kept a straight face, because, Santo Cristo Jesús, she’d just shot one of her rounds straight into the Venezuelan’s gun barrel. She’d actually been aiming for the mast beyond the bad guy’s head, figuring the crack of a bullet arriving close by and a rainfall of splinters would be motivating. Turned out the billion-to-one shot she’d accidentally pulled off was more motivating. The bad guy’s mouth dropped open, and in the next second, he flung his arms into the air, straight up, his biceps touching his ears.
“They’re surrendering,” she told Aagaard. Funny, but in moments like these—when they both knew that Ryan, a premiere sniper, couldn’t have made that shot—she wasn’t sure if he was dreaming of dragging her off to bear his sharpshooting babies or if his male ego was puffing up and spluttering.
Ryan faced front again and sped up. “Let’s move in.”
Nicole kept her rifle trained on the bad guys in case anyone had a last-minute change of heart. Her aim was steady and her nerves calm. Hardly any adrenaline was pumping through her system, which was either the result of her being an overly folded napkin or because this was only Villanueva’s men and so big whup.
Ryan drove up right next to the enemy boat, softly bumping against the trawler’s hull, where ferrous stains wept down from the rail to the water line. A fishing net dangled overhead from a raised spar of outrigging, swaying side to side with the roll of the ship, metal winches tapping against each other in an arrhythmic plink-plonk.
“¡Ponga sus manos donde pueda verlas!” Ryan called up to the Venezuelans as he tied the speedboat to one of the trawler’s sideboard buoys. For a man who’d learned Spanish only after he joined the DEA, Ryan spoke with remarkably little accent. But that was Aagaard: a gruff bastard half the time, but an amazing chameleon. Frankly, he probably should’ve gone into the CIA.
The fishing trawler sat low in the water, relieving them of the need to use grappling lines or rope ladders to board. Ryan simply swung himself over the railing, like a gymnast over a pommel horse, then gestured for her to board.
She tossed Ryan her Colt, then boarded using the same technique. The other agents followed, while the two Coasties remained in the go-fast. She retrieved her weapon from Ryan, and the two of them moved into the open-fronted cabin, treating themselves to the stench of old fish, seagull shit, and urine. Special Agent Jameson was already inside with Special Agent Crawley.
Jameson and Crawley were the DEA agents already on station in Colombia when she and Aagaard arrived. Jameson, upon first meeting her, had given her appearance a brief, clinical assessment, then seemed to never-mind it. The reason for that blessed reaction made sense later when Nicole met Jameson’s wife, a native Colombian woman—and the reason Jameson had done back-to-back-to-back tours here—who was ridiculously beautiful. Since Latina beauty was no b
ig deal to him, Jameson had rapidly become Nicole’s favorite coworker.
Crawley, on the other hand, had gone bug-eyed, but she gave the man credit for locking that down. His ensuing choice had been to treat her like a nonentity; she wasn’t one of the boys or a woman, but an IT. Fine by her. At least with Crawley she didn’t have to field remarks like, “Wow-wee, five extra pounds of fat look good on you, Gamboa. You know why? Because you put nipples on ’em.”
Jameson and Crawley had already lined up the three young Venezuelans on a bench seat, hands clasped behind their necks. Off to the right a pile of freshly caught fish sat on a table mounded with ice.
Nicole guarded the three bad guys with her machine gun while the other agents searched the ship.
An hour later, they’d hit nothing but a dry hole. The three bad guys were looking smug, and Jameson’s head seemed on the verge of explosion.
“I know these punks are using this ship to traffic,” Jameson said as all the agents huddled in a group to assess their options. “Let’s pull into port and cut into it.”
Aagaard frowned. “What’s your oh-shit-factor on this, Jameson?” Ryan wanted to know just how sure Jameson was of his facts. Sometimes lust for the bust made an agent ignore signs that the case was really turning into a goat rope, and problem was, if they tore apart the hull of this trawler and there weren’t any drugs, the DEA would have to foot the bill.
It certainly wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility for the heroin to be stowed somewhere within the frame of the ship. Drug smugglers were notorious for their creativity. Nicole had seen or heard of contraband being hidden in cement, corn oil, engine parts, ceramic tiles, shaving cream cans, shampoo bottles, stacks of hollowed out plywood, chopped up carrots intended for horse feed, a shipment of bubble gum, a truckload of sand, and even a trailer filled with fake Christmas trees. And that didn’t count the people known as “body carriers” who swallowed condoms full of drugs or…
Wait a second. “Hold on, I’ve got an idea.” Nicole handed Jameson her Colt, then tugged the Benchmade out of her boot, springing the blade with a wicked snick.
The Venezuelans lost their smug looks.
She walked over to the pile of fish, picked one up, and slit the belly with a neat flick of her wrist. Out tumbled a baggie filled with white powder. “Well, well…” She grinned. “Looks like these fish are actually mules.”
Jameson laughed deep in his throat and flashed Nicole an appreciative look.
It was a little embarrassing how much that pleased her, but it was like someone finally saying, a job successfully performed without use of your cha-chas.
The skinniest Venezuelan drug smuggler fell to his knees, his hands clasped before him prayerfully. “¡Por favor, mi madre está muy enferma!” Please, my mother is very ill.
Aagaard exchanged a veiled look with her. They loved desperation. It was an emotion almost always ripe for manipulation.
Aagaard jerked his chin at Crawley. “Why don’t you take these other two outside?”
As Crawley left with the prisoners, Aagaard moved to tower above the skinny man, speaking to him in terse Spanish. “If you don’t want to go to jail, friend, then help us help you. Give us information—and it had better be good.”
The man nodded. “Yes, sir, yes, sir, I can give you something big—information about a very important man. My brother works for Alejandro Carrera.”
The name hit Nicole like a double-fisted blow, one to the gut, the other to the chest, knocking the air out of her. She hadn’t expected to hear Carrera’s name. This skinny idiot was supposed to be giving up his own boss, Villanueva.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “What can you give us on Carrera? Tell me.”
After the skinny man finished his story, Ryan turned to stare steadily at her, passing a silent message. You know what this means, don’t you?
A tic pulled at a muscle in her cheek as she felt the dangerous beginnings of herself unfolding. Yes, she knew: the battle was back on.
But more than that, she knew exactly where the fight would take them.
Chapter Twenty-One
Three days later, Naval Air Station North Island, squadron for the Helicopter Maritime Strike-75 Wolf Pack
Nicole followed the commanding officer of HSM-75 down a long gray hallway, Aagaard at her side, her boot heels thumping on the tile floor. The decorations in this aviator’s domain ran heavy on the rah-rah-America: pictures on the walls of men in flight suits or other military uniforms, Seahawk helicopters in various stages of aeronautical grandeur. Glancing through the occasional open doorway, she saw utilitarian office spaces free of frills: metal desks, metal filing cabinets, more testosterone-laden pictures, wall-to-wall tile.
DEA offices weren’t anything to write home about, but at least they had carpet.
“Poker,” the CO called to a passing pilot. “Is LZ back from his eight o’clock interview yet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him to hightail it to the wardroom.”
“Roger that.”
Nicole glanced at the pilot’s name tag as he continued along. Jim “Poker” Harder. Oh, these aviators were such funny guys.
“This way.” The commander led her and Aagaard into a room that was dominated by a large rectangular table surrounded by a dozen or so chairs. The two chairs at the end were marked “XO” and “CO.” Besides that, this “wardroom” looked like a regular ol’ conference room to her.
She stood next to Ryan at parade rest, her hands clasped together at the small of her back and her heart pounding as she waited for Lieutenant Eric “LZ” O’Dwyer to arrive. Ryan’s mood was difficult to read…probably because she couldn’t get a bead on anything beyond her own inner weirdness. Is LZ back from his eight o’clock interview, yet? Is he still hot? Would he be interested in getting naked again with Agent Nicole Gamboa, this time with some major follow-through?
Eric strode into the wardroom, not wearing a flight suit, as expected, but instead a crisp, white uniform that made him look one hundred percent pure, patriotic Navy flyboy delicious. Not a crease or a wrinkle bunched at his belt, the perfect lay of his shirt emphasizing his trim waist. Two and a half rows of colorful ribbons were stacked on the left side of his chest, topped off with a pair of golden wings, the combination seeming to stretch out his broad shoulders endlessly. Nicole pulled in a tight breath, the sight of him whacking a hinge off the lockbox of her emotions.
Two steps inside the room, Eric slammed to a halt, his expression conveying just how shocked he was to see her.
Her belly did a strange jiggle-wiggle that she’d never felt before…and would definitely choose to pass on feeling again.
His gaze captured hers, and for a moment, all of the massive emotion that sat between them passed back and forth.
Naked. All right, there, she’d copped to it. I’m thinking of you naked. Probably nothing less than you’re doing. She drew another tight breath, unsure how she managed not to double over.
Eric turned his head toward his CO, keeping his eyes on her until the last possible second, then looking at his boss. “Skipper,” he said. “You sent for me?”
The CO gestured at Nicole and Ryan. “LZ, the case you worked on with the DEA while you were on the Lake Champlain has opened back up. They need assistance with flight operations again.”
Eric swung back to them, looking at…her. A glint darted through his eyes. And what the hell did that look mean? Sweeeeet, we get to work together again. Hold on while I take my shirt off?
Ryan stepped forward. “The DEA helicopters in San Diego are tied up on other missions. But I also figured you’d want in on this. You were just as pissed off as we were when Carrera pulled that switch and got away.”
“I definitely want in.” Eric glanced at his boss. “I’m cleared for this?”
The skipper nodded. “This is an ongoing counterdrug operation. AIRPAC36 has given their go-ahead and the DEA has likewise granted permission for the Navy’s continued involvement.”
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Eric’s expression lit as he came around to their side of the table, his closer proximity filling Nicole’s stomach with something resembling Mexican jumping beans.
What cologne do you wear?
That’s just me.
“What have you got?” Eric asked.
Ryan smiled narrowly. “A prime chance to bag the scumbag. Carrera’s sub is holed up a few miles north of here, practically in your backyard.” Ryan set a folder on the conference table. “Should we wait for Lieutenant Hammond?”
“Mikey is taking a personal day,” Eric said. “I’ll brief him later.”
The explanation was simple enough, if harrowing. Carrera planned to take out his up-and-coming competitor Raúl Villanueva by hitting the Venezuelan’s beachfront estate in Palos Verdes, California, with a dirty bomb: an RDD, or Radiological Dispersal Device, that combined conventional explosives like dynamite with radioactive material. Although an RDD wasn’t a nuclear bomb, it was still extremely destructive. The spread of radiation inherent in this type of explosive would wipe out Villanueva’s budding marijuana fields for years into the future, and the blast would destroy a heroin lab on the premises.
It would also harm nearby innocents and undoubtedly create mass hysteria and panic.
“The dirty bomb is stored on Carrera’s infamous drug sub,” Ryan said. “Carrera plans to drive the sub practically up to the beach, deploy his men to plant the bomb on Villanueva’s estate, then slip right back out. We need to nab the RDD before he can succeed.” Ryan extracted a satellite photo from the folder and placed it in front of Eric. “The sub is currently here”—he pointed at a spot on the photo—“on the far side of the Catalina Islands.”
Eric braced his hand on the table beside the picture as he examined it.
Nicole studied the strong veins pushing up against the tan skin on top of his hand, and her thoughts detoured into her panties. She bit back a disgusted moan.
“That almost looks like a mini volcano,” Eric said.
Wings of Gold Series Page 14
