Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  You need to ask yourself: Do you want your father’s love and acceptance or to fly helicopters? As transparent as that was, the question was difficult. Nearly a decade spent living as a pariah in his own family had taken its toll. He was sick and tired of bare civility. He wanted a family, especially if he was going to be married with children someday, and, ah yes, his father had selected a finely honed weapon when he brought Nicole into the equation.

  Eric would give up just about anything to have her in his future. Could you spend a week sleeping in a car, eating only what can be bought out of a vending machine? Could you give up flying? If he’d already hung up his wings to provide Nicole with a stable life, how easy would it be to walk away from O’Dwyer Systems if the shit hit the fan from her past?

  Easy as pie. Another plus.

  So out of Eric’s mouth had spilled the asinine words, “I’ll think about it” to his father’s offer, a response that had hollowed him out like nothing ever had. He’d raged about it the whole way home, because fury was the only way he knew how to deal with such an ultimate betrayal to himself. By the time he arrived home, he felt like he’d been repeatedly punched in the heart. He was actually thrilled when he saw Aagaard waiting for him at the end of his driveway.

  Eric surged out of his car. “If you’ve come here to have me clock you again, I’m totally in the mood for that.”

  Aagaard stalked down the driveway. The moon was low in the sky, but full, and it illuminated the DEA agent’s expression. His eyebrows were arrowed into a nasty vee.

  My, all kinds of surprises tonight.

  “I only want to make sure Nicole is okay. Then I’ll leave.” Aagaard’s gaze shifted to the passenger-side of Eric’s car. He squinted at the windshield.

  “She’s not with me,” Eric snapped.

  “Where is she?”

  “Fuck if I know.” Eric slammed his car door shut. “She hasn’t been answering my phone calls.”

  “Dammit.” Aagaard tried to walk past Eric for the street.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Eric blocked the agent’s path. “You can’t drop a bomb like that, then just leave. What’s going on?”

  A muscle in Aagaard’s cheek clenched. “Nicole hasn’t been answering my calls, either. I got worried about her and tracked her down through her cell. She—”

  “DEA agents have tracking devices on your cell phones?”

  Aagaard paused. “All iPhones have a program called Find My iPhone, and I know…Nicole’s Apple password.”

  Eric set his hands on his waist, his scalp practically seething. “This stalker-thing you’re doing to my soon-to-be-girlfriend is stopping, Aagaard. Right now.”

  Aagaard’s chin jutted at a mutinous angle.

  Eric’s shoulder muscles flexed in anticipation of planting that jaw none-too-gently back in its place.

  “I located Nicole at Sharp Memorial Hospital.”

  “What?” Eric’s hands slipped off his belt. “Shit. What happened to her?”

  “She’s not hurt. She was there to visit a patient, but by the time I got there, the patient had been removed from the hospital and the computer expunged of all information about whoever it was.”

  “Expunged? That doesn’t sound right.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Aagaard agreed. “The nurses told me Nicole left with a man. I assumed it was you.”

  Eric’s insides shrank. “It wasn’t me.” He jerked open his car door. “Get in.”

  At Sharp Memorial Hospital, Eric and Aagaard questioned the two duty nurses, but were handed a repeat of the information Aagaard had heard before: yes, a Nicole Gamboa had signed in at the guest registry to visit someone in Room 434, then left with a man about thirty minutes later. Sorry, they didn’t have anything else to offer. Did you know who the man was? No. Did it look like Miss Gamboa was departing the hospital under duress? No. But here, she left her purse behind by accident.

  Eric gestured Aagaard a little ways down the hall. “By accident,” he repeated. “Are you buying that?”

  Aagaard shook his head. “A DEA agent doesn’t just forget her purse and cell phone.”

  “My thinking, too.” Eric shoved his fingers through his hair. His stomach was stressed out and seriously considering an EVAC of the beer he’d drunk earlier with Mikey, not to mention the shared scotch with Daddy Dearest.

  “I might be able to find out who she visited,” Aagaard said. “Let me make a few phone calls.”

  “All right.” Eric paced the hallway while he waited, glaring absently at flyers posted on a large bulletin board. Apparently it was Asthma Awareness Month, and if he wanted to take a class on breastfeeding, he was in luck. There was one every Monday night at 6:30 for the next three weeks.

  Several minutes later, Aagaard returned, his face pale.

  Eric’s belly dropped. “What?”

  “I can’t tell you,” Aagaard said. “It’s classified.”

  Eric examined the bruise on Aagaard’s chin, reliving the moment at the Catalina airfield when he’d socked the man. That had been nice. Very nice. “I think you know your answer is unacceptable.”

  Aagaard’s jaw stiffened. “This isn’t about who she visited here, O’Dwyer, but regards Nicole’s past. I can’t tell you.”

  Her past…

  Plus, I’ve already sort of been outed by Aagaard, which is something I’m going to deal with now I’m back in the States.

  Eric narrowed his eyes. “Does this have anything to do with Nicole once being in witness protection?”

  Aagaard’s brows crashed down.

  Ah, hell. “I obviously know about that,” Eric bit out. “So spill.”

  Aagaard exhaled. “All right. A friend of mine in the marshal service just told me Nicole’s old case worker was tortured to death by Tavo and Emanuel Jiménez, brothers who lead a crime syndicate which dabbles in drug distribution and prostitution. WITSEC feels Nicole’s case has been compromised, and they encouraged her to come back in the program.”

  Eric’s heart nearly seized. He didn’t know which hit him the hardest, the idea of Nicole going back into WITSEC obscurity, or that her nightmare had been realized, and she was in grave danger—the marshals wouldn’t have called her back in if she wasn’t. All right, slow down. Focus. Think this through. He paced down the hall again, his hands clenching at his sides.

  A voice came over the hospital loudspeaker, requesting that Dr. Zand report to the ER.

  Maybe Nicole had disappeared from the hospital for a stupid nothing of a reason. Uncle Anton! I haven’t seen you in ages. Do you want to go get a cup of coffee? Oops, you’ll have to pay, I forgot my purse in the excitement of seeing you.

  Of course, that didn’t account for a patient’s record being mysteriously expunged, then the patient him- or herself being removed…the very patient Nicole just happened to be visiting. Logic pointed to there being a connection between those facts and Nicole going off the grid. Which meant a stupid nothing of a reason was wishful thinking. This was bad.

  Eric paced back to Aagaard. “How far away is your office?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think you should go there and print pictures of the Jiménez brothers, then show them to the duty nurses.”

  “That’s…actually a very good idea. But I can access those files on my phone.” Aagaard brought up mug shots of Tavo and Emanuel Jiménez and showed them to the nurses, earning another, no, sorry, not them. The agent dug up pictures of old-time bad guys from the Medellín Cartel, the organization Nicole’s father had testified against.

  “Nope.” One nurse was scrolling through the photos, her finger repeatedly streaking across the cell screen, while the other viewed the pictures from over her coworker’s shoulder. “It’s not any of these men.”

  “Okay, thank you for your help.” Aagaard made to reach for his phone—

  “Wait!” The nurse angled the screen toward them. “It’s this guy!”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Alejandro
Carrera brought Nicole to a yacht berthed at the Harbor Island Marina.

  She sat stiffly inside the main deck cabin on a large U-shaped couch of ocean blue cushions situated across from a bar of tan wood with brass fittings. Just to the left was a stairway that disappeared down into the polished wood floor. She was surrounded on all sides by huge windows providing panoramic views of other boats in the marina, the San Diego skyline, the horizon slowly melting into sunset—views that would’ve been beyond magnificent if she’d been in a position to care.

  Forty long, torturous minutes later, two Carrera goons wearing dark business suits boarded. Nicole recognized them as the men from the Isla Gorgona hacienda who’d popped twin boners while guarding the dining room door during her sex show. How they felt about seeing her again was impossible to tell. Their facial expressions ranged between catatonic and comatose.

  Carrera exchanged a few brief words with them. “My sweet,” he said to her in Spanish. “You may wipe the disgruntlement from your face now. Your parents are safe.” He moved off to speak with the captain of the yacht.

  Nicole watched a sailboat called Mama’s Toy glide by outside the rear facing window. Was the slimy kingpin telling the truth? She couldn’t think of a plausible reason for him to lie to her. Maybe to put her at ease…but from her experiences with Carrera in the past concern over a person’s emotional welfare didn’t jump out at her as his style. All right. She drew a breath into her tight lungs. Her parents were safe. Time to concentrate on escaping.

  Carrera finished with the captain, then led her to the stairs near the bar.

  She felt a lurch under her feet as she climbed down them.

  The yacht was putting out to sea.

  She accompanied the kingpin compliantly, her mind whirring with what her next move should be. Should she continue to act passively to lull Carrera into a false sense of security until she could find an opening to strike? Or just strike? Or not strike at all because there were muchísimo bad guys all over this boat? Her chances of winning were slim…and her parents were safe now. Of course, she wasn’t. She hid a grimace. Thinking about all of the options, none of which were attractive, was creating a dull ache along the bridge of her nose.

  Carrera brought her to a luxurious bedroom suite where a couch and two chairs were arranged by a large window with another exquisite view of the early evening sky. Pushed against the opposite wall was a vast bed, decorated with no less than two dozen throw pillows. Another perversion of Carrera’s? Spare me the details.

  The drug lord brought her over to one of the chairs and pushed her down into it, then took the chair opposite, unbuttoning his blazer as he sat. Champagne was chilling in a silver ice bucket on a side table.

  “I have yet to decide if I’m going to hurt you,” Carrera informed her.

  His tone was so blasé that a moment blipped by before Nicole’s throat balled up.

  “I’m very perturbed at being duped by you, you see.” Carrera tented his hands before him. “It’s never happened before.”

  A shiver clattered along Nicole’s spine. Very perturbed was probably the world’s biggest understatement. “How did you find me?” She spoke in English. Because, screw him.

  Carrera’s hands parted briefly, then came back together with a light tap of his fingers. “It was actually quite fortuitous. I’d sent my men to question Marshal Bowry about someone who’d snitched on FARC—nothing to do with you at all.”

  The word question rose like gorge into Nicole’s mouth, and she was tempted to spit it at Carrera. Bowry had been a good, kind man, and you tortured him, you sick fuck.

  “You can imagine my surprise when the Jiménez brothers discovered among the marshal’s cases your photo and file.” His eyes hardened. “Where it stated you are a DEA agent.”

  Nicole indulged in a couple of seconds of kicking herself over not placing the Jiménez name yesterday, when she first heard it from Marshal Russell. Tavo and Emanuel Jiménez were in charge of putting FARC’s heroin on the streets, and as two of Carrera’s top sellers, they sat high up in the organization. She freaking knew that.

  “On my island, I genuinely thought you were a high-class prostitute.” Air slid from Carrera’s nostrils. “You made a fool out of me, Miss Gamboa. Surely you understand that a man in my position cannot let such an offense go unanswered.” Darkness overtook his eyes, deep and black and threatening.

  Her skin prickled with cold and fear blocked her airway. She tried to swallow it, but the mechanisms operating her throat jammed.

  “Shooting your father was just an expedient means of getting you to a place where I could control the situation in order to take you.” Carrera paused. “To exact my retribution.”

  Scream or cry? Those seemed like the two best responses to the discovery that—after all the years her family had been running from the possibility of Manolo being taken out by the Medellín Cartel—she was the reason her father had been hurt.

  “I am hindered by a dilemma, however. You are a uniquely beautiful woman, Miss Gamboa, brimming with a natural sensuality.” Carrera’s gaze roamed over her body, making her skin try to sneak off her bones. “It is difficult for a man to imagine bruising such beauty.” He slipped the champagne bottle out of the bucket, watery ice sloshing together with a soft rattle. “I’ve decided to make you my woman,” he informed her. “You’ll live with me on Isla Gorgona.” He popped the cork with a loud bang.

  She jumped, then silently cursed. Get your nerves under control, Nicole. She wouldn’t be able to rescue herself from this mess if she couldn’t so what the fact that she was tired, hungry, emotionally shaken, in an unfamiliar environment, under the power of a sociopath, and outnumbered. Pretty much everything a growing girl needs.

  Carrera poured champagne into two fluted glasses. “There is always time to hurt you later. But not tonight, my pet, so rest at ease.”

  Yeah, I’ll do that.

  He handed her a glass.

  She took it, still playing nice. Her mind shifted into a higher gear of overdrive. To strike or not to strike…?

  Carrera sat back. “For many years, I have only been able to derive pleasure from watching others have sex. You are the first woman I’ve wanted to be with in all that time, Miss Gamboa. So we are celebrating.” Carrera took a sip, then waited for her, icy and impatient.

  She tipped the glass to her mouth, letting the champagne touch her lips without passing them.

  “Tonight, we fuck.”

  Her heartbeat measured time as she stared at the drug lord. And her response to that? Don’t have one.

  The Boner Twins entered, Mr. Snuffleupagus and his cheery friend, the Hamburglar.

  Carrera downed his champagne, then, without another word, he left.

  Goon Number One, the bigger one—Mr. Snuffleupagus—pointed to the bathroom. “Go shower.”

  The flat-faced one, the Hamburglar, held out a hanger full of clothes. “Then put these on.” It was an outfit of silk turquoise pajama-like pants with a matching tunic embroidered colorfully at the cuffs with intricate flowers.

  This whole scenario was starting to feel way too eerily like the movie, Indecent Proposal. She set aside her flute with a shaky hand, then rose unsteadily to her feet. She was really starting to wish she’d drunk that apple juice back at the hospital. The last sustenance she had today was breakfast, and the lack of usable energy in her bloodstream was making itself known to the super-nth degree. Taking the hanger of clothes from the Hamburglar, she subtly checked out the pistol each goon had beneath his jacket. Snuffleupagus carried a Heckler and Koch VP70, and Hamburglar, a SIG Pro, both semi-automatic firearms, extremely lethal at close range.

  To strike or not to strike…? When the goons have that kind of firepower within easy reach and you’re not at your best. Hahaha. ¡Estúpida!

  She crossed to the bathroom, but when she tried to close the door, Mr. Snuffleupagus stopped her. “No.”

  Goody. These two were going to see her naked again.

  She un
dressed quickly and climbed in the shower. Private time in the stall under the jet spray would clear her mind and present her with a solution. Right? No. The hot water and steam just seemed to tire her out even more, along with the nautical sway of the ship. She went through all the expected motions: washed her hair and body, stepped out, toweled off, got dressed in the silk costume.

  Mr. Snuffleupagus led her back to her chair and sat her down in it.

  She waited. Outside the large window the sun dipped below the line where sea met sky, changing the ocean water from dark blue to mirrored silver.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Squadron of the HSM-75 Wolf Pack

  Eric pounded down the squadron hallway dressed in a wetsuit—so currently sweating his balls off—and holding a pair of swim fins. On either side of him, all the offices were dark and closed for the night.

  “I’m going with you,” Aagaard insisted with a feral rumble from just beyond Eric’s right shoulder.

  “No.” Eric made a sharp left-face into the wardroom.

  Poker Harder was waiting for him, along with Beans—a call sign earned from an unfortunate digestive incident that went down in Mexico during a port call. Rumor was, Beans’ roommate made the man sleep in the hall that night, the situation ended up getting so bad.

  Tonight Poker and Beans were scheduled to conduct radar run-ins42 on a ship to qualify their AW. Eric had talked them into adding a simulated SAR jump onto the exercise, with Eric being the one to play the role of rescue swimmer…although with a huge difference from the normal Search and Rescue simulation.

  The pilots wouldn’t be pulling Eric back out of the water.

  He slapped a map down in front of the two pilots and pointed to a spot in the ocean. “This is where I need you to drop me.”

  Shortly after the nurses at Sharp Memorial Hospital had identified lowlife Alejandro Carrera as the man Nicole had gone off with, the San Diego Police Department had shown up—along with an army of DEA agents—to investigate a report lodged by a woman named Kalani Salazar. She claimed the DEA agent who’d been questioning her earlier in the evening, one Nicole Gamboa, had been kidnapped by a sinister Latino-looking man. Ever since then, Eric and Aagaard had been moving at mach speeds, trying to pin down where the kingpin had taken Nicole.