Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  Aagaard had made a few more phone calls and discovered a one hundred fifty-foot yacht registered to a dummy corporation owned by Carrera. A quick check with the harbor master had provided them information about when the yacht set sail, and from there it had been a matter of figuring out a time-distance equation: If the yacht traveled at an average cruising speed of fifteen knots on a course trajectory toward Isla Gorgona, where would the boat be at a certain point in time? Add thirty miles onto that number to keep the Wolf Pack helicopter out of the yacht’s radar range—because this was Carrera, so high-tech, top-notch security was a given, and also the reason a speed boat was out—and Eric had his drop zone.

  While Aagaard had been making phone calls, Eric had been making a few of his own. Beans Vanderby’s brother, Jason, was also a helicopter pilot, flying Special Operations Warfare with the HSC-8543 Firehawks right here out of North Island. The man had made it all the way through SEALs training before he was offered a position in SPECOPS aviation, and he still had buddies in the Teams. He’d been able to commandeer a cool SEAL toy for Eric to use: a diver propulsion vehicle, or DPV.44 The hand-held unit was powered by a state-of-the art electric jetstream system, and could travel at up to thirteen miles per hour over the surface of water, virtually silently.

  Eric needed the DPV to pull off his mission. He’d be floating in the water for over two hours, drifting while he waited for Carrera’s yacht to cruise by. When it finally did, Eric wouldn’t be able to swim over to it. He’d need to get his ass moving quickly enough to have a hope in hell of intercepting. Once on board, the plan was to neutralize Carrera’s men, quietly enough so as not to alert other bad guys in time for them to kill Nicole before Eric had a chance to get to her. An interesting evolution to manage when he had no idea how many Colombians were on the yacht.

  Poker pulled at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger as he studied the map. “That’s the middle of nowhere, LZ. You sure about this?”

  “Very. If the mission is no joy, I’ll activate the GPS on my CSEL45 radio and you can come back for me.” How he’d save Nicole if he missed this chance to get on Carrera’s yacht, he didn’t have a clue…a thought that pounded his heart in his chest like over-torqued rotor blades. Failure is not an option, Eric. This time he had to agree wholeheartedly with one of his father’s teachings. “Do you already have the DPV loaded on the aircraft?”

  Aagaard stepped between Eric and Poker. “Take me with you,” he insisted again. “I’ve blown it with Nicole since the first day she became my partner, and the Catalina mission on the sub was the final nail in my coffin. I need to do something right by her. For once.”

  Eric swiped up the map. “It’s not my job to help you make up for your professional fuckups, Aagaard. Thank God. That would be a heavy load.” Not to mention floating for hours alone in the ocean with the DEA agent wasn’t Eric’s idea of a barn burner.

  So, hey, Ryan, since we’ve got so much time to kill, what do you want to talk about?

  Weeeeell, how about all of the adorable peccadilloes of the woman you and I are both in love with? Have you noticed how Nicole’s breasts heave when she’s upset? It’s so cute, right?

  Yeah, sounded real fun. “Besides,” Eric said. “There’s only one DPV.”

  “There’s two, actually,” Beans piped in. “I figured you wouldn’t do something this insane alone.”

  Once again, Aagaard positioned himself pointedly in front of Eric. “I’ve got grappling hooks in my trunk from the last sea takedown I did,” he told Eric. “And I’m an expert at using them to board a boat, even underway.”

  Eric clenched and unclenched his jaw. Ah, shit.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  An array of adrenaline-laced emotions charged through Nicole when Alejandro Carrera reentered the bedroom suite, his presence prompting a silent choreography of activity. The Goon Squad left, and a man dressed in the livery of a valet appeared.

  Carrera moved to stand directly in front of Nicole’s chair, his eyes leveled on her.

  The liveried man glided soundlessly behind Carrera, removed the drug lord’s blazer, then proceeded to undress him the rest of the way—shirt, shoes, socks, belt, pants.

  Nicole watched the items of clothing being stripped away with an axe lodged in her lungs. Say something. Better yet, DO something. Rising panic and an overabundance of adrenaline and emotional turmoil seemed to have stalled out her mind and body. Not good. Bile crept up onto the back of her tongue. Manolo raised you to be strong and tough and never let your guard down.

  Don’t lose that now, Nicole.

  Carrera stood before her, naked.

  The liveried man disappeared as silently and suddenly as he’d appeared.

  In the vague recesses of her mind, Nicole noted that Carrera needed some serious manscaping, his pubic hair an overgrown, unruly black bush. His dick was a darker brown shade than the rest of his flesh, and uncircumcised.

  “You will come to the bed with me now,” Carrera commanded.

  Nicole shifted her gaze up to the drug lord’s navel and stared at it. She dug her fingernails into her thighs. She was tumbling down…

  Who are you, Dad?

  Who am I?

  You’re like a chocolate candy, a hard coating on the outside with soft nougat on the inside.

  Such a nice, attractive girl, and you hate those qualities in yourself.

  Carrera hooded his lids. “And you will do exactly as I say.”

  Nicole jerked bodily as Carrera’s order slammed her back to the day of the sex show.

  I direct your actions.

  She sucked in a quick breath, a void opening in her stomach. More and more memories avalanched through her mind, sending heat charging up the back of her neck. She’d given up so much to hunt down this man.

  I’m setting aside my dignity tomorrow, as well as my safety, for the good of the drug war.

  I’m so sick of prostituting myself.

  If I use my breasts to forward one more mission, I might have to jump off a bridge afterward.

  Well, here was her bridge. And she was stepping off the edge: decision made. No malfunctioning brakes. Fully conscious choice. No more acting out of a need to prove herself to others: her dad, her coworkers, Eric. Right now she’d be her Nicole; the woman she’d defined for herself—someone who fought for what she wanted, not just for her reputation. She wasn’t a woman who used her sexuality to get a job done. She’d rather face a hard landing than do any more of that.

  Oxygen flooded her lungs. Fear purged from her. With her decision came ultra-clear clarity. It was a relief, a kind of misplaced joy, to act, finally. Roaring out of her chair with her fist already moving, she delivered a fearsome roundhouse to Carrera’s left cheek.

  The drug lord made a noise in his throat as his head snapped sideways. He staggered.

  She spun, planting a heel to the left side of his jaw, knocking him further sideways. She followed with a brutal downward punch, driving the drug lord to one knee.

  After three solid hits, she hadn’t expected Carrera to surge back up so fast.

  He did.

  Her brain recognized the angle of his body, but not quick enough to do anything about it. He head-butted her.

  Her head was flung back, blood spraying up from her nose, then misting back down into her eyes. A fiery agony wound through her sinuses. She groaned in pain, then immediately choked off the noise. Keep sipping hot chocolate, Hamburglar and Snuffy, nothing’s happening here.

  Righting herself, she brought up her fists, but her stance was wobbly.

  Carrera was able to deliver a vicious backhand.

  The blow spun her sideways, the curtain of her hair whipping out—Carrera grabbed a fistful of it and used it to wrench her out of the sitting area. With a low snarl, he wheeled her around the main part of the room—’round and ’round.

  She raced her feet to keep up, all flying hair and whiplashing silk. Teeth grimaced, she grappled for a good grip on Carrera’s hand.

&nb
sp; He released her into one of the bed posts.

  She bounced off the wood and dropped onto her side with a gasp, stars blooming across her vision.

  She heard a muted pop from the deck above, then several seconds later, another one.

  What was that? More men on the way? Por favor, no… Through slitted lids, she saw Carrera spring for the nightstand and yank open the drawer. He reached inside—

  He’s going for a weapon! Another reserve of adrenaline sent her jackknifing off the floor. She leapt at Carrera, spinning him toward her with a hand on his shoulder. She rammed a fist into his gut.

  Air shot out of him as he bent double. He came back up, swinging.

  She blocked.

  He lurched forward and body-clutched her, knocking her to the floor onto her back. Spitting a string of Spanish obscenities, Carrera straddled her, naked and sweaty—disgusting!—and lashed his fists at her in a flurry of hits.

  Mierda! Sucking air between her teeth, she held her arms over her face like a boxer to protect herself from the rain of blows, hissing as each hit connected.

  Another string of pops sounded, several seconds apart. Gunshots? Santo Cristo Jesús, what’s going on?

  Finish him, mija!

  Angling her arms back, Nicole pointed her elbows at her attacker, laced her fingers together, then hammered a double-fisted blow right between Carrera’s eyes.

  Stunned, Carrera teetered, then slumped partway over her.

  Grasping one hand around Carrera’s nape, the other on his bare buttocks, she simultaneously yanked and pushed, reversing their positions. She rolled with Carrera like two lovers in the throes of passion, his soft dick brushing over her thigh. More disgusting yuk. Rearing above him, she clutched the drug lord by the throat and used the palm of her right hand like the flat head of a hoe, driving it hard into his nose. The blow shoved Carrera’s nasal bone into his brain.

  Carrera’s brown eyes glazed.

  She held on, panting heavily, refusing to let go of her enemy until you’ve killed him thoroughly registered in her mind. Finally with a ragged cry, she tumbled off the drug lord and flopped onto her back, utterly spent.

  Above her, running feet thundered across the deck. Now coming down the stairs…

  Blood ran from her nostrils, down her cheeks, toward her ears. Tears gushed from her eyes, her chest spasming around silent sobs. Please, no more bad guys.

  Down the hall, a door slammed…

  Move! Move, move, move. She rocked side to side on her spine, creating enough momentum to roll onto her stomach. She paused as the room ducked and bobbed. With trembling arms, she push-upped herself onto her hands and knees. She would’ve been more than happy to throw up had there been anything in her stomach.

  Footsteps drew closer…

  She crawled to the nightstand. Sweat swamped her eyes. She reached blindly inside the drawer, and her fingers closed around a gun just as—

  The door banged open.

  She reeled around and collapsed against the bed rail, holding the gun out in front of her, the barrel aimed at the intruder’s chest.

  He had a pistol.

  She cocked her weapon with an ominous click.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The ocean was calm that night, with small swells rolling rhythmically, almost hypnotically, by to mark the endless wait. Something to be grateful for, Eric supposed, that he didn’t have to contend with rough seas, although the water temperature left much to be desired. The ocean was cold as a gold digger’s ass, and nearly two hours into the float, Eric was fantasizing about wearing three wetsuits. He also regretted wishing a whole lotta shut up on Aagaard, because the dead calm mixed with two hours of absolute quiet were getting under his skin.

  He finally broke the silence with a safely banal question. “So why did you go into the DEA?”

  If Aagaard was surprised by the sudden break in the conversation moratorium, he didn’t show it. For another beat of silence, he remained resting on his back, just letting his life vest hold him up, one hand on his DPV unit to keep it nearby, then bobbed into a vertical position. “My dad was a cop, so law enforcement’s in the family blood. I don’t ever remember thinking there was another option.” He pushed water off his brow with his palm. “What about you? Is your dad a Navy pilot?”

  Eric laughed hollowly. “Not even if someone attached electrodes to his ’nads. No, I wanted to fly, get shot at, serve my country, etc. and etc. But…” He swished the water around in front of him. “I’m thinking about getting out.”

  Aagaard went quiet for a moment. “That would be a waste of talent.” Falling silent again, he glanced up at the moon.

  Eric did the same. It had to be ten or eleven o’clock by now.

  “It was the mistake I made with Nicole,” Aagaard admitted, “turning myself into a miserable wretch for her. I just couldn’t seem to let go of the idea that if I worked at it long enough and hard enough, I’d finally convince her to be with me.”

  Just the conversation Eric hadn’t been psyched to have.

  “We could’ve been friends,” Aagaard added, “if I hadn’t done that.” He set his plastic-wrapped pistol on his DPV.

  It was a Beretta 9mm, same as Eric had attached to his wrist in its own plastic bag, which had been dragging at his arm for the whole night.

  “If you leave the Navy for Nicole, O’Dwyer, you’ll resent her for it, and she won’t thank you in the end.” Aagaard’s focus shifted to a spot over Eric’s right shoulder. “A boat’s running lights,” he said, his voice intensifying. He looped his plastic gun bag over his neck. “Off your five o’clock, two miles.”

  Eric booked across the ocean, surfing over the swells at full throttle, the lower half of his body dragging out behind his DPV unit. The engine purred along as quietly as advertised… It was his swim fins making all the damned racquet, slapping the surface loudly enough to call every guard on Carrera’s yacht to the handrail, fingers pointing out to sea with a Hey, look!

  An illusion formed out of Eric’s jacked-up system, obviously. The guards never appeared.

  Side by side, he and Aagaard aimed for the bow, and as they drew closer, Eric caught sight of the yacht’s identification number. Yep, it was the scumwad’s boat. His heart rate spiked.

  Aagaard pulled a little ahead, and then—one, two, bump, bump—they each skidded into the port side of the yacht near the front, Aagaard just in front of Eric. Their DPV units slid along the hull as the yacht whooshed by them, going faster than fifteen knots, that was for damned sure.

  With a wide arc of his arm, Aagaard threw the grappling hook. It caught on the handrail with a clatter.

  Jesus, first try. Eric had a major backtrack moment, where he thanked his lucky stars he’d brought Aagaard along after all. No way Eric could’ve done that, not like—shit!

  Aagaard got yanked off his DPV unit by the grip he had on the rope trailing from the hook. He was leaving Eric behind…

  Eric threw himself at Aagaard, grabbing the agent around the boots. His heart shuddered. Near fucking miss. One more second and he would’ve ended up in the yacht’s wake. Biting off a curse, Eric hauled himself up Aagaard’s body—legs, belt, back. Water jetted into his face. The plastic bag was ripped off his wrist. Dammit. There went his only weapon. Placing a knee on Aagaard’s shoulder, Eric ripped the fins off his feet, then hoisted himself up and seized the grappling rope, hand-over-handing himself up the side.

  Props to the DEA agent. The man was strong as a grizzly bear to have managed to hang on during that.

  Eric catapulted himself over the railing, landing in a crouch near a string of windows. He conducted a quick check inside—U-shaped couch, bar, stairs. No one in the room. A nice bonus.

  Eric waited for Aagaard to clamber over the side of the boat. The agent arrived with a knife clamped between his teeth, a huge gut-ripper of a weapon, serrated in thick notches along the top edge and wicked sharp along the blade.

  They stole together along the railing toward the stern; entr
ances into the main part of the yacht would be at the back of the boat, not the bow. Arriving at the rear deck, they pulled up short.

  Eric shot a grimace at Aagaard.

  Four bad guys were seated in deck chairs around a small table, enjoying a round of beers. A royal fucking bummer. Because Eric didn’t see any way to get inside without going through those dirtbags. He eyeballed Aagaard’s two weapons: the knife, now in the agent’s hand, and the pistol still slung around his neck.

  Aagaard looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, but handed Eric the knife.

  Eric flashed a quick, thin smile, even though he would’ve preferred the pistol. He waited for Aagaard to extract the gun, then nodded once at the agent and barreled full-throttle into the beer party.

  Three bad guys had their backs to him. The fourth one, facing Eric, surged to his feet, shock rounding out his features, and fumbled for a gun stuck in the waistband of his pants.

  Eric didn’t slow. He put his full weight behind embedding his knife in the man’s gut. The blade punched through skin and muscle, then slid into something spongy, like Eric had hit the man’s liver. That felt…disturbing. The bad guy gurgled and toppled, jerking Eric forward as the weapon caught—probably the serrated edge on a rib. Eric shook the hilt to dislodge the blade, but that just made the Colombian bobble like a squid caught on the end of a harpoon.

  Bang! Gunfire!

  Eric released the hilt—and now there went his knife—crouched, and spun around.

  Bang! again.

  Two bad guys were falling to the deck, one after the other, and the snout of Aagaard’s pistol was gasping smoke.

  Nice shootin’, Tex. Although so much for this being a quiet mission.