Wings of Gold Series

by Tappan, Tracy

  Three more Colombians raced from inside the yacht out to the deck, guns drawn.

  Eric swatted the pistol out of the hand of one new arrival, sending the weapon clattering across the deck, then smashed his shoulder into the bad guy’s stomach, seized him around the ass, and heaved him over the starboard side of the yacht. The man’s yell faded down to the ocean. Waaaaaaa…!

  Bang!

  Eric whirled around in time to see a bullet sock Aagaard in the shoulder, blood misting out of the agent’s back as the slug passed through. Aagaard’s legs crumbled beneath him like a house without a foundation.

  Dammit!

  Aagaard’s assailant whirled and pointed the gun at Eric.

  Oh, fuck. Eric threw himself into a slip ’n slide across the deck, his wet suit helping him gain extra speed. Skidding past the Colombian he’d knifed, Eric rolled onto his feet behind a crate and hunkered into a squat, catching his breath as he scrambled for what to do. With Aagaard down, he was minus backup, and with his knife stuck in the bad guy’s ribs, weaponless. Should he try to get to Aagaard’s pistol? The fallen agent was clear across the deck on—hey! There was a lifeboat propped on a stand farther down the starboard rail, and under it, Eric spotted a gun. Had to be the weapon that’d come off the guy Eric just tossed into the drink.

  Pounding feet…

  The Colombian who’d shot Aagaard raced around the crate, gun pointed right at Eric. Bang! The bullet raked along the side of the crate next to Eric’s face, splinters spitting against his cheek, the slug leaving a runnel of torn-out wood behind.

  “Mother fuck!” Eric bolted out the opposite side of the crate, keeping low, and raced for a new hiding spot behind the lifeboat. Diving for the space between the yacht railing and the lifeboat, he snatched up the gun, then leaned out and fired at his shooter. Bang!

  Missed! Shit, just like with the pen gun on Isla Gorgona.

  Bang! Return fire!

  Eric pancaked onto his belly as a bullet whizzed by. From beneath the lifeboat’s stand, he spotted his attacker’s shoes running toward him from the crate. Eric straight-armed his gun underneath the stand, took an extra precious second to aim, then squeezed the trigger. The bullet raked across the shooter’s ankle, tearing out the guy’s pant leg. A flap of bloody skin flopped down, exposing white ankle bone. The man screamed and tripped, plowing head-first into the lifeboat, which produced a satisfying nighty-night effect.

  Jerking his arm back in, Eric popped above the lifeboat and two-fisted the pistol at the last bad guy.

  The Colombian jack-in-the-boxed at the same moment.

  Eric fired—bang! The bullet went high and right. Missed again! He adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger. Click! Empty!

  He ducked back down, breathing heavily through his mouth. Now what? He’d be a fucked-in-the-ass-sitting-duck if he stayed here without a loaded weapon. No other option: he had to go for Aagaard’s gun. Here’s hoping this last bad guy shoots as defectively as I do. Without wasting any more thought on it, Eric took off across the deck. He heard the Colombian give chase, and the hairs on his nape came to attention as he felt a gun being aimed at his back. Passing by the table where the men had been drinking, Eric snagged a beer bottle off it, turned, backpedaled, and threw. Clunk! Right in the middle of the forehead. Down went the last bad guy. No time to fist-pump that success. He continued over to Aagaard, his heart pounding with adrenaline as he crouched next to the fallen agent.

  Aagaard had a bloody hand pressed to his injured shoulder. “Christ, your aim sucks,” he hissed. “Aren’t you in the military, O’Dwyer?”

  “Hellfire missiles are more my specialty.” Or, even better, put him in a boxing ring with an enemy. “Although, yeah, point taken. I need to make a trip out to the range. How bad are you?”

  “I’ll be fine. Go get her.”

  Don’t need to tell me twice. Eric scooped up Aagaard’s pistol and tore into the main cabin, finding the stairway which led belowdecks. Holding the gun out in front of him, he started checking rooms, quickly opening doors, glancing inside, then moving on to the next.

  The third door swung open on a man just out of the shower, dressed only in a pair of black pants, his dark hair still wet. It was that fucking asshole Mustache, the hacienda guard who’d wanted to fuck Nicole. You come see me after you’re done with your show for the Captain. You hear me, little rose?”

  Eric sneered. So happy ta kill’ya. Lifting Aagaard’s pistol, he aimed carefully between Mustache’s surprised eyes, then squeezed off a shot. Fssht! Action jam! Eric growled a breath. What the fuck was up with him and guns tonight?! Cranking back his arm, he threw the weapon, but Mustache had already ducked to charge him. The gun sailed by.

  Eric quickly sidestepped Mustache, bringing down a solid arm bar to the back of the man’s neck. It didn’t slow the brute by much.

  Mustache’s body slammed the door shut, then he spun around, his hand swinging up…

  He slapped Eric.

  Eric stepped back, a red haze slipping over his vision. Slap? As if he wasn’t man enough to deserve a close-fisted punch? Fury, corrosive and hot, seethed its way into his chest. He brought up his fists and danced on the balls of his feet, moving in for the attack—jab, jab, duck, hook, weave, block, counterpunch, stick and move, crosscut.

  Mustache was putting up a good fight, but the dude’s face was soon awash with blood.

  All those times Eric’s brothers had tried to beat the snot out of him, forcing him to defend himself…? Thank you Brock, Lance, and Brett. Eric delivered a final fuckyou bolo punch that crashed Mustache’s head back on his spine. KTFO’d. Asswipe.

  Eric found Aagaard’s useless pistol and grabbed it—might as well have it for show—then stepped over Mustache’s body and went back into the hall. He came to room number four, pushed open the door, and—

  “No!” he shouted.

  Nicole had a cocked pistol leveled at him.

  He dropped his own gun to his side and raised his other hand, palm out. “Nicole, it’s Eric. Don’t shoot.” Horror punched through his chest at the sight of her bloody face. “Jesus, you’re hurt. I’m coming over there.” He took a cautious step forward. “All right?”

  Nicole’s arm shook, then fell like a dead weight, the weapon tumbling from her limp fingers.

  Eric hurried over, passing a buck naked Carrera on the floor, who looked as dead as dead could get. Going down on one knee in front of Nicole, he tipped her face up to him, inspecting her nose. “It doesn’t look broken.”

  “It’s not.” Her eyes watered.

  His voice went scratchy on him. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “Just sore.” She blinked slowly. “And hungry.”

  Relief poured through his limbs. She was okay. “You look like hell.” He smoothed several strands of bloody hair away from her lips, then smiled as he let go of her face. “And I mostly mean that silk getup.”

  She laughed raggedly. “Ow.” She cupped a palm over her nose. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

  He jerked his head toward Carrera. “I take it you did that?”

  “With my very own hands.” She glanced at the drug lord. “Not a single one of my breasts got involved.”

  “That’s…a weird thing to say.” He sat back on one heel and draped a forearm over his knee, his pose way more casual than he felt as he asked, “Is there a reason Carrera is naked that I should be getting really pissed about?”

  She met his eyes, understanding crossing through her vision. “No. Our illustrious kingpin wanted me to take center stage in his own sex show, but I knocked the idea out of his head before it could gain traction.”

  Eric nodded. More relief. A lot of it.

  “I’m really glad you’re here,” Nicole whispered.

  Eric’s heart stumbled over its next beat, then did a complete backflip. He’d never seen a look like that in Nicole’s eyes, soft and affectionate…loving, even. “That’s good.” He straightened and cleared his throat. “Because you can exp
ect to see a lot more of me in the future.” He ripped open the Velcro pocket on his life vest and pulled out his CSEL radio. “I’ve got to call Poker and Beans for help. Aagaard’s been shot.”

  Nicole blanched. “Dios mío.”

  “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. Last I saw him, he was still insulting me.” Eric sat down next to her, propping his back against the bed rail and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He drew her against his side, then pushed the speak button on the side of the radio. “This is Red Wolf 5-4…” he started, but his voice stopped working when Nicole buried her face in his chest and dug her fingers into his life vest. Something inside him broke open and warmth flooded in.

  He closed his eyes very slowly.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Nicole didn’t get home to her apartment in Old Town till dawn.

  She’d had to answer questions about Carrera’s death, then after that there’d been a trip to the ER to get her scrapes and bruises checked out, then a much-needed stop at the cafeteria while she waited for Ryan to get out of surgery, and finally a visit to him in recovery once he did. Somewhere in all that, she’d had a brief phone call with a US marshal. Her parents were fine and would be transferred out of a safe house soon, and then it was back to the WITSEC grind; Kalani and Manolo would be moved out of San Diego and given a new last name. Nicole had taken the news with both sadness and a healthy dose of irony. How stupid she’d been to make decisions in her life based on not wanting to move anymore. Because even if she did manage to stay in one place, friends and family might not.

  The marshals also still wanted Nicole to come back into the program. Nicole Gamboa was now known to be Manolo Muñoz’s daughter, although apparently Marshal Bowry had purposely put false and misleading information in his files to protect his clients. The key to decoding these inaccuracies hadn’t been found yet, and Nicole’s file was now in the hands of the Jiménez brothers, so the marshals didn’t know exactly what had been revealed. But maybe Bowry had bought Nicole a modicum of security with his secret system. She was willing to risk it, especially now that Eric was in her life. It was time to take her mother’s advice and give a relationship with Eric a chance. Plus Carrera was dead and no longer pulling Tavo and Emanuel’s strings. With any luck, the Jiménez brothers would get too involved in warring over Carrera’s turf to bother with a twenty-six-year-old vendetta of the disbanded Medellín Cartel.

  During all this whirlwind of activity, Eric never left her side, thankfully helping to steer her through everything.

  At dawn, he brought her back to her apartment and tucked her into bed. She slept like a corpse on Valium. He returned mid-afternoon to check on her—obviously he’d commandeered her extra key—making her sit up in bed and take more ibuprofen with a glass of milk, then tucked her right back in.

  She woke up at five o’clock that evening.

  Swinging her legs over the side of the mattress, she stretched, taking a few moments to work her kinks out, then padded into her bathroom to check out the damage in her mirror. Not too bad. A light bruise shaded her left cheek from Carrera’s backhand, and more heavy bruising was on her forearms from his rain of blows, but her nose from his head-butt was just a little red. Plus a bit sensitive to the touch—which she discovered when she poked the end of it. But otherwise eleven hours of sleep had done wonders.

  She dressed in shorts, a tank top, and running shoes, grabbed her iPod, then went for a jog. When she trotted back in her front door, she—bounced off Eric’s muscular chest.

  “Mierda!” she exclaimed.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, his brow thunderous. “I’ve been out of my mind with worry.”

  She popped out her ear buds. “Sheesh, no need to call out the National Guard. I went for a run is all.”

  “You’re kidding.” He passed a narrow look over her. “You’re feeling okay?”

  “Pretty okay, yes. Hungry again.”

  He inspected her for another second, then his expression eased. “I’ve got you covered there.” He gestured toward her kitchen. “I brought stuff to make tacos, but also Chinese. I wasn’t sure how a boyfriend is supposed to feed his girlfriend when she’s just back from the hospital: by cooking for her or with takeout.”

  “Chinese food would be great.” She walked into her dining room and tossed her iPod on the table next to a stack of bills and a trio of candlesticks her mom had given her. Actually her mother had decorated her entire apartment. Nicole had no skill for such things, whereas Kalani had created a perfect blend of charm and utility. Even the candlesticks were made of chunky iron, which added a touch of class to her dining room table without being frou-frou. “But what’s this boyfriend business?”

  “I saved your life.” Eric took up a wide-legged stance in front of her, his arms crossed over his chest, as if braced for battle. “I’m claiming boyfriend status for that.”

  “I saved my own life.” She smiled. Bad girl. No smiling over killing people. Even an immoral and ruthless drug lord? All right. That one’s fine, but only that.

  One side of Eric’s mouth hitched up. “You did kick some serious ass, Gamboa.” Pride warmed his eyes, and she nearly squirmed. “But,” he continued, “I considerably decreased the bad guy count on Carrera’s yacht.”

  She heard what Eric had done, and it was pretty freaking amazing: freezing his ass off for hours on end in the ocean, getting shot at—more than once—mowing down countless thugs with fists, knife, and gun. “Aagaard contributed, as well,” she tossed back, leaning against the dining room table. Why should she make it easy for the cocky son of a gun? “In fact, he even took a bullet for me. Am I supposed to be his girlfriend, too?”

  Eric stepped closer, a hard gleam in his eyes. “Feel free to do whatever making up you want with Agent Skid Mark. But when it comes to sharing…?” Dark tension rolled off Eric’s body. “You should be aware I’m not so good at that.”

  She chuckled. Maybe messing with him wasn’t the best idea. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to pee a circle around me.”

  “Nope. You’re just my girlfriend now. That’s it. If we’re in agreement, then I can dispense with the troglodyte chest-pounding.”

  “Pushy,” she drawled. And noble, handsome, caring, strong, heroic…plus an added extra: he was a dinner-cooker.

  “Determined,” he corrected.

  “All right, let’s discuss the bennies.”

  “The what?”

  “What benefits are you offering to me as my boyfriend?”

  “Ah.” His lips curled. “Immediate consummation of the relationship.”

  She snorted, although her belly did a quick jump, too.

  His eyes grew smoky as he started to take another step toward her.

  “Hold on a second there, flyboy.” She planted a palm on his chest and urged him back a pace. “I have two requirements.”

  “Fun. Let’s hear them.”

  “First, you have to tell me how you earned the call sign Landing Zone.”

  He laughed deep in his throat. “Later tonight. No way I’m telling you now.”

  “That’s acceptable. And number two.” She smiled slowly. “I want to be serenaded. Biggest Part of Me by Ambrosia, and only Biggest Part of Me will do.”

  He turned his eyes up to the ceiling and groaned. “God, please, no.”

  “Sex,” she said, low and husky, “is definitely guaranteed at the end of it.”

  He straightened with a snap. One of his black brows climbed lazily, a considering, sexual quality to the way he looked at her.

  My, my, my. She could get used to being looked at like that. She ran a finger along the scooped neckline of her tank top and waggled her brows.

  He launched into immediate song. “Make a wish, baby, and I will make it come true.” He spread his hands to her. “Make a list, baby, of the things I’ll do for you.”

  She chuckled.

  His voice went up into falsetto as he sang, “Ain’t no risk, girl…” Then his voice dr
opped back down, “…in lettin’ my love rain down on you.”

  She laughed harder. He was ridiculously amazing.

  “We can wash away the past.” He went down on one knee, arms thrown wide. “So that we may start anew…” As he ooh-ooh’d musically, he thrust back to his feet, sweeping her into his arms and spinning her around.

  She whooped.

  “Got a feelin’ that forever.” He let her slide slowly down the front of his body, and her laughter faded as her breasts glided over the musculature of his chest. “We are gonna stay together. From now until forever.” He pressed his lips to her ear and hoarsely whispered the last line, “You’re the biggest part of me.”

  Her chest tightened as emotions rose in her, affection, love, pure delight…each one more overpowering than the next. Tears tingled in her eyes. She leaned back and stared up at him, his hair darkly glossy, like the color of papaya seeds, and the taut curve of his magnificent shoulders. Her heart swelled to twice its normal size. “Okay.”

  His eyes gleamed at her. “Okay what?”

  “Okay, I’ll be your girlfriend.”

  “Oh, good. For a minute there, I was doubting it.”

  She smiled. Cocky son of a gun. “And yes.”

  He stepped back. “To?”

  “Immediate consummation of the relationship.” She wedged herself out of her running shoes, at the same time pulling off her tank top and jog bra. “Get undressed,” she told him, throwing off her shorts and undies.

  “Wow.” Eric’s gaze raked over her nakedness as he started to strip. “A fast undresser. I like that in a girlfriend.” He shed his clothes in record time, too.

  She conducted her own inspection. “Mierda, flyboy, I don’t remember you being this splendid.” She paid special attention to his erection. “Maybe because I wasn’t allowed to stare before.”

  He smirked. “You still did.”

  And you didn’t? “Do you want to start sharing secrets about that day in the hacienda?”

  “Yes. Let’s have a long and lengthy discussion about it right now.” He slid one hand around her lower back, drew her close, and cupped her breast with his other hand. “Damn,” he breathed. “What was Carrera thinking, not instructing me to touch these?” He gave her breast a gentle squeeze.