by Paige Tyler
In the end though, none of that political crap mattered. People in pay grades well above them had decided the SEALs were going on this mission, so Nash and the other members of his team were here. But finding weapons like these suddenly made a simple mission drastically more complicated.
“I know we’re only supposed to observe and report, but are we seriously considering leaving these missiles here?” Dalton asked.
It was a good question. The CIA told them to confirm the existence of the weapons, slip some tiny tracking devices into a few of the containers, then leave without a trace. In theory, the CIA would track the shipment to its destination then make their move. But would the CIA seriously be okay with allowing missiles like this get to a port in Mexico?
“Dalton’s right,” Nash said. “We can’t let these missiles end up in the hands of terrorists or drug dealers. Even if we put GPS tracking devices in the cases, there’s still a chance the CIA could screw up and lose them.”
“I know, but no matter how we handle this, the CIA is going to shit bricks,” Holden said, his eyes still fixed on the high-tech weapons.
Nash grunted. “They’ll get over it. And if they have that much of a problem with how we decide to handle the situation, maybe they’ll stop inviting us on these damn missions.”
“Don’t suppose we can just blow the things up, huh?” Dalton asked.
Nash knew that would be the easiest thing. A couple blocks of C4 explosives and all their problems would be gone. That was the thing with explosives—they tended to solve a lot of problems. But explosives weren’t an option on a commercial ship like this.
Holden realized that, too, because he shook his head. Slipping the lid back on the top container, he cinched down the latches, then looked at them. “No, we can’t blow them, but we damn sure aren’t leaving them here.”
Nash’s thoughts exactly. Unfortunately, getting off the ship with five containers full of missiles was going to be a lot more difficult than getting on it. Luckily, SEALs always made contingency plans.
He and his teammates moved quickly, putting tracking devices in several of the larger ammo containers they were leaving, then pulling the five missiles boxes out of the cargo container, and heading for the side of the ship with them. Once they had all of the weapons positioned alongside a clear section of the ship’s railing, they sealed the missile boxes so they wouldn’t leak then tied them together and attached flotation bags to them. Holden then hooked a tracking beacon to one of the boxes while Wes pulled the lanyard that would fire the gas generator on the float bags.
Nash stripped off his tactical gear, dumping most of it over the side of the ship until he was wearing nothing but the wet suit he had on under his clothes. A few feet away, his teammates did the same. The original plan had been to jump overboard, where they’d all float happily along until a Seawolf class sub lurking in the area came to the surface to pick them up. Their new plan involved doing exactly the same thing…while attached to five containers full of missiles. Explosive-filled missiles in the middle of rough seas. What could go wrong?
After the missile containers were in the water, Holden and Wes jumped in. Nash waited for Dalton to follow, but his buddy hesitated.
“If you don’t make it through this alive, you can be sure I’ll go out of my way to console all those women you don’t want me to introduce you to. Just because I’m that kind of friend.”
“Bite me,” Nash said as Dalton hopped up on the low wall that ran around the perimeter of the ship.
“No thanks. You’re not my type,” Dalton said with a grin as he dropped out of sight.
Shaking his head, Nash leaped up on the wall, then stepped off into the darkness to join the rest of his Team in the frigid cold water.
CHAPTER ONE
Mexico, Two Days Later
CRAP.
The moment Bristol Munoz heard her father coming down the hallway of the villa, she turned and quickly headed in the opposite direction. She didn’t want to see him, much less talk to him. It wasn’t simply that she hated him—though that was certainly enough reason all on its own. It was the fact that they couldn’t be in the same room for five minutes without arguing. And she didn’t feel like getting into a fight with him right now.
She glanced out the big picture windows at the jewel-like waters of the Pacific Ocean and beyond to the thriving Mexican port city of Manzanillo. The weather was sunny and beautiful, which meant it was a perfect day to wander around town—if she was ever allowed to go into town. She hadn’t been outside the house that had become her prison in over a year. If her father continued to have his way—which he always did—she’d be stuck there for the foreseeable future.
She tried to walk as quietly as she could on the marble floors so she wouldn’t give herself away as she headed for the library, but her leather flip-flops seemed to echo with every step. The library was her favorite room in the villa, with lots of comfy chairs and shelves upon shelves of books to lose herself in. It had been her mother’s favorite room, too. That was one of the reasons Bristol liked it so much. The other was that her father never went in there.
But before she could make it to the double doors of her sanctuary, heavy footsteps approaching from the direction of the library froze her in place. No doubt it was some of her father’s guards. There were never less than twenty of the heavily-armed goons wandering around the villa at all hours of the day and night.
Cursing under her breath, she ducked down a side hallway. Unfortunately, the only thing along it was her father’s study, which was one place she didn’t want to go. But she couldn’t see an alternative, unless she went back the way she’d come.
Opening the door, she slipped inside, then closed it soundlessly behind her. She stood there a moment, leaning back against the wood and waiting for her pulse to slow. In the hand-painted portrait above the desk directly across from where she stood, her mother’s crystal clear blue eyes smiled down at her. The painting was why this was Bristol’s least favorite room in the villa. Not because she hated her mother. She loved her mother. No, she despised coming in here because it tore her heart out every time she saw the portrait. She couldn’t believe her father had the arrogance to display a painting of the woman he’d so viciously murdered.
Bristol didn’t realize she was still staring at the picture, tears running down her cheeks, until she heard the thud of leather-soled shoes right outside the door. Heart pounding at the thought of her father finding her there, she pushed the painful memory of her mother’s death aside and darted across the room into the en suite bathroom just as the door to the study opened.
She held her breath as she heard her father cross the room, sagging with relief when the expensive leather chair behind the desk creaked as he sat down.
“Is it wise having the weapons shipped directly to Manzanillo?” a man’s deep voice asked. “Don’t we have to worry about the other members of the cartel getting word of the deal?”
Bristol cringed. She wasn’t surprised Leon Gonzalez was with her father. The big Colombian was her father’s right-hand man and personal bodyguard. Luis Munoz never went anywhere without the creepy South American killer. You never knew when you might need to have someone’s fingers cut off…or a bullet put in their head.
If possible, she hated Leon even more than she loathed her father because he was almost certainly the one who’d killed her mother. On her father’s orders, of course.
Bristol leaned against the door, absently listening to her father and Leon talk about the pros and cons of shipping weapons into the local port, and whether there was a chance anyone else in the cartel would figure out what they were doing. As she eavesdropped, she replayed a recurring daydream she had, one involving the Mexican Federal Police smashing through the walls that surrounded the villa like it was a compound and arresting her father for being a murderer and a drug lord.
She wasn’t delusional. Her father was a major player in the Amador Crime Cartel. The people who worked for him moved d
rugs, killed innocents, murdered cops, and anyone else who got in their way. It wasn’t a leap to hope that someday the Federales, or maybe the Mexican Army, might show up to deal with him.
Luis Munoz had always been rich. As a little girl, Bristol remembered him taking her to the huge warehouses he ran down at the port. It wasn’t until she’d gotten older that she’d learned he owned several shipping lines that moved freight all over the world. He’d acquired his first company—the one he’d owned when he’d met her mother—from his father, and had grown the business in leaps and bounds until he was the biggest freight hauler in this part of the world.
When she was twelve, Bristol had asked her father about all the armed men who guarded the villa and the perimeter walls that had begun going up shortly after that. He’d smiled and tickled her, making her laugh as he told her that he was an important man who needed guards and walls to keep her and her mother safe. His reasoning had made complete sense to her and she hadn’t given it another thought.
That was the father she’d known when she’d gone to Connecticut to attend college in her mother’s hometown. She’d come home Christmas and Spring Break, as well as in between semesters, but it wasn’t until she’d returned for good after finishing her master’s program that she finally picked up on the fact that something had changed.
The most obvious difference had been the increase in security at the villa and constant parade of scary people meeting with her father every night. Leon had shown up then, as well. But none of those oddities stood out as much as the tension between her parents.
Bristol’s mother had come to Mexico after graduating from college looking to explore the world and meet amazing people. She’d met Luis Munoz her first night in Manzanillo and fallen in love at first sight. A day didn’t go by when her mother and father didn’t kiss or hold hands. When they didn’t do either of those things after Bristol moved home, she knew something was different between them. She’d tried to talk to her mother about it, but her mom refused to say anything, other than to urge Bristol to go back to Connecticut to spend some time with her grandparents and get a job there.
Then Leon had cornered Bristol one night in the kitchen, invading her personal space and saying insane stuff about the two of them getting married soon. She’d still been trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about when the jerk had tried to kiss her.
In retrospect, Bristol probably should have shoved him away and gotten out of there, but she’d never been one to shy away from confrontation—something she’d gotten from her mother, she supposed. So instead, she’d slapped Leon. The bastard had hit her back so hard she thought she’d pass out. She hadn’t, but she’d had an ugly bruise from where he’d smacked her.
When her mother had seen it, she’d raised hell, demanding her father fire Leon on the spot. Her father had refused, siding with his lieutenant. Half an hour later, her mother told her to pack, that they were leaving Mexico and going back to the States for good.
“Pack while I get our passports,” her mom said. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
But her mother had never come back.
According to her father, her mother had left on her own, only to change his story a few days later and say that one of his enemies had kidnapped her. Bristol had never believed either of those things. Her father had ordered Leon to kill her because he was the kind of man who couldn’t stand the idea of someone taking something away from him, even if he didn’t value it very much.
How could she not have known her father was such a horrible man?
In the other room, her father’s cell phone rang, making her jump.
“Edein,” her father greeted the caller. “I was just talking about you. Any idea when my shipment is arriving?”
“It should be docking in Manzanillo by the end of the week,” a man’s voice came over the speaker in an accented voice. Bristol wasn’t sure, but it sounded Russian. “The ship is called the Deliberate.”
She wondered absently if her father always put his phone on speaker when Leon was around. Then again, Leon was his right-hand man.
“And the missiles we discussed are part of this shipment?” her father asked, his voice firming on this detail. “For the money I’m paying, I expect those missiles to do exactly what you promised. They can take down a commercial aircraft, right?”
Bristol gasped, then quickly covered her mouth, afraid her father or Leon would hear. She hadn’t given much thought to the kind of weapons her father had been talking about. She’d assumed he was buying more guns to go with the others his guards carried.
“I have a crew of men flying into the airport in Manzanillo,” the Russian said. “Three of them for the administrative parts of finalizing the deal and discussing your next purchase. The fourth man will be a freelance agent Nick Chapman, who’s currently working for me. He’ll train your men in how to use the weapons.”
Bristol silently groaned. More scumbag criminals hanging around the compound. Great.
“Chapman?” Her father’s voice took on a decidedly curious tone.
Edein chuckled. “So you’ve heard of him? Not surprising. He has quite a reputation in our circles.”
“Yes, I’ve heard a lot about him. Free-lance mercenary, arms dealer, security specialist. I can’t wait to meet him. But I must warn you, if he is as impressive as I’ve heard, I intend to lure him away from you.”
“Good luck with that my friend,” Edein said with another laugh. “Nick works with me, not for me, and he is a difficult man to impress. If you’re planning to make a run at him, you’ll need to start with a hell of a lot of money and a beautiful woman. He has a definite weakness for both.”
Bristol listened with half an ear to the rest of the conversation, wondering how long she was going to be trapped in the bathroom, when her father finally hung up. She hoped he and Leon would leave, but instead they hung around, talking cartel business in voices too low for her to make out much of what they were saying. That was okay. She wasn’t interested anyway.
Sighing, she leaned back against the vanity. It was probably going to be a while, so she might as well get comfortable. Well, as comfortable as she could be hiding in a bathroom that her father or Leon could walk into any minute.
She was so lost in her thoughts she almost didn’t hear the knock on the door of the study.
“Señor Muñoz! I didn’t realize you were in here. Forgive me.”
“That’s all right, Isabella,” her father said. “We were finishing up anyway.”
Isabella Rodriguez had been their housekeeper since Bristol was a little girl. Even though Isabella wasn’t family, Bristol loved her like an aunt. If not for Isabella, Bristol probably would have gone insane in this prison. To say Isabella had been Bristol’s rock after her mother had been murdered was an understatement.
She was still thinking about that when the door suddenly opened.
Bristol jumped, quickly backing away from the door and looking for somewhere to hide. Like she could get out of sight before whoever it was came in. How stupid was that?
Bristol held her breath, expecting to see her father or Leon, but instead it was Isabella, a stack of hand towels in her arm. Bristol sagged with relief. If there was one person in the villa she could trust, it was Isabella. Her friend gave a start, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she changed out the old hand towels with new ones, then took a quick peek into her father’s study.
“Your father and Leon just left,” she whispered. “Stay here until I tell you it’s safe to come out.”
Bristol nodded, mouthing a silent, “Thank you.”
Giving Bristol an exasperated look, Isabella turned and walked out, closing the door behind her.
Crap, that had been close.
No doubt Isabella thought Bristol had been in her father’s study trying to figure out the combination to his safe again so she could get the passport he was keeping from her. Isabella had warned her to be careful about that. If her father or Leon ever found her
…
Bristol shuddered. She didn’t want to think what they’d do.
CHAPTER TWO
NASH ALWAYS WANTED to visit Mexico. But when he pictured it, he’d envisioned a romantic getaway with a beautiful woman, days spent lying on the beach and nights exploring every inch of her body. Instead, he was in the port city of Manzanillo with Dalton and three federal agents neither of them had ever met, trying to understand what the hell they were both doing there. Two CIA agents sat in the front of the big SUV they were in, while an ATF agent occupied the third-row seat behind him and Dalton. None of the Feds seemed particularly interested in briefing them on the mission, but that didn’t stop Nash from asking anyway.
In the passenger seat, Roman Bernard tossed him a quick glance over his shoulder. At least twenty years older than Nash, his hair was more gray than black, and he seemed to have a permanent furrow in his brow. Right now, he seemed to be more focused on the traffic in the crowded port city than anything else. It was getting close to sunset, and it looked like the man was having a hard time figuring out where he was going in the gathering dusk.
“Are you telling me nobody briefed you on this mission?” Roman frowned. “You’re joking, right?”
Nash took a quick peek at the fed driving in the SUV, Charlie Shaw. Young enough to be Roman’s son, he didn’t seem nearly as concerned as the older agent about the route they were taking. But Shaw appeared to be as shocked that Nash and Dalton didn’t know what was going on. Nash took a quick look at the ATF guy in the back seat and saw that Gerard Santiago was equally puzzled.
Unbelievable.
Nash took a deep breath and forced himself to let it out slowly so he wouldn’t give into the urge to lean across the seat and punch Roman for being part of such a clueless organization. “Four nights ago, Dalton and I parachuted onto the deck of a cargo ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with the other members of my SEAL Team and retrieved a crapload of missiles for you guys. After we went overboard with them, we spent nearly six hours floating around, getting our asses kicked by thirty-foot waves and being beat to shit by the missiles containers while we waited for a sub to pick us up. But instead of taking us back to San Diego, the sub dropped Dalton and me off on a resupply ship a few hours later. Some guy—who never bothered to tell us his name—shuffled us off to a helicopter and dropped us off in Mexico where another guy drove us to a cheap motel outside of Manzanillo. We’ve been sitting there ever since.” He gave Roman a hard look. “So no, I’m not joking. And my sense of humor, which is normally one of my more endearing qualities, is pretty much gone at this point. Someone needs to start telling us what the hell is going on before Dalton and I decide we’ve had enough and leave.”
