The intelligence loss would be catastrophic. Terrorist chatter after a recent botched Algerian Combat Group—ACG—attack in London said El Mateperros and his minions were plotting something to rival their previous attacks. They wanted to save face among their radical friends.
It was enough to make Rocco sick. The bastard had to live long enough to provide details about future terrorist strikes and hopefully give up El Mateperros. MI6 had only partnered with Titan to bring him in. Very curious but not Rocco’s concern. Next time, maybe Titan would get the interrogation because Roc wanted in on an ACG take down. Nothing like dismantling a terror organization.
Threading his hands into a mess of stringy, greasy hair, Rocco yanked the terrorist’s head back and felt for a pulse. Faint, but there. At least the dude’s alive. For now.
With a disgusted push, he let the man’s head drop and wiped his hand across his chest. It wasn’t the grit he wanted to wipe away. He wanted to remove that nasty feeling he got after touching someone who wanted to kill everything that Rocco protected.
“Target acquired.”
Outside, an armored car waited. Rocco secured the terrorist’s hands and dragged him into the night. He looked at the moon fighting to shine through the smoke. The back door of the vehicle popped open, and hands reached forward, grabbing El Mateperros’s lieutenant. Rocco jumped into the passenger seat, and they took off, bumping and lurching through the brush.
“Guess we went a little overboard. He’s still alive?” Roman growled from the dark back seat.
“Alive enough for someone to work him over.”
Rocco gnashed his teeth that this job was nothing more than a grab-and-drop. Did Jared know the hallucinations hadn’t stopped? Too much time had passed since New York City. No one knew he still had the trippy reactions.
“What’s your problem?” Winters eyed him from the driver’s seat.
Besides feeling a little unfulfilled in the terrorist nabbing department, and worrying his boss knew he still randomly hallucinated, his mind was stuck on the message scrawled on his mirror. Must’ve been for whoever stayed in the room prior because it couldn’t have been for him. Housekeeping simply hadn’t cleaned the mirror.
But… how often did someone think to leave an invisible message to be found by shower steam? Even if someone had seen him in a bad state, had been in his room last night—Knock it off. Rehashing it would only make him twitchy and paranoid. Well, twitchier and more paranoid.
“We’re two minutes out.” Colby Winters’s foot slammed on the gas pedal. They drove off a rocky, Titan-made path and pushed onto a real road, heading to British intelligence’s nearby ops location.
Each passing mile burned Rocco’s blood. “Piece of shit terrorist.”
Roman and Cash agreed from the back seat.
Winters lurched the vehicle off the road and slammed the gear shift to park. “And we’re here. One MI6 black ops site for your terrorist disposing pleasure.”
“Good. Let’s be done with this already.” Rocco kicked his door open and assessed the building: about as quaint and assuming as the last shack he’d firebombed. The difference was they knew he was coming.
The backseat door opened from the inside, and Roman pushed the barely conscious terrorist forward. Rocco let him hit the pavement then snagged him, moving toward an unassuming door. The tumblers of a high-tech security lock released and opened. Half-dragging, half-carrying the man, Rocco stepped into the facility. Still unassuming. Dirty floor. Unfinished walls. Flickering lights.
“Next room,” an unseen British voice filtered through Bose-quality speakers.
“Roger that.” Somewhere in this place was a top-of-the-line nerve center. How many people worked behind the scenes? How many people watched him at that moment? He’d guess a few.
Another door opened after a quick click of electronic tumblers. Yeah, this facility might look like what he’d just blasted a few miles away, but this one was the real deal. The second room’s light flickered less and cast everything in an orange glow. Two armed men stood next to a blood-stained chair. About what he’d expected.
Rocco dropped his delivery, and the sack of flesh and bones thudded on the concrete floor.
“Signed. Sealed. Delivered.” He dusted his hands together. “He’s your problem now. Adios.”
“Adios?” The word danced softly in the air of the calloused room. Sexy and exotic. Accented. And gorgeous. “Fine. Adios, if that’s what you want.”
He turned on the heel of his boot, lasering in on a shadowy, partitioned corner. A woman? Behind a screen, a silhouetted figure with a hand on her cocked hip stole his attention. Long legs and a pony tail stood outlined in a magnificent shadow. Holy hell. Nothing about that belonged in this room. This place was violent atrocity. She was a gauzy reflection of soft edges and a smooth voice.
Oh hell.
He hadn’t even seen her, hadn’t touched her—yet. But that didn’t stop his gut from tightening and his eyes from popping. Calm it down, dude. This must have been all the adrenaline from snatching the terrorist not ten minutes before. But damn if he wasn’t wishing he coulda, woulda, shoulda met this girl someplace else. He swallowed against the boulder in this throat. “What I want has nothing to do with mission objectives.”
The metallic clang of tools hitting the cement floor clattered from behind the partition. She let loose a swell of what were probably curses in Spanish, then her sing-song called to him, still hidden behind the screen. “Ah, the American who plays by the rules. How interesting.”
Whoa. Instant hard-on. Her accent had him hooked. What the hell was she saying, anyway? It was a rollercoaster of pissed off words, complete with rolled Rs that swayed over his senses. He wanted her to keep talking. Another step closer and he wanted to see her face. Instinct told him it would do justice to the rockin’ silhouette painted behind the partition. “Says the Brit who speaks like a Spaniard.” And swears like a—
“I’m not British.”
What else could he learn about her in the next, oh, minute and a half he was expected to be here? Maybe she would keep talking. He’d jump through all kinds of hoops if that woman let loose her accent again. Please, say something I can’t understand. “And I don’t play by the rules. But you—”
She laughed, and the sound slid over his body, winding down his spine. He took in a deep breath, embracing the sensation. Her laugh was better than her words, and he wanted to make it happen again.
“Today.” She was back to work. “It looks like you do.”
“I came bearing a gift.” He looked to the man lying on the floor. “My mission objective is complete, and your invite comes just a bit too late.” He’d left a team of men sitting outside. If he didn’t walk out soon, they’d make an appearance, guns pointed.
“I see.”
No, you don’t. You can’t see anything, and I’m dying to see you.
It was just a voice. But hell. She was too… something. Rare? Offbeat? Familiar?
She worked behind the screen and walked toward the edge of the partition. Such a tease, like she knew he was ready to knock the thing over to get a good look at what housed her voice, laugh, and never-ending legs.
“Fine. Go.” She shooed him away with a grand sweep of her arm. “Team Titan, off to the next job.”
The sound of the Ts rolling off her tongue made his chest collapse. Ribs crumbling. Lungs deflating. A reaction based solely on intuition. “You know more about me than I know about you. Come on out of your hiding place.”
“Almost done with my prep work.” More of that accent that turned him on and made him unable to walk out of the room.
A pause dangled in the air. Rocco heard a zap of electricity, and bright white sparks sprayed from behind the divider. Shock therapy was in store for the man still groaning on the floor, and for a brief second, Rocco almost pitied the terrorist. Almost.
“Perfect,” she whispered. More sparks. More zaps.
Without his control, his eyes slammed shu
t for a half second, just long enough that a cold shiver ran down his shoulders. But he had this. No flashbacks or star-sightings would happen right now. Those zaps were real as the body behind that screen. There was no way in hell this was a hallucination.
She stepped out, an image of beauty in that desolate, craptastic interrogation site. One long leg then the next teased him to the point of distraction. He followed the length of her boot, drinking in the skin tight black pants over the sway of her hips. A black shirt covered her torso and stretched over what he knew were the definition of perfect breasts. Finally, Rocco let his focus caress the curve of her lips, the deepness and darkness of her intense stare.
More than model gorgeous. More than manufactured beauty. She was sweet and sultry. A vision. Standing there, with electrical cables and a torture table at the ready, she couldn’t have been more out of place. Yet this was her room. She owned it, and that kind of confidence was unshakable.
He cleared his throat. “Do you need a hand?”
“Does it look like I do?” She looked over her shoulder, smiling a half grin, clearly knowing the connotation behind his question, challenging him to say it out loud. She stopped and stared with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Then she smiled again, nodding. “Do you believe in coincidence?”
Coincidence? More like luck, walking into a room manned by a woman as deadly and dangerous as she was beautiful and breathtaking. He heard noises from the outer room. Seems he’d overstayed his prescribed amount of time before back up was ready to check in. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
CHAPTER THREE
Yassine Harhour stubbed out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. It was the third one in a row, and his patience was growing thin. His men were not often tardy. Never were they a no call, no show. His lieutenant was both. Several of his men stepped in and out of the living room of their British home base. Unvoiced concerns upped the tension. The missing man—more trustworthy than most—was one Yassine had found living on the streets at the start of the Tunisian Revolution. He’d taken him in, educated him, offered him food and shelter. His absence was alarming. This lieutenant had potential and been groomed for greater things within Yassine’s flourishing network, the Algerian Combat Group. The ACG.
He nodded to his men. “Find out what has detained Firas.”
“Yes, El Mateperros.” A gaggle of men jumped into action. Even his own men feared him, but they stayed loyal. He was going to be an international player, and they wanted their slice of famous pie. Rolling another pinch of tobacco, Yassine admired his favorite view—the bucolic landscape for which the English countryside was known—and thought about the juxtaposition of cultures he’d brought together: his Spanish moniker, El Mateperros, his English country estate, and his Northern African combatants.
England was his favorite place to hunker down. Besides all the time spent absorbing their culture for research purposes, it allowed him to enjoy things that Northern Africa or the Middle East lacked. Fish and chips. Newsstands filled with tabloids. An entertaining Royal family. England was also strategic. Other than the ACG’s bombing mishap a few weeks ago, Yassine did not believe that intelligence agencies knew he was still there, hiding in plain sight.
“El Mateperros.” An up-and-comer addressed him.
“Yes?”
“Firas is gone. His outpost has extensive damage.”
Yassine lit a fresh cigarette, sliding it in his thumb and forefinger. When his empire was attacked, his pulse raced, and his addiction to nicotine flared its familiar head. Saliva wet his mouth. A desire for revenge coursed violently through his blood though he didn’t know the who or the why. Just that there would be repercussions.
He ground his teeth together and gave the order that earned him the Spanish nickname the Dog Killer. Revenge so great, so fantastically atrocious, that when his men killed, they left a message to others. If you cross the ACG, no one will live to tell about it. Not even the family dog.
***
Caterina drained the last of her Diet Coke and fidgeted with the empty plastic bottle. She didn’t want to have a run-in with that soldier of a man, no matter how good looking he might’ve been. He defined caliente. Hot. Hot. Hot. Rugged and dangerous, walking in boots and camo. Her heart pounded, even now.
What was his name? Something that fit with that I’m-gonna-kill-ya look. Rambo, Iceman, Flex. It had to be uber-macho because no one walked around with a ready-to-scorch-the-earth glare unless he’d earned a good call name.
But for now, he was Handsome.
For now? She would never see him again. There was no for now. “Forget about him.”
And now you’re talking to yourself. She cursed a string of red hot irritation both at him and at herself, though she knew she should be proud that her ability to read a person had correctly identified him as the mercenary type when she first saw him hugging a park bench, messed up out of his mind.
Her eyelids sank shut, and she blew out a breath, both a little frustrated and a little interested. He was a little of a lot of things that she didn’t have time for, especially after a very productive day. Yesterday, she’d gained new intelligence on El Mateperros. He was mostly underground, an international chameleon that intelligence communities spanning the globe had an interest in apprehending, especially after the ACG had botched their bombing in London. Thus MI6 had hired her.
It was a well-kept secret among her intel-seeking-and-sharing friends that she knew El Mateperros better than most people on Earth, a sad secret because her years chasing him didn’t yield much information, even sadder because no one knew why. She’d tracked the leader’s lieutenant down and told MI6 that she’d extract the information and pass it along if Titan could make the apprehension. It’d been a special request, but British Intelligence knew her well and made the arrangements, no questions asked. She could only imagine what it had cost them to hire Titan. But MI6’s investment in Jared Westin’s group showed two things that made her muy satisfecha: they were very invested taking down El Mateperros, and they wanted complete deniability for what she would do with the lieutenant.
The interrogation went well, and they now knew El Mateperros was searching for a new explosives distributor with his eye on Daniel Locke, an up-and-coming arms dealer with a reputation for being just as evasive as El Mateperros. Locke had first appeared on analysts’ radar about a year ago. No one could pin point him or even find out what he looked like. Except for rumors and results, Locke didn’t exist. But she could find him. The interrogation gave her enough to extrapolate about an upcoming meeting between Locke and El Mateperros. MI6 was so hungry for the ACG that they’d take the information and run with it.
Something would turn up, and she find Locke and track El Mateperros. She’d take the bastard down. It was her life’s mission, the sole goal of her very existence.
Her cell phone buzzed on the floor next to the couch. She answered it before the first vibration stopped. “Yes?”
“Miss Cruz.” Her British counterpart’s accent didn’t sound as calm as normal. “Good news and bad news.”
Bad news she could handle. It was the good news that made her uneasy. It was far too early for any kind of good news. “Start with the good.”
“Right.” A heavy breath. “Well, it doesn’t really matter. We have Daniel Locke.”
“What? Why?” She gnashed her molars and strangled the cap onto her Diet Coke. The plan was to follow Locke to El Mateperros. “That sounds like ‘we messed up,’ not ‘we have good news.’”
“Well, yes.” Another heavy breath. He took what sounded like a long drag of a cigarette. “We do know where Locke is. We also learned that Locke was recently married. The story behind the man, if you will.”
She uncapped and recapped the soda bottle. “You’ve said ‘was’ several times.”
“Yes. Was. He was vacationing on his honeymoon prior to his meeting with El Mateperros. He was piloting a small Cessna, which crashed. When I said we had him, I didn’t mean alive. Two bodies were
recovered.”
Caterina’s heart sank. Locke was dead, and she was out an immediate way to track down El Mateperros. “But…”
“Back to where we started. No one to track to El Mateperros. I’m sorry, Miss Cruz.”
What was there to say? Nothing. She had to find another way. So very close and then, poof, the closest thing she had to a—wait!
“Who knows he’s dead?”
“What? Oh, well, no one. It was all serendipitous, really. Our timing. His demise.”
Serendipitous? Not what she’d call it. “Local police think some John Doe fell out of the sky?”
“We’ve handled it. A MI6 clean team swept the scene. Nothing to worry about, Miss Cruz.”
“I’m not worrying. I’m—” Keeping this idea to myself. “Never mind. Thank you for the update.”
No one knew Locke was dead, and his mysterious demise played to her advantage. A smile crept onto her face. It was risky and took a major assumption as a cold, hard fact: Locke’s reputation for keeping his identity a secret extended to El Mateperros, at least until they met.
All she needed was a new, live Daniel Locke.
She looked at the wall of photos, maps, and leads she’d tacked up. If it were a normal night, she’d pace. Thinking. Strategizing. Planning. Instead, she was casting a role in a complicated game of charades.
MI6 would never give her an agent. They wanted deniability. What about…?
A quick flip of her Diet Coke bottle, and she stared at her phone. Small world coincidences happened for a reason. Handsome was in her life because the stars had aligned, and she was meant to stumble upon a guy who could handle this job. Titan would work outside the lines. She’d known Jared Westin long enough that he’d let his man do this job even if nobody sanctioned it. Titan’s man could do this. That she knew. She could read people. Hell, she’d read him and had him down to his job description with barely a shared conversation.
Savage Secrets (Titan #6) Page 2
