Midnight Target

by Elle Kennedy

  “You weren’t there?” Rivera cut in coldly.

  The other man took a backward step even though Rivera hadn’t so much as twitched in his chair. “There was a lot of shooting. I ran for cover in the Jeep and . . .” He glanced at his feet. “I was driving and I thought Adrián jumped in the back.” Another gulp. “I didn’t realize he wasn’t with me until I was more than a mile away.”

  “So you left my son behind.” Rage coated his throat. He slowly shifted his gaze to Benicio, who was even more ashen. “And you, you weren’t there to begin with.”

  Silence hung over the large, musty-smelling room in which Rivera had been conducting his briefings since he’d gone underground. It wasn’t the sprawling hacienda on the hill where he’d lived for the last three decades, where he’d married his wife and raised his sons. It wasn’t the luxury he’d become accustomed to, the wealth and riches he’d clawed and bled and killed to accumulate.

  But after three assassination attempts, and with Adrián so eager to prove himself, Rivera had decided it was time to retire. For years his wife had begged him to step down. She thought he was too old to run the business. As if one was ever too old to rule an empire! But, he supposed, what was the point in having an heir if not to leave him a legacy? And so, for the past two years, he’d been grooming his eldest, his pride and joy, to take over the family business.

  And today, those sons of bitches had stolen Adrián from him.

  A bolt of fury shot up his spine. Before anyone could blink, he grabbed the pistol, swung it up, and put two bullets in Perez’s forehead.

  The guards near the door didn’t so much as flinch as Perez’s body dropped like a sack of rotten potatoes. A puddle of blood pooled around the dead man’s head onto the concrete floor. Rivera watched it briefly, satisfaction rising inside him, and then he shifted the gun barrel in Benicio’s direction and watched his son’s eyes fill with horror.

  “Father,” Benicio started.

  He waited for the shock to turn into fear, but it didn’t. He wasn’t sure whether to be proud or more incensed. He’d raised his boys not to fear death. He’d raised them to be more than men—to be gods. To take what they wanted and never be afraid of the consequences. He supposed he shouldn’t fault Benicio now for not cowering in the face of a gun barrel.

  But boys, at the same time, were supposed to respect their fathers. Adrián would have had enough respect for the man who’d sired him to show some fear. His younger brother, however, proved to be as stupid as Rivera had always known him to be.

  He lowered his weapon, chuckling when an audible sigh of relief slipped from Benicio’s mouth. Ah. The eyes may not have conveyed the fear, but the body had felt it. Good.

  “I want you to bring your brother’s body to me.”

  Benicio’s eyebrows shot up. “You want me to . . .”

  “Are you deaf? I want you to go back to Bardera and collect your brother’s body!” His lips tightened. “Unless you want to leave him there to rot like a dead whore in the street?”

  Benicio gave a wild shake of his head. “N-no. I don’t, Father. I’ll get him right away.” He took a hurried step to the door before halting abruptly. “What about the people who killed him?”

  “I’ll take care of that, don’t you worry. Go. Bring your brother home.”

  The second Benicio was gone, Rivera signaled for his guards to leave him as well. Once the metal door clicked shut behind them, he reached for his bottle of bourbon and carefully poured himself a shot. He tipped his head back and drank, the burn of alcohol joining with the burn of rage in his gut.

  He snatched one of the many disposable phones littering the table and dialed.

  As he expected, the caller picked up right away.

  “You gave me false intelligence,” Rivera hissed in lieu of a greeting.

  There was a sharp intake of breath. “I’m sorry? What are you . . . I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You told me the photographer was a harmless girl. You said she was twenty-one, just starting out. You said she was estranged from her father.”

  “I said that because it’s all true!” George Dale sounded flustered.

  Good. He should be.

  “I relayed everything that Agent Tripley told the team,” Dale said desperately. “Cate Morgan was working on a story about corruption in Guatana. She’s the one who took the picture.”

  “And her father?”

  “I told you. James Morgan, a mercenary.”

  “Yes, and yet they are not estranged as you initially reported, because he flew all the way to Guatana to save the little bitch’s ass. Not only that, but he brought a team of mercenaries with him.”

  “I’m sorry, I just . . . I don’t understand why this is a big deal. She took a picture. It doesn’t mean she knows anything. She doesn’t. She’s just a stupid girl.”

  “That stupid girl was resourceful enough to spot my face in a crowd of beggars. To connect me to Aguilar—”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Dale stammered, “you took a risk when you left your safe house. It’s just bad luck that someone spotted you in the market.”

  Yes, bad luck, indeed. But the meeting with Aguilar had been unavoidable. For the past three months, the general had been dodging Adrián’s attempts to meet, worried by the change of leadership in the Rivera power structure. As much as Rivera had resented Aguilar’s reluctance to deal with Adrián, he’d also recognized that they needed the man.

  For two decades the naval defense minister had provided the Riveras with unrestricted shipping routes, not to mention government protection. So, yes, they needed the sniveling fool. Coming out of hiding to facilitate a deal between Adrián and Aguilar, to offer reassurances to the general that their arrangement would continue in the smoothest of manners . . . it had been a risk, but also a necessity.

  “We are not discussing me at the moment,” he said coldly. “We’re discussing you and your incompetence,” he growled into the phone. “That little bitch sent my picture to your agency.”

  “The DEA already suspected you were alive,” Dale protested.

  “That’s irrelevant!” he snapped. “It’s the principle of the matter. It’s the threat she poses. I don’t need some nosy cunt in my business. It doesn’t matter if she knows my location—what matters is that she exists.” His fingers tightened around the phone. “What matters is that her people killed my son.”

  A shocked silence fell over the line. “Oh. I . . . I’m s-sorry. I d-didn’t know . . . when did—”

  “Stop stuttering like a fool!” Rivera drew a slow breath. “You screwed up once by not giving me the proper intelligence. This time you will not screw up.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re asking of me.”

  He gritted his teeth. “You’re going to get me thorough intel on every single man and woman in that bastard Morgan’s employment. I want their names, their histories. I want to know who their families are, who they’re close to, who they’re fucking. I want to know when they take a shit and when their families take a shit and when their motherfucking dogs take a shit. And you’re going to get me all this information by tomorrow morning.”

  Dale made a panicked noise. “Mr. Rivera, that’s impossible. I don’t have that kind of clearance! James Morgan used to be black ops. If there’s a file on him, there’s no way I’ll ever be able to access it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to be as resourceful as his bitch daughter. Do you want to know what will happen if you fail me again?”

  Silence.

  He could practically taste the other man’s terror. The terror he’d wanted to see in Benicio’s eyes and had been denied.

  “Would you like me to tell you what I’m going to do if you don’t get me what I need?” he asked pleasantly.

  “No, sir—”

  “Okay,
I’ll tell you.” He smiled. “Unlike you, I’m quite skilled at gathering information, so I’m well aware that you have a lovely young wife. You only recently got married. Six months ago, I believe. The wedding was in Nantucket. Sounds like it was a nice ceremony.”

  “Please . . . ,” Dale whimpered.

  “What’s your lovely wife’s name again? Miranda? That’s a beautiful name.”

  “Sir—”

  “I’m very much looking forward to meeting your Miranda.” His smile widened. “I don’t know if she’s going to enjoy meeting me—”

  “P-please—”

  “—but she’s sure going to enjoy having my cock in her ass.”

  An agonized moan wailed over the line.

  “Yes, I think I’ll fuck her. I’ll fuck her ass and I’ll fuck her cunt and I’ll fuck her mouth, and then I’ll get my son to do it. And after he’s filled her with his come, I’m going to order every man who works for me to shove his big, dirty cock inside your wife’s tight cunt. But it won’t be tight when we’re done with it, will it?”

  “Please . . . no . . .”

  Rivera grunted in disgust at Dale’s choked sobs. Fucking weak bastard. Men didn’t cry. And men certainly didn’t cry over women. He loved his Camila more than he loved anyone. He would die for that woman, he would kill for her, but he would never cry over her.

  “And once we finish fucking your sweet Miranda, I’ll pull out my favorite knife and start cutting off pieces one by one. I think we’ll start with her nipples. Pretty little pink nipples . . . They’ll pop right off, I imagine. Then I’ll drag my blade down to her loose, come-filled cunt—”

  “Stop it!” Dale shouted, then immediately gasped as if realizing what he’d done. “I’ll get you the information you need! I promise! But tomorrow morning might be hard. I’m begging you for a little more time.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” Rivera relented.

  “Thank you.”

  He hung up and reached for the bourbon. Men truly were puppets, so easy to maneuver if you knew the right strings to pull. And he’d pulled a lot of strings in his days. He was the most feared man on the globe for a reason.

  But he was also a father.

  So. Cockroaches had decided to take his son from him?

  It was time to repay the favor.

  Chapter 13

  “Hey, Dad,” Cate whispered to the unconscious man on the bed. “How’re you doing?”

  There was no response. No sound other than the hiss of the ventilator.

  Swallowing a lump of heartache, she approached the hospital bed and dragged a metal chair closer to her father’s side. She’d spent the morning in Guatana City with Bailey, so this was the first chance she’d had to check in on Jim. As she set the photographs she’d taken this morning on the bedside table, she found herself sheepishly checking for a reaction. Despite Jim’s comatose state, he still was a commanding presence. Cate half expected him to rise up from the bed and glare at her for leaving the safety of the base today to take photographs of cartel spouses.

  She released a rueful breath. “I guess the positive side of this is that you can’t yell at me for taking pictures of Camila Rivera. Bailey and I saw her when we were getting coffee this morning.”

  Cate tapped the glossies they’d stopped to print out at the pharmacy, whose owner had been pathetically grateful for their money.

  “Someone will be pissed, though. Ash, most likely. I blame all my problems with Ash on you, by the way.” She was only half joking. “I mean, let’s be realistic. He was the only guy around that was even close to my age. Did you really think I’d be able to hang out with him all day long and not fall for him? Even Noelle likes him and she doesn’t like anyone but you.”

  Her gaze drifted over Jim’s prone form, hoping there’d be some kind of response, but there was nothing. There was no pleasure in trying to rile him up, no goading him out of the coma. She’d tried all those tactics with her mother for years—tears, both fake and real, screaming, begging, promises to be good, and vows to be terrible. All that had netted was pitying looks from the bodyguards assigned by her grandfather and disapproving stares from the nursing staff.

  She sighed and rubbed a knot in her temple. “I know. If only I’d stayed in college and gotten my degree in . . . statistics or something boring and normal, you’d be fine, right? That’s what you’re saying in my head, but we both know you’ve lived every day on the edge. Who knew if you were going to come home in one piece?”

  His disapproving silence hung between them at her not fully honest admission. She couldn’t lie to Jim while he lay there and couldn’t fire back at her.

  “Okay, okay. I did worry, but that’s not why I dropped out. I wanted something more than a college dorm room, but not this. I’m sorry. I never wanted to put anyone in danger.”

  Or get anyone killed.

  The lump in her throat grew bigger. Riya had been shot to death because of her. Cate knew she’d have to live with that guilt for the rest of her life. But, God, she couldn’t lose Jim too. One death on her conscience would break her. Two would crush her.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Just open your eyes, Dad.”

  There she was again—bargaining, pleading with someone who couldn’t respond. She bit her lip. She couldn’t make promises here, not when she knew she’d break them. She’d spent so many years sitting at her mom’s bedside, listening to the hushed background voices accompanied by the drone of the machines that breathed for her mother, punctuated by occasional beeps and alarms. Was it any wonder that everything inside of her rebelled at sitting in lectures day in and day out? Doing was how she felt alive.

  “The doctors are worried. They don’t use those terms, though.” She reached up to swipe some of the moisture out of her eyes. “They say things like your prognosis is uncertain and no definitive conclusions can be drawn at this stage. But we both know it’s bullshit.” She blinked through another rush of tears. “You’d hate this, but everyone has come to pay their last respects. If you were awake, you’d tell them to get the hell home—”

  Her voice cracked and she couldn’t go on. She bent her head low until her forehead was resting on the crisp hospital sheet. How many times had she talked herself hoarse in this very same scenario? It was too much. Just too much.

  But maybe this was her cross to bear, and so she exhaled deeply and forced herself to keep talking. The nurses had always said she should talk to her mother, that coma patients could hear everything even if they didn’t remember the conversations when they awoke.

  “Do you know how many people you’ve touched? How many people love you so deeply? Even Holden is coming—he actually returned Kane’s call after years of radio silence. Everyone’s here for you, Dad. Everyone wants you to make it. Ash worships the ground you walk on. He won’t take a breath without you giving him the okay. What’s he going to do if you’re gone?”

  What am I going to do if you’re gone?

  God, this train of thought was getting her nowhere. Cate took another deep breath and refocused back to the thing that would piss Jim off. If he were conscious.

  “I was surprised to see Camila in the city today. She’s very popular with the European tabloids. Her photographs are almost always somewhere glitzy and glamorous. Guatana is an economic wasteland—the only luxury goods here are clean water, meat, bread. So she’s got to be here because her husband is here, right?”

  She’d wanted to discuss this with Bailey earlier, but the woman had been uncharacteristically quiet, probably out of respect or concern. Cate wasn’t sure.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. “Am I interrupting?”

  She looked over to find Liam Macgregor in the doorway, his gorgeous face creased with concern.

  Cate shook her head, grateful for the company. “No, Jim is being maddeningly quiet. Did you just get in?”

  He nodd
ed. “Took a while. Total bitch to get here.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know . . . inconveniencing you, I guess.”

  Liam gave her a gentle smile. “It’s not an inconvenience. I need to be here.” He moved silently across the tiled floor until he reached the bed. In a careful tone, he asked, “What’s his condition?”

  “A bullet in his neck. I think the swelling is causing his unconscious state. Reflexes all work, though.” She tapped Jim’s knee, and she and Liam watched as the leg moved involuntarily. “He’s having problems breathing, which is why he’s on the ventilator.”

  “Good news, bad news. It’s a regular shit sandwich.” Liam squeezed her shoulder in encouragement. “He’ll wake up when he’s ready, darling. In the meantime, we’re going to salt the city with the ashes of the Rivera cartel.”

  Those words were more for Jim than Cate, judging by the look of steely promise he directed at the comatose man. Then he cleared his throat and turned back to her.

  “Ran into D in the hallway. They’re headed to the briefing room for a meeting.” He cocked his head toward the pictures. “Are they going to need those? I can take them.”

  She bristled and swiped the pictures protectively to her. “No. I shot these and I’ll show them to the team.”

  Liam raised his eyebrows at her sharp tone. “All right. Sounds like a plan.”

  “Sorry. It’s been a rough few days.” She dragged a hand down her face.

  “I hear you, honey.” He squeezed her shoulder again before gesturing for her to follow him.

  Covertly, Cate studied Liam from under her lashes as they walked down the corridor. She’d always wondered how a man this gorgeous could have ever done undercover work. Well, unless it was on a movie set. He looked like an action hero—comic book Hollywood creation—but despite the fact that some women nearly fainted if Liam so much as cast an accidental glance in their direction, he’d never affected Cate in the slightest. He was just Liam, supersoldier, Boston native, with a sexy accent that came from a very sexy face.