Scorch: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (Military Bad Boy Romance)

by Irons, Aubrey

  The Director looks up and nods curtly to me; “Ah, Agent Archer, we’re just getting started. Please, have a seat.” I nod quickly at a few familiar faces around the debrief room before I take an empty seat next to Agent Koufax, my supervisor. I can hear the door sealing shut behind me, and I’m aware from the debrief I received on The Vault last week that by now, my cell service is at zero, and that anything and everything I say in here is being recorded. What’s discussed here is for here only, and it’s only for matters where secrets need to stay in the dark. You bring nothing in here, and you take nothing out.

  Yep, welcome to a typical Tuesday at the Central Intelligence Agency.

  “Glad you could make it, Agent.” Koufax whispers harshly as he turns and glares at me, his eyebrows knitting and his silvered goatee mustache twitching.

  “I just got the notice five minu-“

  “Just try and keep up, rook.”

  Rook; as in, “rookie.” I narrow my eyes at his back as he turns, knowing it’s useless to even try and come back with anything, He’s hardly my superior, and I know even if I am one of the younger people here, most of his bullshit is because of my gender rather than my experience with the Agency.

  And for the record, being a full time C.I.A. agent while also maintaining the presence of being a full time graduate student to literally everyone you know - including your family - isn’t exactly a walk in the park.

  The Director clears his throat, and the small chatter around the room instantly goes quiet as every eye in the room turns to him.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ve got a runner. Four days ago, a man of importance to our interests managed to break out of a remote prison named El Meurto Viviente on the coast of Venezuela. He managed to commandeer a boat, killing two guards in the process.” People around the room begin taking notes and nodding at the Director’s words; “We’ve tracked his movements, and though he hasn’t gotten far, he has managed to gain entry into Aruba.”

  There’s a snort from the other side of the room, as one of the senior analysts shakes his head; “Well, he sure knows how to escape in style I suppose.”

  The tittering laughter around the room is cut short by a curt nod from the Director. He leans down over the head of the table, glowering at everyone else in the low light of the room; “People, this man holds certain information pertaining to national security, including information on ongoing domestic intelligence assets. That he was ever allowed to leave U.S. soil is a Goddamn bewilderment to me, but that he got to where he is now is an embarrassment.”

  The room is pin-drop silent as the Director stands and clears his throat; “Recovery operations need to be covert, as well as seamless. This administration is a bit more sensitive to holding an active operation on sovereign soil, and so we’re going to keep this quiet.” His eyes scan the room; “No teams, no heavy back-up. The plan is to send in a single asset who will intercept, apprehend, and signal for extraction.”

  I wonder who they found crazy enough to want to pull a stunt like tha-

  “Agent Archer.” The Directors voice cuts through the silence of the room like a knife, and I feel my face go flush as every eye in The Vault turns to me.

  Um, what?

  I drop the pen in my hand and look up sharply; “Sir?”

  “Agent Koufax has assured me that you’re field ready, and he’s given me his full confidence in your ability to execute this mission.”

  My eyes fly to my smarmy supervisor, who’s turned and smirking at me like he’s daring me to say something.

  Field ready? I’ve barely graduated from training, I’ve never been on an actual operation, and I’m by far and away the greenest person in the room. Me?

  I shoot Koufax a questioning glance, wondering why on Earth he’d give me such a glowing recommendation for something like this considering he clearly hates me. But he only shrugs and gives me that same smirking look before I clear my throat and look up at the director; “Sir, I’m-”

  “I’m giving you a crack at the big leagues here, Agent.” He crosses his arms over his chest; “That is, if you can handle it.”

  My jaw tightens at his words; I don’t back down from challenges. And even if I’ve got half an idea that this was some elaborate scheme of Koufax’s to make me look like an idiot during a Vault meeting, I’m certainly not going to back down from this one; “Absolutely, sir,” I say without another moments hesitation.

  Koufax’s smirk instantly drops from his face as he frowns at me; Check mate, asshole.

  “Excellent. You’ll be leaving tomorrow, and asset intel will help you with your cover story. Let’s go over your target.”

  It’s my turn to smirk at my superior now as I hear the Director click to the next project screen. I’m still grinning and reveling in the moment when I look up, and it’s almost as if in slow motion as my eyes drag back to the main screen.

  Every single cell in my body freezes.

  It’s like a horrible dream as I focus on the dark, smokey eyes, the black hair, and the lips pulled back in a cocky grin at the camera.

  Holy shit.

  The man is staggeringly handsome, in that dark, brooding, almost scary way. There’s a wicked glint in his eyes that just screams a disdain for authority; clearly evident in the way he’s even smirking in his damn mug shot. Honestly, in any other circumstances, every woman and probably some of the men in this room would be fanning themselves at the Spaniard on screen oozing pure sex and the promise of mistakes you’d love to regret later.

  But these are not other circumstances, and the arrogant grin on the screen belongs to the Devil himself.

  A lump forms in my throat that I try to swallow, only to have it immediately replaced as I stare into the face of the last man on Earth I ever thought I’d see again. The face of the man who almost destroyed my family; who terrorized Logan, and the man who kidnapped him and my sister Quinn.

  The man Quinn stabbed in the neck, and who should be dead or rotting in a Spanish prison right now.

  ‘For every light in this world, there’s a shadow somewhere else’, my dad used to say. Every story has a bad guy, and this is ours.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Javier Gael Toro; our number one priority.” The Director says, looking sternly around the room.

  He starts to go into details of the escape and last known whereabouts, but I’m barely listening as my eyes burn hot into the eyes on the screen in front of me. Nine months ago, this man almost destroyed everything I know.

  I was powerless then, but I’ve just been given the keys to revenge.

  Goddamn freedom tastes good. Well, specifically, tequila añejo especial on the rocks is what tastes good, but the lack of iron bars and armed guards around me is pretty fucking nice too.

  The Swim; give me a fuckin break. I've been underestimated before; many times actually, and it's never worked out so well for the other guy. Clearly, Warden Gustavo won't be the last guy to do the same, but he certainly made my fucking list.

  You get two things when you go for The Swim, because apparently the good Warden has a fucked-up sense of humor. You get a life-vest tied tightly around you; not so that you live, but so that you can't just say fuck it and drown yourself. You also get a gun with a single bullet, and that one’s a gift; the last gift you’ll ever get, and you can use it whenever you want. Maybe it's for when the sharks come. Maybe it’s for when night falls and the terrors of what might be beneath you in the deep get too much for your own head. Maybe you make it a day or two, but then realize you're going to dehydrate or starve to death and that piece of lead starts to look real good.

  I frown into my near-empty glass, shaking my near-brush with death from my head and reaching for the bottle on the balcony table next to me.

  Lightning flashes as the motor cuts. One of the two guards on the boat jumps at the sound of thunder before his buddy punches him in the arm and calls him a pussy in Spanish.

  The thunder and lightning smashes against the sky again, and I can’t help but
grin at how awesome and dramatic a sendoff this is for my own funeral.

  "Hey, puta!" The second guard calls to me; "I hope you didn't eat anything in the last half hour. You don't want a cramp!"

  Hilarious. Gallows humor to another fucking level.

  They haul me up, tightening the straps to my life vest. The guard that jumped at the thunder grins as he hands me a pistol, butt first. He’s not grinning because he's helping me though. We both know there's one bullet in this gun, and we both know shooting him isn't what it's for.

  Let me rephrase that; HE knows shooting him isn’t what it’s for. Me? I’ve got a different opinion.

  He gasps and looks at me in total shock at the sound of the trigger being pulled. He's tumbling backwards, clutching his gut as he jerks overboard. The second guard is charging me from the bow of the boat firing his pistol wildly. I manage to catch him in the face with my own empty gun before I duck and lung, knocking him with my shoulder and shoving him over the side into the water as well.

  I'm revving the engine and tearing off, only then realizing that the outboard motor at the back of the boat is smoking from a bullet hole and that I've got no fucking idea where I'm going.

  But fuck it; I used to call these waters home, back in my smuggling days. I can do this. There's a map of the Venezuelan coast taped to the side of the wheel, and though I sincerely doubt I'm going to get that far with smoke pouring out of this fucking engine, it’s worth a shot.

  Thunder crashes overhead again, and I glance up once more before locking my eyes on the map. I want to laugh when I see what the closest point of land is that doesn’t involve me setting fucking foot on Venezuela again. But as I rev the engine, I pray to God I make it to there before I sink into the ocean.

  *****

  I slug back the añejo, trying not to dwell on the past and my escape from death. I've had enough of those already for one or five lifetimes; I don't need to dwell on the latest. Point is, I'm free, and thanks to the wallet I lifted at the docks from one of those guys coming off a cruise ship, I'm set up nice and pretty in the penthouse suite of the Ritz-Carlton. I've got tequila in my hand, the sun on my face, and a view of some seriously hot women hanging out by the pool. Life could be worse.

  There's a flash of something blonde, and my head swivels to the doors by the pool bar.

  Damn.

  She almost seems to glide out of the doors, her hips swaying in the sarong around her waist and her mouth-watering tits gently cupped in a white bikini top. Her eyes are covered by the dark shades and Panama hat she wears, and her long blonde hair spills out around her tanned shoulders.

  Well hello, freedom.

  I tip back another swig of the the tequila before I stand, leaning against my balcony railing and staring down at the girl. She's young, and sexy as sin in a way that reminds me that I’ve been in jail for almost nine fucking months. The Warden's wife was a mediocre distraction, but this girl has my full damn attention.

  She slinks into a lounge chair, smiling up at a one of the pool boys who brings her a drink on a tray. I make a note to go grease the kid’s palm later and figure out what she's drinking. She takes her hat off, her long blonde hair flowing around her as she sinks back into the chair and arches her back, pushing her tits up against the thin white fabric of her bikini top. I can already start to feel my cock stir in my shorts watching her like this. Yeah, I need to get down there right now and work some of that famous Latin charm.

  I snag one more sip from my bottle, feeling the pleasant burn of the tequila slide down my throat. I grab the gun that the second guard on the boat dropped when he went over and slip it into the waist of my shorts. Part of me knows I should just leave the damn thing in the room, but I guess it’s just the soldier in me that grabs it. I mean not only am I technically an escaped con, but I’ve also managed to walk into Aruba through the side entrance; the kind that doesn’t have a customs agent checking your papers, or lack there of.

  No sense in not playing it safe, I figure.

  I push my long hair back from my face in the mirrored interior of the elevator; I really need a trim, but I’m starting to like the shaggy look I guess. The doors open, and I strut my way through the lobby to the pool, feeling the liquid confidence of the tequila coursing though me as I glance around for the blonde.

  Oh yeah, there she is. Fuck, she looks even better from down here. I grin as I start to make my way around the pool, already musing over all the wickedly sinful things I’d love to do with this girl. But I barely make it five steps before something pings at my brain, and I stop cold.

  There are thing being a soldier does to you. Well for one, my social graces are absolute shit. But more importantly, you see things before you'd normally see them. Most people wouldn't see the two black SUVs screech to a halt next to the hotel. Most people wouldn't see the five guys in black suits pour out of them, or maybe even find it strange that anyone in this fucking beach-side paradise would be wearing black suits at all.

  But the, I’m not most people. Years of fighting in that piece of shit desert with the Spanish Legion, and then chasing the coin through the mercenary circuits of Africa have taught me one thing: that annoying voice in your head? Yeah, you should listen to that asshole as often as you can.

  My first thought is that they're here for me, and as my pulse roars in my ears, I'm already turning to run. It isn't the first time, and it sure as hell won’t be the last. But when I glance back, I realize that they don't even see me, and in half a second, the puzzle comes together. They're moving like a slow-motion black wave towards the pool area, and every single one of their sunglass-covered eyes is right on her.

  They’re after the blonde.

  Time freezes for a second as I step back into the shadows, my eyes darting between the girl and the men she’s clearly not even aware of who are quickly making their way right for her with weapons drawn. She's still reading her book, her legs curled up underneath her, a small smile on her face as she grins at something in the pages. She reaches up and brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ears and just looking so fuckin perfect and innocent.

  Walk away, you fucking idiot.

  I grit my teeth, trying to shove that voice in my head away. I’ve done some truly horrible shit in this life. I've hurt, I've stolen, I've blackmailed and cheated; I've killed. I'm a bad, bad man.

  But I'm not a monster; as much as I want to be one in that moment.

  I know I should walk the hell away right then. I don’t know what the hell this cutie did to piss these guys off, but it’s not my fight; that much I know. I’m a Goddamn fugitive, I’m here illegally, and I’ve got three stolen credit cards and an unlicensed gun on me. Now is not the fucking time to play hero for the first time in my life.

  But my gun is out of the waist of my shorts and in my hand before I even know it. God, or fate, or karma didn't give me this freedom for me to sit back and let the world happen like this. This is my shot to do something different, right? I mean thats the whole point of being "saved"; so you can do good, right?

  Yeah, growing up Catholic fucks with your head sometimes. Or maybe I’ve seen too many movies.

  In any case, the world slows to a crawl as I look up again to see the men have hit the fence by the pool. One of them is throwing his shoulder against the gate, and its as they start to pour through, she finally looks up.

  Her book drops to the ground, and she's lunging to her feet and reaching for her bag. The men are shouting and raising their guns, and its about to go down. And all I’d have to do is walk away. All I’d need to do here is step back into the shadows and go on with being Javier Toro; escaped prisoner, war vet, mercenary, general piece of shit bad guy.