Target Engaged

Chapter 12

12

“Agent Smith. Yes, that’s really my name. I’ll make it worse. My given first name is Fred. Honest to God. Fred Smith. And, please, I’ve heard every single joke there is about being a CIA agent named Fred Smith.” He held up his hand. “Especially the ones from The Matrix, so please try to resist the temptation, and this will go a lot faster.”

Six feet tall and bright-red hair without going quite carrot top. All Carla cared about was that he wasn’t one of the clump of CIA sadists who had questioned her last night. The night before. Yesterday. Whatever.

They were back in the same briefing room she’d been stuck in for so long whenever that had been. Steel table, steel chairs, no windows, no air.

She hadn’t been near a single piece of intel during the whole mission and hadn’t interacted with the prisoners except to offer to shoot one in the butthole if he jumped off the waterfall. She didn’t know whether Richie and Kyle had extracted any documents or not until she saw the two of them sorting through paper after the hike out.

But she had been the one to cover the most ground, crisscrossing the compound several times. The CIA apparently wasn’t going to be happy until she personally identified every stone, bush, and godforsaken caterpillar she’d met along the way.

Any other evidence extractable from the Venezuelan General’s drug-fort hacienda had died along with the men in the explosions. The vehicles were, without exception, US military purchased through an FMS—Foreign Military Sales—package to the Colombian antidrug effort, and then moved to the Venezuelan military. That had pissed off the debriefing team something fierce.

This morning’s satellite-pass photos had shown that the destruction Carla had wrought with her explosives and Kyle’s kill-the-copter ploy had burned out any remaining evidence.

The guys resisted harassing Agent Smith, but it was a close thing. Duane and Chad were trading dangerous smiles… They’d get him later if he ticked them off the least bit.

“We’re offshore Venezuela right now,” the agent started.

“Been there. Done that.” Chad started the riff that wasn’t going to end well. They had to do something to suppress the Agent Smith jokes that must be rolling through their brains. If he hadn’t made a point of it, she’d have taken him at his word about his name and moved on. Chad and Duane? Probably not so much.

Smith rolled right on. “The country with the largest oil reserves in the world.”

“Which is why we’re here.” Duane wasn’t about to be one-upped, not by Chad, at least.

“And”—Smith was tenacious—“one of the three worst drug-trafficking countries there is.”

“Which is why we actually were there night before last,” Kyle said softly and calmed the whole team down. He did that somehow and made it look easy and effortless.

Usually Carla appreciated it, went along for the ride. Tonight was different. Tonight she didn’t want to cooperate.

Introspection wasn’t exactly her long suit. So, she kept her own fit of unvoiced rebellion against Kyle’s quiet, because she knew one thing for damn sure—her irritation with him was personal. Aside from the fact that it wasn’t the least bit appropriate, it was also totally ridiculous. The briefing continued while she did her best to beat her feelings back into the box where they belonged.

“Their networks are built in layers that we haven’t been able to crack. We knew General Carlos Vasquez was a major player in the Cartel de los Soles. He—”

“Wait.” Carla popped a hand. “What? Cartel of the Suns?” Focus on the briefing. Good idea. And it helped.

Agent Smith turned on a screen on the wall behind him and flashed up an image. It was a close-up of the man they’d dragged through the jungle last night, but in happier times wearing his full uniform.

Damn it! Carla hated being predictable as much as she hated whatever Kyle was doing to her.

“Note the epaulettes on his shoulder boards. Their military doesn’t use stars like we do; they use suns. He wears the three suns of a major general. The Cartel de los Soles isn’t a typical price-fixing single cartel like the Mexican and Colombian cartels, nor is it restricted to command tier. It’s actually a series of competing drug cartels that exist in every division and rank of the Venezuelan military. There have been many migrations of Colombian drug cartels into the country, but this is Venezuela’s homegrown version.”

“How effective are they?”

“Twenty percent of US-consumed cocaine and fifty percent for Western Europe transports through Venezuela.”

That earned the room’s attention.

“As I’m assuming that the five of us aren’t expected to take on a hundred metric tons of cocaine traffic ourselves, what’s our part in this?”

Carla kept meaning to ask Kyle how he did that. She’d been on the verge of whining, maybe being the first to ping Agent Smith about being a block of CIA code, and Kyle had jumped past that and put it in perspective.

Of course, talking hadn’t ever been a big part of their relationship. Every time they were alone together, the heat exploded into s*x. On the rare occasions that they remained conscious afterward, they ended up reviewing missions, assignments, training, and all that other noise. She’d have to put talking to him somewhere on her Kyle to-do list. Maybe. What if she didn’t like the answers?

She looked over at him: calm, ready to proceed, and still too goddamn handsome. Right now, in the briefing room, she wanted to jump him. Or kill him for crimes unknown. Christ, she was a total basket case. If anyone ever managed a good look at what was inside her head, they’d lock her away in a padded cell for sure.

“Your challenge”—Agent Fred Smith went to the next slide—“is this.”

The image he put up earned the room’s silence.

It was a submarine, thirty meters long and three or four across, based on the man standing beside it in the photo. It was painted in a pattern of blues and grays that looked like water. Or a camouflage that would work well if it was under sun-dappled ocean waves. It had a proper conning tower and looked well made.

“It’s built of wood framing with a fiberglass and Kevlar shell, so it has next to no radar signature. It can carry ten metric tons of refined cocaine. Diesel, ten days en route to the southern US.”

“That means it needs air and we can take it on the surface.” Richie always put the tech pieces together faster than Kyle.

“Sounds like a Navy job if they’re out on the ocean.” Carla wasn’t about to be outdone.

“This model also has batteries for fourteen hours submerged operation, so they only have to surface at night for running the diesel and recharging. They can run at a depth of sixty meters.”

Crap. How were they supposed to fight something like that?

“To make it worse, they’re disposable.”

“What?” Richie bolted upright in his chair. “That thing must cost north of a million dollars to make, and they throw it away?”

“This one was closer to two million.” Agent Fred smiled and waited for someone to take the next step.

None of the guys had a clue. Carla saw Kyle’s lightbulb go on, damn him. He traded a smile with Agent Fred.

Wait a sec!

“What’s the street price on ten metric tons in the US?” Carla asked before Kyle could be the font of all wisdom—again.

“A billion dollars US per ton, more or less. Trafficker’s take is usually thirteen percent, so call it a hundred and thirty million, times ten tons. Double that if they also hold the in-country US or European upper-level distribution. Per trip.”

That’s why a two-million-dollar sub was disposable. Hell, you could run a fleet of them.

Carla started thinking about the kind of military force that would be hanging around to protect an investment of that size. Suddenly it didn’t look so amusing.

“That’s why we’re here.” Her voice was a whisper, but the nods around the room confirmed her conclusion.

The DEA could find and take down a submarine, or at least a percentage of them.

But to take down the command structure behind them…

“s**t!” She put the pieces together and sat up to look at Kyle.

His nod of agreement was grim.

“You want”—she had to ask the question—“the five of us to take down the Cartel de los Soles?”

“That might be asking a bit much,” Agent Fred acknowledged, “but we certainly want you to handicap them.”

Three hours later Carla was no clearer about what was going on. Fred Smith was gone, and now it was the team sitting around the steel table in a black hole inside the USS Freedom.

“How can they use so many words to say next to nothing?” Carla wanted to know. Her head was torn between a desire to spin and an equal need to throb.

“Special training,” Chad replied.

“Spook training,” Duane followed on. “Deep, dark secret-agent training.”

Carla put her head down on the table. With Richie joining in, they were jumping from embodying Mutt and Jeff to The Three Stooges. Wasn’t that too perfect.

“If we go into Venezuela directly, it will be too obvious,” Kyle said as if that clarified anything.

“So…” Carla didn’t bother raising her head but continued talking to the table. “We’re going to swim to Aruba with fake passports, pretending that we’re tourists who haven’t been dropped offshore out of a Spec Ops helo.”

“Then we rent a sailboat,” Chad began the round-robin again.

“Sail it to Venezuela,” Duane hit the rhythm.

“Pretending that we’re tourists, but only as a thin disguise for being drug lords looking to expand our business with local contacts in the drug-transport business.” She’d have to kill Richie as the easiest target if he kept this up.

“And then we leverage those contacts to start a war inside the cartel.” When the hell, she might as well join in with the other lunatics. She raised her head to look at Kyle. “And this somehow makes sense to you?”

He nodded.

Carla put her head back down on the table. It would be convenient if she didn’t trust the man so implicitly.

But she did.

Kyle found Carla at the same back rail overlooking the stern of the ship where he’d spoken to the SOAR pilot this morning. It was as if he’d blinked and the scene had simply changed.

Chief Warrant Lola Maloney shifted to Sergeant Carla Anderson.

Day for night.

A night which had fallen over the tropics while they were in the briefing. The ship used limited lights in these waters—running lights to warn other ships and soft lights by the doorways. The few ship’s spaces with outside windows were darkened to allow the ship’s officers a clear view out at the night, though there was not much to see at the moment.

It was dark enough on deck that only the silhouette of his teammate showed. That and the s***h of the Milky Way like a white band across the heavens.

“Hey, girlie.” He went for light.

“Hey, tough guy.” Her voice was soft and amused. Or soft and relieved?

“We okay?”

He could see her nod as he joined at the rail. “Sure. Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not so much. You?” She sounded as if she’d dealt with whatever had cost her a night’s sleep.

Kyle considered.

Shooting a naked girl perhaps not yet into her teens. He didn’t want to discuss that for a second.

Being in love with Carla? Yeah, that was going to get him absolutely no mileage. “I’m good.”

“You’re very good. Think we can do it quiet enough here for no one to notice?”

“Sure.”

She sidled toward him until they were a breath apart. Kyle nodded back over his shoulder at the ship’s superstructure. “If you don’t mind entertaining the deck watch officer up there wearing his night-vision gear.”

“Spoilsport!” She leaned back against the rail. “Crap. I tell you, Kyle, the military does have drawbacks.”

“Serving with you isn’t one of them, Wild Woman.”

“Aww. You know how to sweet-talk a girl, Mister Kyle. Right back at ya, buddy.”

Buddy? Yeah, guess he deserved that. “Hey, Carla.”

“What?”

Kyle opened his mouth, but that was far as he got. He never chickened on anything. So why was he chickening on this?

Because she’s the best thing that ever happened to you and you’re scared to death of screwing it up. So his body came up with a comment when his brain didn’t supply one.

“Bet we’re not headed into the land of personal privacy.”

Lola Maloney was going to be dumping them back in-country at 0300. Six hours from now.

“Well, time’s a-wasting, sailor.” She turned and walked away from him.

Even the woman’s silhouette slayed him. The heat pounded into his body as he imagined taking her that way, walking away from him. It didn’t take much effort to let himself go with the flow.

Kyle caught up to her as she entered their bunk room. She didn’t want to think. And she sure as hell didn’t want to explain.

She did want to feel. Not in her heart, but significantly in her body.

His heat had followed her down the corridors of the USS Freedom. The passageways that had been so cluttered before were blessedly empty. Which was good because their mutual awareness would have scorched anyone who passed too close.

She peeled off her t-shirt and bra in a single motion as he closed the door to their quarters. She managed to loosen her slacks before his hands wrapped around her from behind.

He was so strong, so powerful. Kyle Reeves could keep the world at bay. One hand scooped up onto her breasts; the other plunged down the front of her pants. She braced her hands against either side of the closet door as he took her.

The soft wash of a night-light came out of the bath. It made her body look as if it were glowing softly in the mirror mounted on the closet door. His tanned arms, dark serpents against her reflected skin, snagging and ensnaring her.

But, oh God, what they could do to her. She thrust back harder and harder against him as he sent her upward with his hands. Then, with a vile oath quite unlike him, he dragged down both their pants, sheathed himself, and drove into her so hard that it took her breath away.

As her eyes slid shut, she caught a reflection of them. A man lost in the shadows behind her, consumed by the fire of his need for her. And a woman—held safe by his powerful hands—with a look of purest ecstasy shining across her features.

Normally she would think of her control over the animal side of man, or her power to humble a warrior like Kyle.

But this woman in the mirror, the one who opened her eyes once more to watch herself climb toward a sky-high release, she was lost in the simple joy. Not the Wild Woman caught up like a Hellfire missile that would never let her come back to earth, though her body vibrated and shook until it seemed the ship was under attack.

The ship wasn’t.

Nor was it only her body that now burned in waves so hot and powerful that an ocean’s worth of cool water wouldn’t be enough to douse the fires building within.

There was a woman inside her who she didn’t know. Hidden behind a layer of the carefully nursed char that Carla had stoked and banked around her inner self for a lifetime. It was being blown away like the finest dust, as if it had never been.

Carla exploded from within at Kyle’s hammering release. The aftershocks nearly sank her as the waves slammed through both of them again and again.

A warrior had shattered her shields as if they were tissue paper.

And now a different woman lay back against a man whose arms enveloped her with an infinite tenderness after being so rough moments before. Tender, but no less powerful. His strokes were now soothing and comforting, and sent a warmth into her as strong as any frantic release, but transformed into ocean-long waves.

He remained shadowed; his face buried in her hair.

All that showed was the new woman exposed in the mirror for everyone to see, everyone including Carla herself.

A woman Carla didn’t recognize.