Rogue Launch, page 9
“He must have his own runway,” I deduced. We wouldn’t walk through an airport with bags over our heads.
I finished my Coke quickly, then grabbed one of the bags. “See you on the other side.”
He huffed.
We had to be getting close.
The road had been uneven and bumpy for the last six or seven minutes.
Joel better be doing his best to analyze everything too. We’d been separated and handcuffed the minute we’d gotten off the plane. Definitely a new car, presumably an SUV. I had good legroom, and I hadn’t had to duck when I’d gotten in. Leather seats. The new-car smell. You could tell by the shock absorbers alone that it was a newer vehicle.
I could also tell that this was how Vincente treated his friends, because while we’d been handcuffed and forced to put bags over our heads, we still had our guns. One at the base of our spines, the other strapped to our ankles.
I’d like to say this was the first time I’d arrived cuffed and blindfolded to my destination…
I hoped Joel wasn’t worried or letting his anger get the best of him. He should be okay. He might not have field experience beyond what he did on a daily basis, but he still had years of tactical training under his belt.
We finally slowed down, and I became hyperaware of everything happening. The driver rolled down the window. I heard music in the distance. Quiet words were exchanged; I heard my name as well as Joel’s, so they must’ve done their homework. I’d told the guard outside Vincente’s official residence that I was bringing a friend, but I hadn’t mentioned his name.
The sounds of metal clanking and grinding let me know we’d reached a gate of some sort, and we were let through.
The road was suddenly paved again.
The air smelled like ocean, flowers, and soil.
Add marijuana…
The music thumped louder as we got closer.
We drove up a steep hill, possibly to a—yeah, it had to be the driveway. The foundation was even smoother, maybe marble or tiles, and then we stopped.
The driver climbed out at the same time as my door opened, thus starting my head count at two. That person removed the bag from over my head, and I welcomed the gust of fresh but warm air and quickly took in my surroundings. Two more guys. So, four. The circular driveway looked more like a terrace with its terra-cotta-colored tiles and the white-painted concrete wall with potted flowers that surrounded it. Nothing but jungle around us. And this…this big hacienda.
I climbed out of the car, and one of the men removed my handcuffs.
I rubbed my wrists absently and eyed the wide garage door. The garage was built into the estate, adding significant height to the rest of the house. Good for lookout posts.
Laughter rang out above the din of the music. Vincente did like to host parties.
I spotted Joel coming out of the other car, and we were told to follow a man up the staircase that was also built into the house. Everything was concrete; everything was pristine white. Potted plants and flowers all over. Spotlights embedded in the concrete.
A small lizard darted up the house wall as we climbed the stairs.
I heard a splash and a woman laughing and guessed we were heading toward a terrace.
Five, six, seven…
I counted each guard I saw.
A narrow pathway along the estate’s second floor brought us to the other side, opening up to a large pool area.
Fuck, that was a lot of people. Another four or five guards. Approximately fifteen to twenty guests dressed for a coke-filled evening with a drug lord.
The patio was a giant seating area with several sofas, chairs, and low tables. A fully stocked and staffed bar in the corner.
Someone yelled for the guests to make room, and I watched the cluster of people part like the Red Sea. And there, in the center of a couch, sat Vincente. The wall above him was the canvas to a mural of Colombia. “Blanco” was written in an elegant font across the painted map.
Vincente hadn’t changed much since last year. He was admittedly handsome as fuck, just a couple years older than me. He kept himself fit and trimmed his mustache obsessively. Not a wavy hair out of place on his head either. He grinned crookedly at me.
I filled my Frank Rivera shoes automatically and made sure I looked like I didn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone.
Joel came up next to me and looked every bit the military man that he was, from the width between his feet, the squareness of his shoulders, and his hands clasped behind his back.
Vincente rose from his seat and addressed his guests. “Vean a este man,” he told them. Here we fucking go. He was gonna share the story of how I was the “craziest wolf” to ever work for him. “Frank Rivera es el lobo con las pelotas que ha trabajado pa’ mí. Y sé que están pensando ‘¿pero Vicente por qué sigue vivo ese huevón si él fue el que mató a su papá?’ Pues así es la cosa conmigo, me importa un culo si tenemos la misma sangre, si me quieren joder, si me quieren tratar como una mierda, ¡se mueren!”
Theatrical fucker.
“Exactly like you predicted,” Joel muttered under his breath.
The male guests sized me up, and the women… Well, they were drawn to power and money. If only they knew I didn’t have much of either.
Vincente headed toward me, so I met him halfway.
“Vincente. Tiempo sin verlo.” I said it’d been a while, then added that he was, as always, difficult to find. “Como siempre es difícil encontrarlo.”
He chuckled warmly and shook my hand, and he said that was how it was supposed to be. “Así es como deber ser, hermano. Lo estaba esperando.” No surprise, he’d been expecting me too. He gave my arm a squeeze, the humor long gone. “Apenas me pillé lo que estaba pasando…?” He flipped a hand under his jaw, visibly irritated, and told me as soon as he’d figured out what was going on, he’d known it was me who had been targeted. “…que ese man estaba detrás de usted, supe que iba a venir buscarme. Me alegra que haya venido.” And targeted by whom. Or, that was implied. He glanced curiously at Joel next. “¿Y este quién es?” He asked who he was, as if he didn’t already know.
Before I could answer, Joel took a step forward and extended his hand. “Yo soy Joel, el padre de la niñita que su hombre secuestró. ¿Me puede decir dónde se está escondiendo?” Christ, he didn’t take any baby steps with polite introductions; he said he was the dad of the little girl one of Vincente’s men had kidnapped. And he was wondering if Vincente knew where the fucker was hiding.
I gave Joel a look of warning. “Cool it. We’ll get to that.”
Thankfully, Vincente was in a good mood. He just laughed a little and shook Joel’s hand. “El enemigo de mi enemigo es mi amigo.” Right. The enemy of Carillo was Vincente’s friend. “Welcome to my home, Joel. Let’s take this someplace private.” He motioned for us to follow him, and he spoke to me next. “By the way, your alias is secure. Carillo and his closest may know Frank and Elliott are the same person, but the attack order went out for Elliott only.”
For him to be sure of that, he must’ve heard it from somewhere.
“You’re the one cleaning the streets of San Diego,” I stated quietly.
He let out a laugh. “Cleaning the streets—that’s exactly it. Yes, I am. My boys questioned a few of them, and as soon as we had it confirmed, yes, the cleaning began. I want every single Carillo affiliate off the streets. They’re fuckin’ dead.”
Great, except for the fact that River and Reese couldn’t interrogate dead people. If Vincente’s men killed the ones holding our loved ones hostage somewhere, we might not find them in time.
I kept my mouth shut for now and followed Vincente into his house. Through his wide-open living room area, walls filled with paintings and sculptures, some of which were probably stolen. More than one seating area. The house was clearly decorated for one of Vincente’s favorite pastimes: entertaining people and showing off his wealth.
Past the extravagant foyer and the stairs going up, Vincente led the way to his office. A guard was standing outside.
I didn’t see a single sharp corner anywhere. Everything was polished and rounded, including the ceilings.
I could probably fit my whole house inside that office—maybe not counting the roof. More seating areas, pool table, expensive rugs all over, structure-bearing pillars filled with smaller paintings and glass cases of gemstones, side tables with art and shit. The entire ceiling was a massive mural, an ode to Colombian culture. The back was floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases, not a single space unused. Books, displays of old maps and weapons, more sculptures…
Last but not least, the biggest desk I had ever seen. With literal piles of cash spread around. A dozen lines of coke too, because of course. The most expensive tequila and brandy.
The man could wipe his ass with money for generations to come without making a dent in his offshore bank accounts.
“Make yourselves at home, gentlemen.” Vincente took his seat behind the desk.
Joel and I sat down in front of it.
“We’ll get down to business right away, eh? We all want Carillo dead.”
“Before he and his men stop breathing, we gotta find the three people he kidnapped,” I said.
“Of course, of course.” Vincente lit up a cigar and opened his humidor for us in silent offering. We declined. “Let’s see if I got the names right.” He pulled out a note from one of the drawers. “Blake Hayward, Marisa Ortega, and Shay Tenley?”
That should be Blake Jones, but whatever.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “You’ve done your homework.”
Vincente smiled. “Always, my friend. But before you ask, I’m afraid I do not know where your friends and family are being held.”
I’d had no plans on asking.
“Has that dog reached out yet, by the way?” he wondered.
I shook my head. “I thought he would by now.”
He hummed and leaned back in his seat. “He wants you to kill me.” His smirk appeared slowly. “But you wouldn’t kill an old lover, would you, Elliott?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
I kept my expression composed; same couldn’t be said for Joel, who stiffened in his seat. Vincente was just looking for a reaction. That was what he did. That was how he learned intimate details about people. Sometimes he used truths against someone, sometimes complete fiction. Sometimes…something in between.
Vincente grinned and puffed on his cigar. “Is he your lover now? He’s jealous.”
I didn’t even look at Joel. “No.”
Vincente let out a laugh and kicked his feet up on the desk. “Ay, how I missed you, Elliott. Doesn’t matter what I say—you give nothing away. I love it.”
I cleared my throat and sat forward a bit. “My eight-year-old niece was kidnapped in an attack that killed and injured people I love. She doesn’t know if her mom is still alive. She’s scared. Help us find her, Vincente.”
He sobered, thankfully, and he watched us for a couple moments.
Then he removed his feet from the desk again and leaned forward. “See, I knew I was more use to you alive than dead. Here’s what’s going to happen. I have made four mistakes in my life—” He ticked them off his fingers. “My first wife, my second wife, my current wife, and letting Ana convince me to throw Carillo in prison instead of killing him. That fucker was down on his knees for me, swearing on the lives of his children that he would have no contact with his former crew if I allowed him to rot away in Texas. I’m going to correct the last mistake, and you’re going to help me.”
Now we were talking.
“You want me to kill him?” I asked to be sure.
He shrugged. “I’m not leaving Mexico, and he’s not leaving the US—yet.”
I cocked a brow, wondering what he meant by that. I’d thought Carillo would take the first chance to cross over.
“He’s made too many enemies here.” He widened his arms. “He knows—the second he sets foot in Mexico, he’s dead.”
Ah.
That made sense.
“To be honest with you, I will be stretched too thin to go after him,” he went on. “Between ridding the streets of his little dogs, fishing out traitors, and keeping up with shipments and daily operations, I can only spare so many men, yes? Carillo’s been planning this for a year. He’s had recruiters running around—and it fucking pisses me off. I haven’t heard shit.” His jaw ticked with tension, and he put down his cigar. “I gotta make sure the management is stable. Otherwise, people get ideas.”
I nodded once in understanding.
“So Carillo is yours,” he said. “In return, I will cover your expenses, make sure everyone who knows your name is dead, and give you what little intel I have. And I will hand over anyone who might have information on your niece’s whereabouts to your men.”
I released a breath and leaned back, hit with relief for the first time in almost three days.
“Two more things.” He smirked. “I want the credit.”
My mouth twitched. “You can have it. The second?”
“You will never work against me,” he said, dead serious. “Never take a job, accept a contract, that results in me losing money or manpower. If you do, we’ll come after you next.”
I stared at him, and I wished it were an easy yes. I wished I could agree and shake his hand without further stipulations, but I couldn’t. For twenty years, I’d gone up against men like him to varying degrees. I’d brought people home from hostage situations, I’d gotten caught in the crossfire of turf wars, and I had killed warlords. I also had a friend who’d been kidnapped to be sold off into slavery. Luckily, Darius had saved him—then married him too. I’d been there to help them take down the organization.
“Do you remember the conversation we had on the roof that night in Tijuana?” I asked.
Vincente had been coked-up and chatty as fuck, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he had no recollection. That was the night he thought we’d fucked too.
He narrowed his eyes, pensive. “Remind me.”
“I told you how I felt about human traffickers,” I said.
He nodded slowly, possibly remembering bits and pieces. “What of it? You know I don’t get involved in that shit. I’m running a coke empire here, Elliott. I keep telling people—you want a slave? Go to Texas. You want cheap bullshit synthetic drugs? Go to the Asians or the trash of America. You want the best cocaine? You come to me.”
Then we had a deal. He spoke too liberally about slavery, but we had a deal. “Anything concerning human trafficking is my exception. I will always go to war against that.”
He chuckled and stood up. “You have a bleeding heart, Elliott. Don’t let it run you dry.” He leaned over the desk and extended a hand. “I accept your terms.”
I stood up too, and I shook his hand. “We have a deal.”
“Excellent! Let’s celebrate with a drink, and then I can tell you everything I know about Carillo.”
2000
We had a deal…
Two weeks. Just screwing. Exploring.
“I still can’t believe you have posters on your walls.”
He chuckled drowsily and brought my arm around his middle. “What’s wrong with that?”
Nothing, if you were twelve.
His room looked similar to how mine had looked years ago. I’d had posters of military ships and aircraft too. And a football jersey. Too much laundry on the floor, a basketball in the corner, used plates with stale pizza crusts, and…so on.
I pressed my lips to his shoulder and kissed my way to his neck. He was so warm and smelled so fucking incredible.
“Don’t get me hard again,” he murmured.
I smiled against his skin and pressed my cock deeper into him. Maybe I would get hard again too…
“Dick,” he whispered. “When do you have to go?”
Fuck. I didn’t wanna think about it. Which was his goddamn fault. Yeah, he was a little dorky and so…fresh outta high school…but these past two weeks had revealed other sides of Joel too. We’d found ways to meet up almost every day. Never for very long; we’d still had our priorities, and that was to get off. But it wasn’t like we hadn’t talked at all. And…he was funny. Equal parts cool and sweet as fuck. Not afraid to show himself vulnerable.
I sighed and looked up at the clock above his CD shelves. “A few minutes.”
I couldn’t lie. This sucked.
He squirmed around in my arms, and I instantly wanted to be back inside him.
He dropped his gaze and drew a finger along a faint scar on my chest. “It’d be weird if we didn’t run into each other at some point, right?”
I guessed so. Maybe. I didn’t know. When would that be? Sure, I’d be home in between deployments, and I was stationed right here in San Diego, but he was off to Florida. Either he’d do four years in college, or he’d end up in the Coast Guard. They trained their tactical unit snipers in Jacksonville.
I mustered a smirk despite it all. “I don’t see Piper letting you go. Maybe I’ll start listening when she gushes about you.”
I’d admitted to him that my sister wanted way more than friendship.
He didn’t wanna believe me.
“You should listen…” He reached up and brushed his lips to mine. “If I’m on your mind a lot, chances are you’ll jerk off to these fucking awesome memories we’ve created. I’ve never had so much material in my life.”
The little shit drew a smile from me. I couldn’t help it. “Dork.” I kissed him back.
“Whatever.” He eased away and rested his head on the pillow. His own smile looked a bit forced, and it hit me that this wasn’t entirely easy for him either.
Maybe these two weeks had meant more to him than he’d anticipated too.
Not that it changed anything, but it felt good, nonetheless.
I cupped his jaw and brushed my thumb over his bottom lip. “You’re gonna make an awesome sniper.”
That brought some light to his gorgeous eyes. “You think so?”
“I know so.” I kissed him once more, firmly, wishing I could linger a lot longer. But it was time to go. I rolled on top of him, then climbed out of his too-tiny bed, and I disposed of the condom before stepping into my jeans.
