Badass: Deadly Target (Complete): Military Romantic Suspense (19 page)

I’d seen pictures of the beaches down here and imagine the two of us walking hand in hand through the surf. Maybe we could find a little alcove, somewhere private. We’d make love there, his thrusts timed perfectly to the ebb and flow of the waves.

Jax is talking to a man at our window, but I tune them out and go back to my fantasy. Sex had been rough back at the safe house, and I loved it. The brutal, carnal nature of our coupling was something I hadn’t experienced until now. But on the beach would be different. A slow joining of bodies, our mouths never leaving each other. Our—

“Here, sweetheart.”

Automatically, I take the documents Jax hands over to me after the patrolman gives them back through the window. I flip past the insurance papers and look at my new driver’s license and passport. Flipping it open, Maya Preston now has two stamps in her book. Maybe someday Mia Hewitt will have more than just Canada in hers.

Then we’re off, and I gaze over at Jax, realizing I’d never have gotten this far without him. Well, without him, I’d probably be dead by now. But even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have known that you needed Mexican auto insurance to drive across the border. I wouldn’t have known how to get money or communicate enough to tell the locals what I needed. Mom overestimated my ability to do this job for her. Whatever this job is. Whatever it means.

Oh, Mom.

My chest tightens as I think of her, most likely lying in a morgue right now, cold and alone with no one to plan her funeral. No one to lay a flower on her grave. What would they do with her body if I’m gone for days? Or forever? I don’t know how those things work. I know very little outside the small, sheltered life I’d created for myself.

“Mia.”

My name is accompanied by his hand squeezing mine, and I realize he’s called out to me more than once. “Sorry, my mind was a million miles away.”

He squeezes me again. “Will you find the Tijuana bank’s address?

I pull the fireproof envelope from under my seat. Jax had gotten rid of the bank box and transferred everything into the envelope back in San Diego. Flipping through the papers, I give him the address, and he taps it into the GPS.

“Will you re-read the translation for me again?”

Finding the yellow pages Jax had printed off and stamped “classified” at the top, I try to decide where to start. “Do you need the airport list again?” We’d already gone through everything back at the safe house. I don’t know why he wants to do it once more.

He shakes his head. “Start with the diaper bag.”

I scowl at the simplistic diagram of the bag with labels pointing to each component. This is dumb. Taking in a deep breath, I begin, “Six diapers. Two bottles. Six formula packets. Teething toy. One blanket. Two changes of clothing based on child’s sex. Transport canister. Clean spit cloths.”

“And the transport canister is the large can of baby formula, correct?”

I double check. “Yes.”

“So Mom and Dad Mule would use the small packets of formula to feed Baby Mule during the flight, leaving the larger canister untouched.”

I poke him in the ribs. “Don’t call a baby a mule.”

He smirks. “How large is the canister?”

“Six hundred and twenty-nine grams.”

He taps his thumb on the steering wheel. “That’s a little over twenty-two ounces. One point four pounds, give or take. Is that standard for formula?”

I roll my eyes. “Hello, I’m Mia Hewitt, childless woman with no nieces or nephews. How am I supposed to know that?”

He laughs. “Okay, sorry.”

“Cocaine?” I ask, but he’s shaking his head before the word is fully out of my mouth.

“Look at the second page that talks about synthetic B.”

I turn to that page and exhale loudly. “Jax, there
still
isn’t much here. Just a list of what was on the diagram of the diaper bag. It just adds ‘synthetic B’ next to contents of transport canister. Then it says ‘Phase I – Airport Delivery, see Addendum C.’”

“And you’re sure—”

I growl in frustration and flip through each page. “There is no Addendum C, D, or, E. Addendum A is the world map of all the airports. Addendum B is the list of the airports. There is no, nada, nope—”

He holds up a hand. “Okay, got it. Maybe C is in the Tijuana bank box.”

“And hopefully C, D, and E because I’m already tired of all this.”

He holds up a fist and I bump it, giving a little finger explosion on my end. He grins at me. “You’re a nerd.”

My stomach growls. “I’m a hungry nerd. Can we get something besides candy bars soon?”

“Sure. We’ll be there shortly. Let’s go to the bank first, get the information, and then I know a place with the best fish or shrimp tacos you’ll ever put in your mouth.”

My stomach growls a second time, this time in approval.

I have to admit, I held my breath nearly the entire time we were in the Tijuana bank. I caught one of the guard’s eyes and realized he was giving me a funny look, and I forced myself to be still and quit looking over my shoulder.

We weren’t jumped by men in black; we didn’t have any trouble at all. Which delighted and scared me in turn. I personally was thrilled to get out of a bank without fracturing anything, but Jax … well, Jax seemed to think the lack of an incident was foreboding.

“But that’s good news, right?” I insist as my plate of tacos is set in front of me. “It means we lost them back in California, don’t you think?”

He smiles a tight smile, one that doesn’t let his dimple appear and lifts his bottle of Pacifico beer, clicking it against mine. “Just being a—”

“Abundantly cautious,” I finish for him and take a large bite of my taco. And groan. Then I swear my eyes roll into the back of my head.

When I can focus again, it’s to look into Jax’s narrowed eyes. “That’s your orgasm face. A fish taco gives you orgasm face?”

I gasp and press my napkin against my lips, looking around to see who might have heard him. He hadn’t been quiet in his announcement. “Shut up,” I manage after I’d swallowed the bite, then hit him with my napkin.

“Why?” he laughs and wrestles my fork away from me when I threaten to stab him in the crotch. “There’s no one within twenty feet of us. And back to the subject at hand. I’m going to have to pick my action up a notch to compete with that…” he points at my plate, then does a fair impression of the diner scene in
When Harry Met Sally
.

“Stop it!”

Still chuckling, he digs into his plate while I look at mine with wary eyes. It
is
good. Damn good. Really damn good. And I’m starving. Miffed, I take a huge bite to prove to him that I won’t be waylaid by his juvenile actions. Why is it that food in other countries is always better than at home?

Dear God, these things are heaven. Sweet and tangy, salty then peppery. The flavor changes and shifts each time I chew.

He points and laughs, but I ignore him, studious inspecting a flowering bush beside us while I savor my food.

“That’s how your pussy looks when you open for me,” he stage whispers while pointing to the flower. It makes everything inside me contract the instant before I feel myself turn bright red.

I point my butter knife at him. “You better watch out or my … flowery
vagina
will become a venus flytrap.”

He howls.

“Ssshhh! I swear to you, Jax—”

“Jack.”

My throat makes a noise I’d never heard it make before. “Jack. Cut it out. I will divorce your ass if you don’t.”

He’s still grinning, dimple firmly on display when he says, “Do you have any idea just how incredible you are?”

Melt.

How is it possible to feel so gooey inside from just a look? A look that seems to affect all five senses. It’s all enveloping, almost like I can taste it, smell it, feel its caress on my skin. It’s almost whispering to me.
I love you
, the look seems to say.

Which is ridiculous.

And so very right.

I wonder if my eyes are telling him that I love him too.

Chapter 9 – Jax

Mia’s only two tacos in when I’m finished with my fourth, and it’s time to get serious again. Grabbing the iPad, I power it back on. Before we ordered, I’d taken pictures of the new documents. “Running them through translation,” I explained to Mia when she looked at me curiously. “This device is secure.”

Accessing the program, I download the translated file, wishing I had access to a printer. Electronics rock, but there’s something to be said for holding paper and ink in your hand.

“Well…?” Mia prompts.

I exhale. Shit.

“Found addendum C.”

“What—?”

I hold up a finger, scanning the page, my gut sinking into my balls. Mind control. The Russians have discovered a way to produce synthetic burandanga – synthetic B. Also known as Scopolamine. Better known as Devil’s Breath, one of the most dangerous drugs in the world. The drug had gotten a great deal of public attention when two women were arrested in France. They used the drug to essentially hypnotize and rob their victims. Then there was—

“Devil’s Breath,” Mia says, turning the iPad so she could see better. “Isn’t that what happened to that billionaire heiress girl not long ago?”

She took the thought right out of my brain.

“Yes.”

“It was all over the news,” Mia goes on. “Poor girl lost a finger, almost died. If it wasn’t for her boyfriend—”

“Tate Rodgers.”

Mia grips my arm, her eyes brightening. “Yes, that’s exactly his name. Can you imagine? Crashing in the jungle…”

I tune her out as she recaps the story. I hadn’t been involved in that kidnapping case, had been out of the country on another mission when it all went down. But it had caught my attention because of Tate, one of my buddies from back in the army days.

“Jax!”

I snap back to the present and look into Mia’s wide gray eyes. “Jack,” I remind her.

She growls. “
Jack
. What does this mean? How is synthetic different from the kind they make from that plant?”

Scanning the translations, I pick up the key phrases: long lasting, one percent death rate, one percent seizure rate, two percent hallucination rate.

I’ll be damned. The contradictions of the drug have been the only thing keeping it from being used more broadly. Hell, the CIA tried to use it during the Cold War for interrogations, but the chemical makeup of the drug induced powerful hallucinations, seizures, and sometimes death.

It’s a petty crime drug used only by the most foolish, mainly in Colombia where the borrachero tree grows freely. And now… I scan the translation again.

Test lab in Nicaragua.

Human testing successful.

One ounce covers one square mile of human population.

“Mia, what is the name of the next bank we have to visit?”

She digs in her big ass bag and pulls out the paper and key. “Banco de Nicaragua. Why?”

Standing up, I wave at the server. “Comprobar. Ahora.”

I need the check, and I absolutely need it now.

“Talk to me, Jax,” Mia says as I lead her to the 4-Runner, my hand on the small of her back. “You’re scaring me.”

“Not now. Let me think, then we’ll talk in the car.” Gray eyes flash up at me. “Promise.”

As we walk, I attempt to piece the puzzle together. Devil’s Breath is only naturally grown in the region of Colombia, but that wouldn’t stop traffickers from transporting it across Darian Gap and through Costa Rica.

Nicaragua makes sense. Dammit. It makes fucking perfect sense. Over the past several years, Russia has infused the country with millions of dollars of aid. More recently, they’ve delivered twenty military tanks even though Nicaragua has always been friendly with their neighboring countries. Then Russia sponsored a GLONASS tracking station on Nicaragua’s Caribbean coast. That last move had everyone scratching their heads. Why would a small Central American country need a space tracking base?

Unless that small Central American country was becoming the base for chemical warfare.

After assisting Mia into the car, I walk around it, scanning my surrounding environment. I’m spooked. This is bad. Seriously fucked up bad.

We aren’t talking typical chemical warfare. Not chlorine gas or anthrax. Not deadly agents that create fast or slow death.