Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (13 page)

Easing one out of the crate, he laid it on top of the clothing and held the pen over it, clicking the end to take a photo. Looking closer, he saw that the weapons didn't have serial numbers on them.

On the manufacturing plate where they usually were, the metal was smooth, as if it had been ground down and repainted, the paint color a slightly different shade from the rest of the stock. Even the horse emblem identifying the manufacturer had been removed. It wasn't a clone of the M4A1, it was the real deal, modified to hide that fact.

If this was all they had to go on, they didn't have anything.

Disappointed, Rip laid the weapon back in the box and moved the lid back in place. As he settled the wood over the crate, his fingers slipped and the top landed with a soft whomp.

The guard outside the tent flap door, snorted awake, muttering curse words in Spanish.

Rip ducked behind a large wooden crate just as the tent flap was thrown aside.

Peeking through the gap between two crates he could see the guard enter, weapon first. He shone a flashlight around the interior, pausing on the crates behind which Rip hid.

His breath caught in his throat, Rip froze.

A shout went up outside and the guard spun and ran out of the tent.

As soon as the tent flap fell in place, Rip leaped to his feet and ran to the doorway, edging the flap to the side enough he could see what was going on.

A truck rumbled into the camp, headlights illuminating all the tents. A dozen men emerged, rubbing sleep from their eyes and carrying some of the weapons supplied from the crates.

Delgado hurried by Rip's tent, shouting orders. He had to have come from one of the tents next to the one Rip was in. Only three tents had been erected on this side of the compound. One on the very end and four across from where he hid. He could see the one on the end, but not the ones beside him, narrowing the possibilities.

While the men gathered around the truck, Rip slipped out the hole he'd cut in the back of the supply tent and ran to the one beside it, hoping to find any information regarding the shipment of weapons—a cargo manifest, contact name of the shipper, anything that would help them trace the weapons back to the seller. He tried to listen for any sounds of movement inside the tent, but the commotion outside drowned out anything inside. As he inserted his knife to tear a hole, he prayed the noise from the truck engine was sufficient to mask the sound of ripping canvas.

When he had a gap big enough, he lifted the flap and peered inside. Half a dozen pallets were spread across the floor along with clothes hanging from a line struck from pole to pole. It appeared to be the equivalent of a portable barracks for the terrorists who trained there.

Delgado held more of position of authority than a lowly grunt.

Rip moved on to the next tent. A loud crash and the sound of splintering wood sounded in the center of the compound, a man cried out and others shouted all at once. Whatever they were unloading from the truck must have crashed onto one of the men.

The confusion would be enough to allow him to check out the next tent. Quickly, he moved into position behind the next tent, slit a tear in the back and peered inside. A makeshift desk had been erected with paper scattered across the top. A cot stood in the corner with mosquito netting hanging from the roof down over the cot. Nothing moved inside the tent.

Rip crawled through the hole and, keeping low, moved toward the desk. Quickly, he snapped pictures of the documents, one after the other until he had all of them. He found a battered briefcase on the floor beside the desk and flicked the clasps open.

A moan behind him made him freeze. He turned to find a woman lying among a pile of blankets on the floor of the tent. She lifted her head and frowned at him in the dim light that shone through the canvas from the truck outside.

“Who are you?” she asked in groggy Spanish.

He replied in Spanish. “No one, go back to sleep.”

Her frown deepened. “You are not Carmelo.” She straightened, pulling the blankets up over her naked body.

Her scream sliced through the night, piercing Rip's eardrums.

Throwing the briefcase in front of him, he dove for the slit in the back of the tent, managing to get through before the first man entered the tent behind him. He scooped up the briefcase and ran as fast as he could, the darkness hampering his progress and making him second-guess where he was going. Keeping the light from the truck in his peripheral vision, he circled the camp, watching for the men guarding the perimeter.

The screaming didn't stop until he was halfway around the camp. He heard a shout near the point he'd left Tracie, Carlos and Julio and prayed they hadn't been discovered.

Hunkering low, he moved more slowly toward their position. Before he got within fifty yards, the whole world erupted in a fiery explosion.

Chapter Thirteen

When the truck lumbered into the camp, Tracie could no longer stand by and do nothing. “What if he's trapped somewhere that he can't get out without alerting them to his presence?” she whispered to Carlos.

“He will get out.”

“We could set up a diversion just in case.” Julio patted the plastic explosives he had tucked into his vest earlier.

“No.” Carlos remained firm. “He'll let us know if he needs help.”

Julio pointed to a beat-up van parked near the edge of camp, closest to them. “I could be there, set a charge and get back before Rip returns. And no one will see me.”

Carlos shook his head, the movement slowing as if he was considering the suggestion. “Remote detonation? I don't want to kill our guy.”

A cold chill slithered down the back of Tracie's neck, in direct contrast to the sweat dripping off her brow. “I say let Julio go for it.” She positioned her nine-millimeter in front of her. “I've got your back.”

Julio stared at her, his brows twisting. “You sure you know how to use that thing?”

“I'll show you just how well if you make another comment like that.”

Carlos chuckled softly. “Go.”

Julio slipped into the night. Once he left their position, Tracie didn't see him again until he slid beneath the van and then only because she knew he'd be there. The headlights from the truck provided just enough illumination to see when he finished and rolled out from under the chassis.

Back into the night, he moved, virtually invisible until he slipped up behind Tracie and Carlos.

Tracie started, rolled onto her back and aimed her pistol at the man.

On his knees, Julio held up his hands. “It's me. Don't shoot.”

“Give me a little warning next time.” Her heart hammered against her ribs. “I almost shot you.”

Julio lay on the ground between them.

“Did you see Rip?” Tracie half hoped he had and then again that he hadn't. If he'd seen him, how many terrorists would be able to see him?

“No.”

A scream rose above the noise of the truck's engine.

Tracie watched as the men behind the truck ran for one of the tents on the other side of the camp.

“We've got trouble,” Julio said beside her.

“What now?” Tracie asked.

“The sentry with the NVGs is headed this way. And I don't mean sliding by us, he's headed right for us.”

“Back up, slowly, stay low,” Carlos warned.

“Damn, he's coming faster,” Julio said. “Can I shoot him?”

“No!” Tracie said as quietly as she could. “If we fire a weapon, we alert the others to our presence.”

They had backed away several yards when the man headed their way shouted.

Julio stopped moving and pulled out the detonator. “Time to blow.”

Tracy and Carlos covered their ears a second before Julio hit the switch.

A loud bang shook the ground and the night sky lit up like the Fourth of July. The sentry hit the dirt and covered his ears.

Carlos dropped his hands from his ears and grabbed Tracie's arm. “Let's move.”

The initial explosion was followed by a secondary explosion as the van's gas tank erupted in a fiery ball, spewing fuel into the air, catching the nearby tents and some of the men on fire. Gunshots were fired and the whole camp churned in turmoil.

Carlos tugged Tracie's arm. “Come on!”

She dug her heels into the ground. “Not without Rip.”

“He'll come when he doesn't find us where he left us.” Carlos dragged her away from the burning camp.

Again Tracie dug her heels in the dirt. “I'm not leaving without him.”

A shout sounded behind them.

A bullet whizzed past Tracie's head and hit the tree in front of her. She quit fighting Carlos, dropped to her hands and knees and crawled across the ground. When she reached a massive tree trunk, she rolled behind it for cover.

More shouts rose from the fire at the center of the compound. Fortunately, most of them were battling the blaze and unconcerned about one lonely sentry, fighting a battle all on his own.

Tracie aimed her weapon at the man racing toward them and almost pulled the trigger when a rectangular object flew out of the trees and hit the guerilla in the side of the head.

He slammed against a tree trunk and sank into a heap, the rectangular object skidding to a halt on the ground beside him.

A dark silhouette detached itself from a nearby shadow, bent to scoop up what appeared to be a briefcase and ran toward them.

Her heart pounded even harder—Tracie would recognize that form anywhere.

“Rip!” She staggered to her feet and threw her arms around his neck.

He dropped a quick kiss on her lips and said, “We have to get out of here.”

“I'm one step ahead of you, buddy.” Carlos raced for the river.

Rip, holding the briefcase in one hand and Tracie's hand in the other, ran after him.

Julio brought up the rear, covering their six.

When they reached the overhanging tree where they'd left the boat, everyone tumbled in while Rip pushed off the shore and settled in next to the motor.

Tracie peeked over the sides and spotted the man Rip had knocked over with the briefcase.

He stood on the shore beside a tree and raised his rifle, letting loose a short burst of bullets. The rounds plunked into the water close to the raft.

“Get down!” Rip cranked the motor, grabbed the till and angled it toward the shadows along the far shore, which wasn't far enough for Tracie's tastes. The rubber raft puttered down the river at the pace of a snail's crawl.

Carlos aimed at the man on the shore and fired, but the pistol's range wasn't nearly as far as that of the M4A1. Their attacker was quickly out of their weapons' range.

More bullets pelted the water and one ripped into the little boat's hull.

Air hissed out of the tear and one of the compartments gradually deflated, slowing the boat even more. Tracie pinched the rubber over the hole in an attempt to slow the collapse. Water trickled into the bottom, but they continued downstream moving farther and farther away from the shooter.

Tracie looked ahead at a bend in the river and prayed they'd get there before another bullet sank them completely.

As they rounded the corner, the shooter fired again, missing the boat.

Rip grunted and hunched forward.

“Rip?” Tracie rose up, grabbed Rip's shoulders and leaned him upright. Her right hand came away warm and sticky.

“I'm okay,” he said through gritted teeth. “He just nicked me.”

“Yeah, right,” Carlos reached into his vest and pulled out a pouch. “That's a self-aid kit. As long as it didn't hit an artery—”

“It didn't,” Rip said. “I'm fine.”

“As I was saying,” Carlos eased his way to the back of the boat. “Apply pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding. I'll take the till.”

“I've got it,” Rip groused.

“He'll live,” Julio said. “As grumpy as he is, he'll live.”

“I told you I was fine,” Rip forced a tight smile.

“Bull.” Tracie tugged at his good arm. “Let Carlos steer or you'll run us into the trees.”

Rip let Tracie drag him into the center of the raft. She dug her fingers into the hole in his shirt and ripped it away from his shoulder. Tearing open the pouch Carlos had given her, she found a folded wad of gauze and adhesive tape. “Looks like the bullet went clean through.”

“Good,” Rip said, his voice tight. “At least they won't have to dig it out.”

Tracie pressed a wad of gauze to the front wound and taped it tightly in place. She did the same for the exit wound. When she was done, she used her hands to scoop the rising water and blood out of the boat.

Rip leaned close to her. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome. And by the way, you make a terrible patient.”

“You make a sexy nurse with black lipstick.”

“Well, don't get used to it. I prefer you intact.”

He chuckled. “I prefer you the same way.” With his lips next to her ear, he whispered, “And naked.”

Julio coughed and spluttered. “TMI, buddy. I didn't have to hear that.”

Tracie's cheeks burned and she was glad the trees hid them from the starlight at that moment. Carlos steered them into the tiny cove they'd departed from what seemed like days ago and could only have been a few hours.

Leaving the half-sunken raft on the shore, they climbed into the Jeep and headed toward Hector's hacienda, lights out, navigating by the light of the stars.

No one spoke, as if each of them was lost in thought. The operation hadn't gone exactly according to plan. Tracie hoped that whatever they found in the briefcase would help them identify the man selling weapons to the terrorists and shut him down.

* * *

R
IP
FADED
IN
and out of consciousness on the way back to Hector's. The bumps and jolts shot pain through Rip's arm, waking him every time Julio darted off the road to hide in the jungle when he spotted other vehicles on the road.

By the time they reached the hacienda, he could barely stand. Julio and Carlos half dragged, half carried him into the house and up the stairs to the bedroom he and Tracie shared.

Hector sent for a doctor and insisted his staff help Rip out of his dirty clothes and into the shower. None of them had had time to wash the camouflage paint from their faces, but Hector refrained from asking about it. He saved his questions until Rip was clean and the doctor had been there to dress his wounds with sterile bandages and give him a tetanus shot.

To have his guests show up with a gunshot wound and looking like terrorists themselves, was a lot to ask of their host without an explanation. Though he was tired and would rather just sleep it off, Rip figured he owed Hector the truth. The man had been more than helpful and patient with them.

Hector stood beside Rip's bed. “If there's anything else you need, just ask. Either I or one of my servants would be more than happy to get it for you.” The man turned and would have walked out of the room, but Rip couldn't let him.

“Wait. I need to tell you what's going on.”

Tracie had just walked in. “Do you want me to go or stay?”

“Stay,” Rip said.

She turned, closed the door and walked across the room to stand on the other side of the bed, facing Hector.

In a few short minutes, Rip laid it out, telling Hector about what had happened when SBT-22 had attempted to extract the DEA agent, the death of his teammate and his own attempted murder in Mississippi.

He brought Hector up to date on what had occurred in the terrorist training camp that evening and why he had a bullet wound and the four of them wore camouflage paint.

“We have to find out who is selling American military weapons to the terrorists and shut them down,” Rip ended.

Hector remained silent throughout.

“We understand if you want us to leave tonight,” Tracie added. “It's a lot to ask you to harbor people who have stirred up the hornet's nest. And for all we know, we might have what we came for in that briefcase.”

Hector pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wish you had been open and honest with me from the beginning.”

Rip nodded. “Hank trusted you enough to send us here, but he asked us not to reveal who we were and why we had come. The fewer people who knew about our mission the more likely our cover story would be accepted.”

Hector nodded. “I understand.” He turned and paced to the door and back. “Had I known, I could have helped much more than just sending four men out with you. I have a boat you could have used. We could have launched an attack that would have taken every one of those murdering bastards out of existence.” He clenched his fist, his face contorted into an angry, tortured mask. “They deserve to die for what they did.”

Tracie rounded the bed and laid her hand on his back. “We couldn't go in killing everyone there. If we don't have what we need, we might have to capture their leader and extract that information from him.”

“You can't interrogate a dead man.” Rip gave a tired smile. “They don't have much to say.”

The anger seemed to drain out of Hector. “You are correct. It is just as well I was not involved or I might have ruined the mission.”

“As it is, they will have to move their camp again. The fire was big enough to be picked up by the satellites.” Rip lay back and closed his eyes. “If you need us to leave tonight, we can.”

“No,” Hector spoke softly. “You are doing my country a service by attempting to stop the flow of weapons into the hands of the terrorists. I want to help in any way I can.”

“A good night's sleep is what I need now. In the morning we'll look over what we got and go from there.” His blood loss had affected him more than he'd expected and he fought to stay awake.

“I'll leave you two alone.” Hector's brows rose. “Unless Senora Gideon, which I'm certain is not your name—” he laughed softly “—would like another room?”

“No,” Tracie spoke firmly. “I'm staying with Senor Gideon.” She grinned. “I'm getting used to the name and the man. Plus I want to make sure he doesn't bleed all over your bed.”

“Do not worry about the bed.” Hector opened the door. “Thank you for all you have done.” With that he left Tracie and Rip alone, closing the door behind him.

Rip patted the bed beside him.

“I want to get a shower before I go to bed.” She pressed her lips to his forehead.

She must have taken off her shoes because he didn't hear her move across the floor. The bathroom door closed and the shower started.

Rip lay back, tired beyond all measure and his shoulder ached, but they were safe and Tracie hadn't been shot or killed in the process of infiltrating the terrorist camp. He'd call that a good day.