Special Ops Exclusive, Page 4

  “The threat isn’t coming from me, darling. But believe me when I say that if the people involved discover you’ve been in contact with me, your life will be in danger.”

  Alarm washed over her face. “What the heck have you gotten mixed up in?”

  Without answering, he rose to his feet. “Good night, Rebecca.”

  She shot up like a light, her hand darting out to curl over his biceps.

  “You can’t just leave,” she said in a hushed voice. “Let me help you. Whatever crazy situation you’ve found yourself in, I can help. I’ve got sources and—”

  “You can help by forgetting you ever saw me.” He gently removed her hand from his arm and took a step back. “I mean it, Rebecca. You need to let this go.”

  “But I—”

  She was still protesting as he walked away.

  * * *

  Rebecca gaped at Nick’s retreating back. She fought the urge to hurry after him, knowing that chasing the man wouldn’t achieve a darn thing. He wasn’t going to confide in her—he’d made that very clear.

  If you value your own life, you need to let this go.

  A tremor of fear ran through her, and yet it didn’t come close to overpowering the excitement building in her gut. Her instincts were humming, her brain already working over the meager details Nick Barrett had fed into it.

  He was mixed up in something big.

  Life-and-death big.

  And he was the son of the secretary of defense.

  There was a story here. A huge, potentially Pulitzer-winning story.

  You need to let this go.

  Nick’s voice continued to buzz in her head like a persistent fly, but Rebecca yet again ignored it. She wasn’t the kind of woman who let golden opportunities pass her by. How could he possibly expect her to walk away from what could quite possibly be the scoop of a lifetime?

  Grabbing her purse, she left the bar and rode the elevator up to her sixth-floor room. Jesse and Dave were sharing the suite next door, but she wasn’t ready to fill them in yet. Instead, she strode into the living room of her suite and fished out her cell phone.

  Harry Drexler picked up on the third ring, sounding harried as usual.

  An award-winning editor and producer, Harry had been Rebecca’s mentor ever since her freshman year of college when he’d been giving a guest lecture in one of her journalism seminars. She’d approached him afterward to gush about his speech and ask if he had any advice for an aspiring broadcast journalist, and they’d ended up having lunch the following week, a get-together that had become a ritual once Harry decided to take her under his wing.

  Harry was the one who’d helped her land the highly sought-after internship at ABN, and no matter how impatient and prickly he could be, Rebecca adored her grumpy old mentor.

  “What is it, Becks?” he barked in her ear.

  “The story of the year.” She paused. “Maybe.”

  “We don’t put maybes on the air, sweetheart,” Harry replied in a droll voice.

  “Duh. That’s why I’m calling you. I need you to look into something for me.”

  She sat down on the small couch, balanced the phone on her shoulder and reached for her laptop case.

  “What is it?” Harry asked briskly.

  “Find out why the secretary of defense’s son is in Mala.”

  Harry went quiet, then let out an amazed curse. “Nick Barrett is in Mala? Are you sure about this?”

  “Dead sure. I just had drinks with the man.”

  “You had drinks with the sec def’s son.”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?” Harry’s tone grew bewildered. “Why is Barrett in Cortega?”

  She had to laugh. “That’s what I need you to find out. Supposedly he’s been serving in the army for the past nine years. Special Forces, under the name Nick Prescott, and I guess he was discharged? I don’t know. Maybe your army contacts can shed some light on it.”

  “Are you thinking he’s still active duty and carrying out a mission? That he’s there for something unrelated to the election?”

  “I have no idea what I’m thinking,” she admitted. “Just get me some background info on the guy. There’s something here, Harry. He was rattled, and he ordered me to pretend I never saw him. He said he was involved in something dangerous.”

  “Dangerous how?”

  “I don’t know.” Frustration rose inside her. “I’m calling you with the bare bones here. This is nothing more than a hunch based on some cryptic comments from Barrett aka Prescott. Will you do some digging?”

  “Of course. Let me run a quick surface search right now. I’ll call you back.”

  After Harry hung up, Rebecca opened her laptop and typed in her password so she could do her own digging. A quick Google search brought up several news articles, all of which focused on Secretary Kirk Barrett, Nick’s father. Most of the pieces offered only a brief mention of Barrett’s children—Vivian, a married homemaker living in Arlington. And Nick, who served in the U.S. Armed Forces.

  “So you weren’t lying about that,” she murmured to herself.

  She keyed in a new search, hoping for Nick-centered results, but the man hadn’t been kidding. He really did stay out of the limelight, save for a few public appearances at charity events. There were absolutely no details about the man’s military career, but that made sense if he’d been using a different last name during his army stint.

  Her image search was a tad more successful—but only because it allowed her to drool over the guy.

  Whoa, baby.

  Rebecca’s tongue was practically hanging out as she stared at a picture of Nick and Kirk Barrett at a political fund-raiser in D.C.

  Okay, the man filled out a tux like nobody’s business. His body was so broad and muscular that her pulse sped up at the mere sight of it. And those eyes. Gosh, he had amazing eyes.

  Realizing her mouth had gone dry, Rebecca gulped a few times and tried to drag her head out of the gutter. She needed to focus. Nick Barrett’s sheer sexiness wasn’t the headline here.

  Well, it should be.

  She ignored the naughty voice in her head and resumed her fact-finding mission, but the data she managed to acquire didn’t help her solve the puzzle.

  Nick Barrett was twenty-eight years old. He’d grown up in upstate New York, attended college at Princeton and was an active duty officer in the army. Rebecca didn’t know how current that information was, because Nick had implied he no longer served in the military. So which was it? Current or former military?

  The answer to that came when Harry phoned back less than twenty minutes later.

  “You got something already?” she demanded in lieu of greeting.

  “Yeah, a lot of red flags.” His voice took on that suspicious note that told her he smelled a conspiracy.

  Sure enough, Harry’s next words were, “I smell a conspiracy.”

  She had to smile. “Hit me.”

  “I just spoke to an army buddy based on the East Coast. He did a search on Nick Prescott. Turns out Prescott did serve, but there’s nothing in his file for the past five years, which is most likely confirmation that he did indeed go the Special Ops route.”

  “Okay, what else?”

  “The file says he was honorably discharged a year ago, but I couldn’t find any trace of him since then. Nick Prescott, that is.”

  “What about Nick Barrett?”

  “That’s the fishy part. According to my source at the Department of Defense, Nick Barrett was also discharged from the army last year, which makes sense if he really did use the name Prescott. But Barrett is allegedly playboying it up in the Caribbean since he left the army. Supposedly he’s in St. Barts at the moment.”

  Rebecca frowned. “Is your source reliable?”

  “He works under the deputy secretary, and he’s basing this intel on a conversation he personally had with Secretary Barrett—yesterday.”

  “So yesterday, the sec def told someone that his son, Nick, was in St. Bar
ts.”

  “Yessiree.”

  “But we know for a fact that Nick is not in St. Barts. He’s here in Cortega.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying to make sense of it all. “Why is he here, Harry?”

  “Looks like we need to dig deeper, sweetheart. I’ll keep looking into it. In the meantime, try to get another meeting with Barrett.”

  “If he hasn’t skipped town already,” she muttered.

  “Well, see what you can do. Oh, and word came from upstairs—the powers that be want more riot coverage. You in the middle of the action, if possible.”

  “Tonight?” she said in alarm.

  “Tomorrow morning, but only if the crowd is still unruly.”

  Rebecca suppressed a sigh. Wonderful. Get Trampled in a Stampede, Part Two.

  “Fine. Call me if you find out more about Barrett, okay?”

  “Of course. Good night, Becks. Great reporting today.”

  She hung up the phone and stared at the picture of Nick on her computer screen. Lord, the man was delicious.

  A part of her almost wished she’d saved the big I-know-who-you-are reveal until after she’d slept with the man.

  A shiver rolled through her as she wondered what he’d be like in bed. He looked and acted like such a gentleman, but she’d glimpsed the passion in his amber-colored eyes as they’d swept over her body. Would he be sweet and gentle beneath the sheets? Or did he leave his chivalry at the door when it came to sex?

  Disappointment filled her belly as she realized she’d never get the chance to find out.

  What’s more important, Becks—sex or a Pulitzer?

  Right. She definitely needed to focus on the latter. No matter how attractive Nick Barrett was, his delectable body wasn’t the ultimate prize.

  No, his secrets were what she was after.

  * * *

  The call came to one of his private cell phones. Not the one reserved for business or the one he used for personal calls. This phone was for personal business.

  The kind of business that every last man in D.C.’s political arena dabbled in—and would deny to their last breath.

  “What is it?” He kept his voice low and his gaze fixed on the closed office door.

  Although he was burning the midnight oil, there was always an overeager aide or two beyond that door, just waiting to do some ass kissing.

  “We might have found them.”

  He didn’t need to ask who? The hunt for those bothersome soldiers had been the proverbial thorn in his side this past year.

  “Which one slipped up?” he demanded.

  “If the intel checks out? Barrett.”

  Frustration seized his insides. Damn it. Barrett was the last man he wanted to kill.

  Hell, he had no desire to kill anyone.

  “Where is he?”

  “Cortega. He met with a journalist who’s covering the election crisis down there. Rebecca Parker.”

  Christ. A reporter? And Parker, in particular? That woman was far too smart for her own good. And damn ambitious.

  Why would Barrett be talking to her?

  He shifted uneasily in his chair. Had the soldiers found something to connect him to the Meridian virus?

  “Parker’s producer has been making phone calls all night,” the man on the other end of the line continued. “He raised several flags when he started asking questions about Barrett.” A pause. “If Barrett is in Cortega, what would you like to do about it?”

  He went silent, mulled it over, sighed in reluctance. “Send a team down there. Take care of the problem—but not until he gives up the location of the other two.”

  “Sir, with all due respect...”

  He clucked in irritation. “Spit it out, Carraway.”

  “Our primary concern was that the soldiers would realize the deaths in Corazón were caused by a virus rather than the ULF rebels. At that point, the goal was to silence the unit before they questioned what happened in the village.” Another pause. “But now the whole country knows that a virus was being tested in San Marquez.”

  Bitterness clamped around his throat. The whole country did know, a fact that continued to infuriate him. Project Aries had been shrouded in secrecy from the get-go. Nobody was ever supposed to know that an American-engineered biological weapon was being tested on foreign soil, and the truth would have stayed hidden if it weren’t for that greedy scientist at the lab that created the Meridian virus.

  That slimeball Stephen Langley had sold the virus to a terrorist group, who in turn revealed to the world that the virus was U.S.-made and government-authorized. And now, thanks to Langley’s betrayal, the DoD had formed a damn task force to determine who was responsible for Project Aries.

  Not that he was worried about it leading back to him—he had several fail-safes in place.

  Several scapegoats, too.

  “Now that the truth is out, the soldiers aren’t a threat,” Carraway went on. “It’s not like they can expose us.”

  “Not a threat?” He chuckled harshly. “Special Ops soldiers are a different breed. They’re ruthless, smart, unforgiving. They won’t stop until they find the person responsible for ordering the elimination of their unit.”

  “A unit that shouldn’t have been sent to Corazón in the first place,” was the embittered response. “A cleanup team was already on its way. The rebels would’ve been taken care of and the deaths of the villagers and the medical staff would’ve been blamed on Hector Cruz and his men. But no, thanks to a communication mix-up, a Special Forces team was sent to answer Dr. Harrison’s SOS.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about that now,” he said with a heavy breath. “Mistakes were made. The unit was erroneously dispatched, and now we have three loose ends to take care of. So send a team to Cortega and deal with it.”

  “What about Parker?”

  He thought it over, his stomach going rigid with anger. Damn it. Why had Barrett met with Parker?

  And what the hell had he told the woman?

  “Take care of her, too,” he finally replied.

  A long beat. “It will be difficult to separate her from her crew, and any sort of interrogation would have to be handled delicately. She can’t know why she’s being questioned.”

  “Then don’t question her. The woman is smart. She’ll see through any phony interrogation attempts, and she’ll keep investigating, especially if she’s asked to stop.”

  “What are you saying, sir?”

  “The protesters are still causing trouble in Mala, are they not?” he said slowly.

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “And Parker is right in the middle of the action.” He released a weary sigh. “Take her out of the equation. Make it look like part of the riot. Her whole crew, if possible.” He paused. “The producer, too.”

  “This is risky. Has the potential to blow up in our faces.”

  “We don’t have any other choice.”

  “I suppose.” Carraway sounded unconvinced.

  He suddenly felt incredibly frazzled, like this entire situation was slipping out of his control. “Just get it done,” he snapped. “Barrett, Parker, their associates...get rid of them all.”

  Chapter 5

  Much to Nick’s displeasure, Salazar texted the next morning to reschedule their meeting. Again. With the streets of Mala still in uproar, the presidential guard was committed to keeping the country’s leader safe from the unruly people who refused to acknowledge Garza’s power.

  Cortega’s military and law enforcement officers weren’t equipped to deal with a riot of this magnitude. Barricades were being knocked down by the angry mob, all attempts by the tactical team to control the crowd had gone nowhere, and more and more people continued to arrive; some hailed from Cortega, others came from all over the world to show their support for the struggling citizens.

  Nick had had enough of it all. He’d spent the morning in one of the city’s most dangerous and derelict neighborhoods trying to track down El Nuevo Diablo. Nea
rly every man, woman and child living in those projects had refused to speak to him. Those who did demanded compensation for their time, but once he told them who he was looking for, they swiftly handed him back the cash and claimed ignorance. They were so terrified of El Nuevo Diablo that they wouldn’t even accept a cash bribe that could’ve put food on their tables for months.

  Now Nick was once again riding the elevator up to his hotel room. He had nothing to do but wait for Eva to get him the name of a con man who supposedly sold fake IDs down by the docks, but Nick doubted Paul Waverly would’ve used anyone less than the best. It was still worth looking into, though.

  The elevator doors opened with a loud chime and Nick headed down the carpeted hallway toward his room. He was ten steps from the door when his instincts began to buzz and the little hairs at his nape stood on end.

  Something was off.

  Without slowing or altering his pace, he continued his approach, his gaze immediately noting the barely visible scratches around the keyhole on the doorknob. Someone had picked the lock.

  Nick kept walking. Right past his room. All the way to the stairwell door at the end of the hall.

  His hand slid beneath his long-sleeved shirt and down to the waistband of his cargo pants where he’d tucked his 9-millimeter SIG SAUER. He’d just gotten a grip on the weapon when a door flew open from behind.

  He spared a hasty glance over his shoulder and saw a tall, muscular man filling the doorway of Nick’s hotel room.

  As their eyes locked, triumph lit the stranger’s eyes and his hand whipped up to reveal a .45 handgun with a suppressor affixed to its muzzle.

  “We’ve got him!” the man shouted.

  Son of a bitch.

  Nick dived into the stairwell, adrenaline burning in his blood and fueling his actions. He raced down the stairs, his boots slapping the concrete floor with each hurried step. He’d just reached the third-floor landing when he heard the fifth-floor stairwell door burst open from above.

  Footsteps thudded on the stairs, spurring him to move faster. His breathing didn’t change. His heartbeat remained steady. One foot in front of the other.

  There was no time to be afraid. No time to panic.