Marked man, p.7
Marked Man, page 7
“You feel like talking about her?” she asks after a moment.
I’m trying to decide which “her” she’s referring to and finally have to ask. “Who?”
“Whoever’s got you so . . . tense. ‘Cause I know it isn’t me.”
Tense is an understatement, but there’s no way in hell I’ll confess that she is the one under my skin—sexy dream plus naked girl, and my dumb brain has short circuited. To hell with the reminder of Tasha and feeling sorry for myself for having to leave California yet again, buried in uncertainty about when, if ever, I’ll get to go back and make sure my family is okay. I didn’t really want to leave the first time, but my former best friend Zane was making my life hell . . .
Actually, scratch that. My guilt was what did me in. Though Zane’s threats didn’t help. I stopped blaming Tasha years ago. She tried her best to help preserve our friendship but her efforts weren’t enough. Maybe some men can handle the poly thing, but Zane and I aren’t like that.
At least Watts is willing to fill the silence. “I get it, you know,” she says. “I left a girl behind too. Seems like I’m always leaving her behind, but she forgives me every time. Though it’s been a few years, so this time she might have finally moved on.”
“Katrina?”
“You remember.”
“It didn’t sound serious, the way you talked about her last night.”
“Yeah, well . . . what we have is complicated. She was my first.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen. She was twenty-two. And Jesus, did she open my eyes that first time. I’d fooled around with guys before, but the things she could do with her tongue . . .”
“Watts, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not . . .”
“Right, sorry. I’m pretty bad at self-censoring. But if you love someone, don’t you want to share with the world how amazing they are?”
“Not really. I’d rather keep them to myself. Completely.”
“Oh? So explain why there were naked pictures of your girl making the circuit around the squad when we met.”
“First, she wasn’t my girl. And second, you were the reason that shit got passed around, unless you’ve forgotten. The only reason I didn’t stop it was because I was angry at her. I had a whole lot of soul searching to do that first year in EOD, and it wasn’t until those sketches I made were already spreading like wildfire that I figured out how I felt. Why I was so goddamn pissed.”
“She’s a fucking movie star. Having a taste of someone like her and not being able to keep her would probably piss me off too.”
“She was more than that to me.”
“How’d you meet?”
“She dated my best friend in high school. He was a rich kid whose dad was in the movie business. I guess they hooked up through their parents. Tasha was a child star before she made it big.”
Sadie guffaws. “Oh my god. You banged your best friend’s girl?”
“I’m not proud of it. But I guess you could say she rescued me. My older brothers had both enlisted, so they were gone, which left me to be my dad’s punching bag for the next two years until I could enlist too. One day Dad was in rare form, going off about some bullshit or other, and pummeled me bloody. I ran to Zane’s to regroup—he hid a key for his parents’ guest house and let me crash there sometimes. He wasn’t home, but Tasha showed up while I was there. She patched me up, and one thing led to another.”
“That’s a spin on rescuing I haven’t heard before. When did your buddy find out?”
“Not for a few weeks. We knew when he’d be away and would meet at his guest house. Tasha had this crazy idea that if she came clean with him, we could try a poly thing, or even a threesome. Surely he and I were close enough friends to share her, right?” I glance at her and she gives a “sounds plausible” shrug. “I told her it was a bad idea, so I thought she dropped it. But she told him anyway . . . showed him the drawings I’d done of her as proof. Needless to say, he wasn’t thrilled. We stopped being friends that day.”
“It’s a shame. She made a great model. And I’m honestly surprised you didn’t go into business with your brother or something. He’s a tattoo artist, right?”
I frown and glance toward her through the shadows. “I never told you that. He was still serving the last time I saw you.”
“It’s in your file. You have two brothers who are tattoo artists, in fact.”
“Why are my brothers’ professions relevant to me or the mission?”
“Everything’s relevant, Santos. Especially that epic work of art you have on your back.”
She yanks the chain under the light, bathing us in illumination again and points. I don’t think about the tattoo Mad gave me, mostly because I can’t actually see it without a mirror. But for the past three years, every time I’ve had time to go back to LA, I’ve had him add to it. This last visit was the first time I got Sam to put his mark on me too.
My brothers and I are all huge Guns ’N’ Roses fans, so my back is an homage to all our favorite songs from the band. Maddox and I brainstormed it while drunk one night, and he started showing me sketches the next day. The latest addition filled out the jungle background a bit more to represent my current mission, as well as one of their most popular singles. But it isn’t my back tattoo I’m worried about now; I have a separate tattoo that I almost forgot about adorning my left bicep, one I know she’ll react to differently.
“That’s a badass tattoo, but you don’t want it to wind up on Amador’s wall,” she says, reminding me of the most gruesome piece of intel we have on the man. He evidently has a collection of art made up of tattoos he’s taken, skin and all, from men who have crossed him.
I turn my head to look at her, waiting for her to see the new one. Her gaze coasts over my upper arm, and her eyes widen as an astonished grin spreads across her face.
“No fucking way. You got Rocket? Shit, Santos, I had no idea you felt that way!” She gives me a cocky smile as she closes in and reaches for my arm. I hold it out for her to inspect, and it’s all I can do to keep my stupid dick under control. In the stark illumination from the single bulb, all her toned curves are accented, from her small, firm breasts all the way down. She is flawless, without even a tattoo in sight, though I spy a handful of scars on her arms and legs. The only marks on her torso are a pair of small scars on either side of her lower abdomen.
“You like it?” I say, forcing my attention back to her face.
“Was this because of me?” she asks, her big, dark eyes even prettier with wet lashes.
“You’re kind of my spirit animal, Watts. You made an impression. Though if I’d known you’d be my CO on this op, I might’ve put it in a less conspicuous spot.”
She lifts one eyebrow and eyes me up and down. “Yeah, I’d have seen it no matter where you got it.” She returns to her side of the showers, still grinning like a fool.
“You should get Sinner to show you his too. We both got them.”
A delighted laugh escapes her as she turns off the water and grabs her towel, practically bouncing as she dries off. “You two are still my guys, aren’t you? That’s probably the most precious thing I’ve heard in ages. Thank you.”
11
Marco
Our first full day is spent training and assigning gear, followed by a long debriefing where I’m asked to share all the intel I have on our target. I kept the thumb drive Mason gave me, so it’s a matter of plugging it into a laptop attached to a projector and running through every last file with the team so we can collectively decide where there are weak spots. What’s missing is a layout of Amador’s compound, so we have our work cut out for us bridging that gap.
My sleep that night is dreamless and heavy after a hard day’s work, and I head to the showers again in the pre-dawn darkness. This time I whistle softly as I walk the path so Sadie doesn’t attack me when I get there. I’m a couple yards away when the light comes on, and she greets me with a smile and nothing else before stepping back under her shower to start lathering up her hair.
I take a deep breath and brace myself, deliberately focusing on organizing my kit and setting out each of my toiletry items before I remove my shorts and turn on the water.
Yesterday’s conversation comes to mind, along with a question that popped into my head that I never got a chance to ask. I turn and coast my eyes down her body, confirming what I’d noticed the day before.
“You don’t have any tattoos. Why not?”
She shrugs, tilting her face up into the spray, then reaching for her soapy wash cloth. “I used to love my skin before. I was proud of the fact that I didn’t have a mark, not even any scars to speak of for the longest time. Dad used to joke that I’d sprung from thin air just for him, from a wish for a perfect daughter. Like he’s Zeus and I’m Athena or something. He denies he ever wished for a son.”
“You’ve got a belly button, though. So that means you’ve got a mother. And I see a few scars.”
I can’t help but dart a glance at the tiny divot in her ripped midsection, just a hand’s breadth above the perfectly trimmed triangle between her thighs—high and tight, just like she said. She used to keep her hair that way too, but it’s longer now, the wet ends brushing her shoulders.
Just enough of the dawn is beginning to filter through the dense canopy overhead, enhancing the shape of her rinsing off. She’s nothing like the other women I’m normally attracted to. But that somehow makes her even more intriguing.
“Had. Past-tense.” She glances down at her navel, then touches the two small lines on either side. I wasn’t referring to those specifically, but I can’t deny I’m curious. “These babies are just so I don’t pass on whatever fucked up genes my mother gave me. It’s not a topic I talk about.”
The strain in her voice makes me regret pointing it out. “Fair enough.”
She’s silent for a moment, then turns to face me directly. I’m scrubbing my balls with a washcloth and pause with my hand over my junk. She has that look, like she hates me a little bit for being reasonable—for dropping the subject she clearly didn’t want to talk about.
“Fuck you, Santos,” she mutters.
I raise my eyebrows at her. “Sadie, I’m not going to force you to talk about something painful. But if there’s something you need to get off your chest, just say it.”
She takes a deep breath. “She’s why I washed out of BUD/S, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, frowning. “First, you didn’t wash out. None of us believed you left because you couldn’t cut it. We were all rooting for you, you know. And if it was a family thing that made you leave, I’m sorry.”
She stands rigid, fists clenched, jaw twitching. She’s strung so fucking tight, I’m afraid she’s about to snap. She lifts her eyes to the ceiling and exhales a slow, shaky breath.
“She killed herself,” she says.
I go still, waiting for her to elaborate. There’s no sound but the stream of the shower and the white noise of the jungle around us. Despite her earlier insistence that she doesn’t talk about this, she evidently really needs to. I’m debating whether to tell her she doesn’t have to dredge up all that shit, but after a beat, she continues.
“When I was a baby, she had post-partum depression, like, really bad. Like . . . tried-to-drown-her-own-daughter-in-the-bathtub bad. Dad bundled her off to an institution after that, and I went to live with my aunt and uncle while he was deployed.
“I don’t even remember the event, but it stuck with me in other ways. I was afraid of the water until I was twelve. Until I finally understood what a badass Dad was and decided I wanted to be like him. I was so sick of feeling weak and small. But I loved my mom. We’d go visit her whenever Dad was on leave. Despite knowing what she’d done, I still loved her. I didn’t understand for so long how someone so beautiful, so gentle, could have done what she did. She was just . . . sick.
“But she’s the reason I didn’t stick with it. Dad almost didn’t tell me what was happening that summer—that she’d attempted to end her own life a couple times already. He didn’t want to distract me from finishing. From achieving the one fucking thing I’d always wanted in my life. I didn’t find out until my aunt let it slip that Dad was home and why. Then it happened. She finally did it. And I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t stay after that.”
It’s light enough now that the redness in her eyes is visible, though her tears mix in with the water from the shower.
“Watts . . . I had no idea . . . You know you could’ve talked to me about it.”
“Well, now you know. Please don’t tell anyone else. I just needed to tell someone . . . someone I trust.”
She sniffs and wipes her nose, then turns away, bracing her hands on the wet wood wall and tilting her head down so the shower hits her nape. I regard her for a moment, heart aching for what she must have gone through back then, and what she’s gone through since, because there’s no doubt in my mind she came back at the training ten times harder after the fact. The marks on her body show that she’s been through some shit, and half of them look more like actual combat scars rather than the kinds of wounds you get during training—or surgical scars.
I silently curse at myself. Normally I’m the guy who knows all the right things to say, but in this situation, I’m at a loss. Maybe if we weren’t stark naked, I’d be more eloquent.
I give up and crank the water off, then reach for my towel. Before I can rest a hand on the white terrycloth, Watts darts in front of me, clamps her fingers around my wrist, and yanks it back. Her wet body slides against mine, her other hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife she held at my throat when I arrived yesterday morning.
I’m confused as hell for a second until I see what she sees—an enormous snake is draped over the top of the half-wall beside me, headed my way. With a swift flick of her wrist, Sadie impales its fist-sized head with a gruesome crunch. The heavy blade sinks into the wooden shelf, pinning the snake’s skull to the soft folds of my towel, its body writhing along the ledge it traveled to get to me until finally it falls limp.
“Anaconda,” she says, glancing sideways at me, but not relaxing her grip on my wrist. Her hip rests snugly against my groin, and there’s no way in hell I can hide my very obvious reaction to the press of her warm, wet skin against mine. We technically just showered together naked too, so screw modesty.
My mouth twitches. “If you say so.”
“Oh Jesus. Jesus.” She vaults away from me and snatches her own towel, wrapping it tightly around her while she glares at me. “I saved your fucking life, and you have the nerve!”
“I had nothing to do with it, sweetheart. You rubbed your pretty ass on it. Thing’s got a mind of its own.” And fuck if I haven’t just given up trying to control it around her.
“I stabbed the wrong goddamn snake, I guess.”
I don my wet shorts again, leaving the dead snake with her knife impaling its skull to my towel, which will obviously need to be replaced.
Garcia’s the next soldier into the shower, and we pass on the path in silence.
“Holy fuck, there’s a dead anaconda. Santos, what the fuck?”
“Gotta watch out for rogue snakes in the showers, man. You never know what might sneak up on you.”
12
Marco
“As of your arrival here, your old identities are on ice. You are all ghosts until this op has been determined successful. If that isn’t the case, your instructions are in the packet you hold in your hands.”
Sadie pauses long enough for us to pick up the manila envelopes we each hold and pull out the thin stack of paper within.
The emotionally wrought woman in the shower this morning has gone AWOL. All that’s left behind is the naked jungle ninja who impaled a giant snake. I’m still struggling to reconcile the two, but I’m kind of enthralled by them both.
“What constitutes success means no loose ends at the conclusion of the mission. If you have the slightest inkling that you may have been exposed, go to ground at the location specified, where you will find new identities and a list of possible safe havens to flee to. If this happens, under no circumstance should you return to your old lives unless you’ve been given the all-clear to do so.”
The briefing is no more than a formality, but this part is new to me. On SEAL Team missions, we never needed cover identities. They were surgically planned and executed infiltrations, not unlike this, but always one and done. That’s where this mission is different.
Our target, Vicente Amador, has such a strong presence in the region surrounding Cancún that traipsing in as a military unit will only raise suspicion and put him on the defensive before we can get to him. We’d be too obvious, forcing him to close ranks, and cutting off any avenue we’d have inside to neutralize his forces.
The plan to get in is already in motion. We’re employing a Trojan Horse strategy that involves mostly undercover work. One small team will gain his personal trust while the rest spread out, entering the regional boundaries closest to Amador’s compound and infiltrating his militia as mercenaries. Most of us are joining Amador’s militia, befriending his soldiers, becoming one of them until the time comes to take them all out. We aren’t overwhelming him with power, but with skill and subterfuge, with the goal of hamstringing his forces so well he’s left swinging in the breeze when the inside team finally does their damage, opening the door for the authorities to swoop in and take over.
It helps that Amador is actively recruiting, which is in no small part due to the fact that his former lieutenant, Gustavo Delgado, recently departed to run his own cartel, taking half of Amador’s men with him.
We’re attempting to infiltrate the man’s organization in the middle of a war that’s already turned bloody. Because not only did Delgado leave Amador hanging, it’s also become common knowledge that Delgado was the man who murdered Amador’s lover more than twenty years ago. Not only does he need men to carry out his vendetta against the murderer, he also needs capital, which is what we’re hoping to entice him with.
