Bad Rio

Chapter One

R io Lang was bad. Not bad in an unhealthy, or ill behaved, or even in an evil way. He was bad in the way of the soulless. He just didn’t give a damn.

To him, people were not individuals. They were numbers. His job was to protect, or save, or shield whomever he’d been assigned to, and the hell with everyone else. People called him cold. He wasn’t cold. He was indifferent.

Black Eagle, the deeply secret organization that employed him, was a shadowy cell operating inside the CIA, but definitely outside its official parameters. Most Americans were blissfully unaware of the need for men with his particular ex-Special Forces skills. Black Eagle kept a tight leash on his missions, and on him.

Or so they thought.

Women were attracted to Rio’s six-foot-three, movie star good looks—his blond hair, his bold blue eyes, and his musculature. By any judgment, his physique was toned and in top condition. So he took the women who offered, took them without emotion, without promises. He just didn’t think about it. Why should he?

Rio was bad, with no conscience to speak of, with no family to care about except Big Jim, his adoptive father, and Sarah, his little sister. Back home on the sprawling Montana cattle ranch, his family was safe, and few knew about their connection. Although this meant he only saw Big Jim and Sarah infrequently, it was without question for the best.

It made sense to remain a lone wolf. People who became associated with Rio, the ones he wasn’t protecting, tended to get dead.

Now, crouched in the dark of night outside a hole-in-the-wall Mexican cantina’s bathroom, he kept hidden and well below the window. How the hell he’d ended up so deep in the country, in the middle of dangerous Chihuahua State at this out-of-the-way dump, he wasn’t quite sure.

The one thing he was completely certain of was the importance of this job to his future. His last contract had ended in a colossal screw-up, and he’d been running the show.

One more mistake and he’d be out of work. That was unacceptable, because the job was his life. Given his isolation from family, from most others, he lived for it.

Tonight, nothing dared go wrong.

The unholy stench in the underbrush reflected the overall cleanliness of the establishment. Had he given in to olfactory assaults, he would have been repulsed by odors of human waste, fetid vegetation, and spoiled food. He ignored them. On equally dangerous missions overseas, back when he’d served in the military, he’d smelled far worse.

In Nigeria, he’d tangled with Boko Haram. In Iraq, he’d fought the Taliban. In Yemen, he’d saved a British journalist from a certain beheading by drug-crazed ISIS fighters. Across his stomach he still bore the scar, courtesy of the madman’s long knife.

During his military service as team leader to get his men to safety, he’d crawled over rotting corpses. Oh, he’d smelled far worse than this worn-down cantina.

Inside the restroom, the woman was taking so long that he nearly gave up, leaped through the window and made off with her. This was to be a one-woman hostage grab, and he’d been patient, more patient than he’d been in a long time. After all the following, anticipating, and stalking he’d done across Mexico, the right moment to wrest her from her captor’s grasp was at hand.

The criminals had finally made a mistake by allowing her to go unescorted into the saloon’s bathroom. They weren’t completely stupid, and for their short stop, they’d set roving patrols. The last team of armed banditos had just sauntered by him, never seeing him in the darkness. Special Ops guys were trained to become invisible. Rio was especially good at this game. He was good at a lot of things.

Just three days ago, the criminal cartel had forcibly snatched their target, an American heiress, from the United States ambassador’s Mexican mansion. The ambassador’s summer residence was located in Matamoros, near the Texas border. His official home was in Mexico City, but nobody wanted to go there. Too much industry, traffic, noise. In contrast, the compound in Matamoros was lovely, with an enormous home, tropical plantings, and a huge rock pool.

Rebecca De Monte had been visiting her former college roommate, the ambassador’s daughter. The thugs’ obvious intention was ransom. While still young at twenty-eight, Rebecca De Monte had a rich daddy—a thriving Texas businessman—and one day she would inherit a small fortune. The bandits stood to make at least a million bucks off of Rebecca’s panicked father.

Normally, the FBI, Homeland Security, and a host of other alphabet organizations would lead a mission like this. However, Rebecca’s father was reputed to have important political ties. An international incident involving kidnapping could blow up in the press like an IED exploding beneath a Humvee. Rio had been there, suffered that, and it wasn’t fun. Such an outcome was unacceptable.

Thus, he’d gotten the job. Keep it quiet and get her back. Simple.

He grimaced at the knotting of his thigh muscles. He’d been hunkered down in the rotted underbrush beneath the window for so long his quadriceps protested.

At last he heard the bathroom stall door creak open.

Making a quick search around and finding the patrol gone, Rio shoved up the old casement window, hoisted himself onto the frame and hopped smoothly into the small bathroom.

At the sink drying her hands, the woman gasped.

Before she could take a second breath, he was on her. As she whirled to run, he wrapped his arms around her from behind and slammed a hand over her mouth.

His lips touching her ear, he whispered, “Shhh, Becca. I’m Rio and I’m here to save you.”

Instead of sagging against him in relief, the damn female struggled like a she-devil. She made urgent noises against his hand. He kept it tightly bound to her lips, and then dragged her over to the wall.

She tried to kick backward at his knees, but he easily out-maneuvered her. Struggling in his arms, she clawed at him, attempted to bite him, thrust her head back in an effort at a backward head butt.

She was no match. Taller by a good twelve inches, heavier by nearly a hundred pounds, he squeezed tighter in warning, nearly crushed her until she couldn’t breathe. It was necessary.

For a small thing, she had generous breasts. He could feel them heaving against his folded arms. Right now, that didn’t matter.

“Shut up,” he commanded in a harsh whisper. “I’m here to rescue you. Got that? Now, start cooperating or those assholes that grabbed you from the ambassador’s house will hear. You’ll get us both killed.”

At that moment a loud and insistent knock sounded on the door. “ Senorita, estes bien ? Are you well ? Come out now.”

Becca froze.

Whispering urgently, Rio said, “The Michoacán Cartel who kidnapped you? They’re disorganized. Sloppy. Half their captives are killed before ransom is paid. Think your chances are better with them? Or with me?”

The knock and imperious demand came again. “Senorita? Open the door.” The doorknob rattled.

Because she could barely move, he wrapped his fist around her long, dark braid and yanked her head back. A pleasant, sweet scent came off her hair, and put him in mind of little yellow flowers.

However, because she was of no more importance to him than a sack of potatoes, a sack he was nonetheless tasked to protect, he didn’t care. It mattered little to him whether she smelled like mildewed potatoes or fresh spring flowers. She meant one thing to him: money. Her scent was simply something he noticed. A man in his profession must remain observant.

She was forced to crane her neck and look up into his eyes. Unblinking, he met her gaze. She needed to make her decision within seconds. If she screamed, he was prepared to throw her out the window and as he followed, draw his Glock.

In that event, his chances for mission success would suffer.

He knew she was wealthy, spoiled, and probably petulant. Coddled types like her usually were. Over the years he’d dealt with plenty of her breed. At thirty-five, he’d been doing this for a while.

Yet she did have an excellent degree from a snooty university. Hopefully an education like that also translated into at least average intelligence. Maybe she was capable of making the right choice. It would definitely simplify his life.

Her eyes were large and a deep, snapping brown. He knew the color by studying her file, now confirmed in the low bathroom lamplight. The hue was the same, but the photos hadn’t revealed the fire burning within their depths. As she glowered, sparks shot at him like lasers. An angry line appeared between her brows.

A feisty one , he realized. Warring in her eyes with fear was also fury. This one would fight.

Despite her anger, he felt her entire body trembling.

The man on the other side of the door pounded on the wood. “Senorita!”

“ Decide .” Rio squeezed her again.

Against his hand, Becca nodded once.

With great care, he slowly lifted his palm.

Still holding his gaze, she cleared her throat and called out, “ Un momento . Just a minute. I’m coming out.”

Good. She had at least half a brain. That would be helpful.

“ Salir, ahora . Come out now!” came the impatient demand.

Quickly, Rio pushed her to the open window and unceremoniously shoved her through.

She fell the five-foot drop and to her credit, when she landed on her side, made only a small squeak.

Rio dropped beside her, already clamping his fingers under her upper arm to drag her forward. With his other hand, he drew his pistol.

Behind them, he again heard the man outside the bathroom shout for Becca to come out. He pounded harder on the door. In seconds, Rio knew he’d break inside.

They rushed to the corner of the dilapidated wooden building and he peered around. The two sentries were headed for them. The men didn’t appear in a hurry and apparently had not yet heard the commotion starting in the bathroom. In the next heartbeat, they would.

Damn .

Rio reversed course and moved the other way. They hurried back beneath the window and to the opposite corner of the saloon. Because he’d thoroughly staked out the landscape before approaching the building, he’d learned that just beyond the dirt parking lot was a concealing clump of low trees and shrubbery. In the snarl of vegetation was his prize.

“See those bushes, those trees?” He pointed.

She nodded.

“We’ve got to make it. Run fast. Go!”

Together they sprinted for the bushes.

Sweeping flashlights swung by them, hit their backs. An outcry rang out.

Shots were fired.

They plunged into the vegetation.

Shit! He wasn’t getting paid enough to eat a bullet. And if Rebecca De Monte were killed, he wouldn’t get paid at all. Add to that, his career would go the way of the Dodo bird. That was a non-starter.

Rio flung himself into the clump and pulled out a small, two-wheeled motor vehicle with a long seat. “Get on.”

He swung his leg over and fired up the engine.

In disbelief, Becca hesitated. “A scooter? This is your getaway car? A little Vespa?”

Shouting voices neared them. A bullet whined overhead. They both ducked.

“It’s either the Vespa or a donkey, Buttercup. Figured you’d prefer this. Now, get on.”

“Buttercup ,” she sputtered, but threw herself onto the seat behind him.

Before she was settled, he hit the gas. As she was flung backward on her seat, he shouted, “ Hang on. ”

At full throttle, they burst from the bushes. A hail of gunfire stitched the ground, pelted the leaves overhead. To slow their fire more than hit anyone, Rio raised his Glock, pointed it backwards, and unloaded a barrage of spray-and-pray rounds. They needed only a few seconds to get away.

Keeping Rebecca De Monte alive and in one piece represented his entire future, as well as a hefty paycheck.

And Rio meant to collect.