Rebel Protector (Blackthorn Security #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

T he wheels of the SUV left the tarmac and hit gravel. Ghost could hear it kicking up off the surface of the road, bouncing along and hitting the undercarriage. They must be nearly there. It had been a stifling hour-long drive from Panama City with his hands bound behind his back and a sack over his head, but he understood the need for secrecy.

Aleksandar Markov, the new kid on the block and one of the most ruthless arms dealers the region had ever seen, valued his privacy. His hacienda was situated on the Panamanian coast, in the middle of nowhere.

It had taken weeks of negotiation to reach this point. First, Ghost had used his contacts in the drug trafficking industry to get in touch with Markov’s right-hand man, Luis Ramirez. Then, after being vetted and having his position in the trafficking network verified, he was granted a meeting with Markov.

They had picked him up outside his hotel in Panama City, a squalid hostel that barely deserved its single star, and brought him here—but not before he was patted down and checked for wires and weapons. Now, feeling disoriented and a little carsick, he had arrived at his destination: Alex Markov’s secret hacienda. In a few moments, he’d meet the infamous legend himself.

Markov had arrived six months ago with a cache of illegal arms that he needed to offload. Where the weapons had come from, no one knew. Rumor had it they were from conflict zones in Eastern Europe and Central Asia, where he had a string of black-market contacts. But since the FBI was closing in on his operation, he’d packed up and relocated to Panama, where there was a lucrative trade in illegal arms to guerrilla groups, cartels, and paramilitary organizations in South America.

He had pissed off many established arms dealers in the region, but they had been swiftly dealt with in such a manner that no one was likely to challenge his position again. Markov was here to stay.

The SUV came to a halt, and Ghost heard the front passenger door open and someone get out. There were footsteps on gravel, and he braced himself for the unexpected. Always be prepared.

But nothing happened.

A moment later, his door opened, and he was hauled out of the vehicle. Once on his feet, the ties binding his wrists were cut, and the bag was ripped from his head.

Damn, it was bright.

He blinked to adjust his vision. As soon as he could see properly, he looked around, taking stock of his surroundings. They were outside a Spanish-style mansion in a stone courtyard with a fountain in the middle. The property was heavily secured. He immediately spotted two armed guards watching from a respectful but highly accurate distance, not counting the four banditos who’d brought him here, all of whom were packing.

The man who had put the bag over his head was called Carlos. He was an ugly motherfucker with a scowling face, a hawkish nose, and lips that seemed molded into a permanent sneer. Ghost didn’t like him and sure as hell didn’t trust him. He didn’t know the names of the two thugs he’d cozied up with in the back seat, but they walked off, and the SUV drove around the back, presumably to park.

Ghost studied the lavish white Mediterranean residence with its typical, red-tiled roof. It was an impressive building, and what it lacked in height, it made up for in breadth. He suspected it stretched back a fair distance, probably all the way to the beach. He could smell the sea; it was no more than five hundred meters away. The salty tang was a welcome relief after the hot stench of Panama City.

The front door opened, and through the expansive archway walked a compact, stocky man in an expensive suit. His hands were clenched into fists, but he made this look natural. He practically sizzled with thinly concealed aggression.

“Mr. Ramirez?” Ghost inquired.

The man stretched out his hand. “Mr. Domínguez, welcome to Villa del Mar. I’m sorry for the crude method of delivery, but you know how it is…” He petered off with a non-apologetic shrug.

They shook hands. “I understand.” For this assignment, Ghost was using his real name, since they were bound to do background checks on him. His legend was an extension of his own history, it was safer that way.

“Follow me. Mr. Markov is expecting you.”

Ramirez nodded at Carlos before turning on his heel and heading back into the house. Ghost walked with him under the white arch and through a double-volume, steel-reinforced front door. No one was getting in here without an invitation.

The interior was cool and surprisingly tasteful. Marble tiles, white walls, and top-notch air conditioning all contributed to the ambiance. Luscious indoor plants were strategically placed in darker corners, and the walls were adorned with several pieces of fine modern art.

They descended a short flight of stairs to a formal living area, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Ghost caught a breathtaking view of the terrace and swimming pool. It was surrounded by natural vegetation, giving it a tropical feel. In the distance, he could see a partial view of the pearly sands of the estate’s private beach. It was quite a secret hideaway Markov had here.

Reclining on a sofa, a finger of whiskey in a glass on the coffee table in front of him, was Aleksandar Markov himself. He didn’t look anything like Ghost had imagined. After all the briefings, he had expected a monster. Instead, Markov was of average height, distinguished, and corporate-looking with a smattering of salt-and-pepper hair. He reminded him of a retired city banker.

“Mr. Dominguez, how good of you to come.” He even sounded like a banker. His accent was interesting—a mixture of an American twang over a distinctly Eastern European inflection.

Ghost stepped forward and shook his hand. It was cool and dry, but the handshake was firm and strong. “Thank you for seeing me.” It was the eyes, Ghost decided, that betrayed his ruthless nature. Pale blue and colder than the polar ice caps, they were totally devoid of emotion.

“Please, sit down. Becca will bring us some tea.” He snorted. “A little habit I picked up when I lived in London many years ago.”

Ghost glanced up and saw a stunning brunette hovering in the doorway. Glossy brown hair, soft curves, and legs that disappeared under a tight skirt that went on forever. She flashed him an efficient smile and nodded to Markov before disappearing to get the beverages.

Damn. Markov sure knew how to pick them.

Was he sleeping with her?

A stunner like that, Ghost couldn’t see how he wasn’t. Markov struck him as the kind of man who took what he wanted from life and to hell with the consequences.

Ghost turned his attention back to the arms dealer. “It’s a beautiful place you have here. I’ll bet the sunsets are something else.”

Markov smiled and acknowledged the truth of that statement with a small bow of his head. “It’s not California, but it’ll do.”

Ghost didn’t respond. He’d been told Markov had been based in San Francisco, near Silicon Valley, where he’d funded some sort of crypto startup. Apparently, it had been a way to launder his blood money and allowed him to operate undercover on the dark web. Ghost didn’t know much about those things, but he got the picture. Markov was a HVT and top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

“Where do you hail from?” asked Markov. Ramirez poured himself a drink from a liquor cabinet, then took a seat at a modern glass-and-chrome table a few feet away. Markov’s partner was an observer in this meeting, not an active participant. It was clear who called the shots.

“Florida, originally,” Ghost replied, sitting down opposite the arms dealer. “Although I move around a lot.”

Markov nodded. It was expected in his line of work.

“Tell me about that.” Markov’s gaze fixed on Ghost’s face.

“About what?” Ghost knew what he meant, but he played along.

“How did you end up here, in Central America?”

It might seem like a harmless question, but it was an integral part of the interview. Markov had checked him out, but this was the part where he had to live up to his reputation—where he had to sell himself to Markov as someone the arms dealer needed.

“After I left the Army, I was assigned to the U.S. Training Support Unit in Belize as an instructor in close combat and jungle warfare. That was my specialty back in the military.”

“Special Ops, wasn’t it?”

Ghost was impressed. Markov had done his homework. The arms dealer must have contacts in the DoD to get that kind of information. Usually, Special Forces operator’ names were redacted for their own safety, even after they’d left the service. But that’s why he’d used his own name, it could only help his cause.

“Yes, sir. I served ten years in the U.S. Marine Corps and four in MARSOC.” MARSOC, or Marine Forces Special Operations Command, was the Marine Corps’ special operations unit. They specialized in direct action, special reconnaissance, and counter-terrorism. Its members trained and operated closely with the more famous Navy SEALs.

Markov narrowed his eyes. “So, after fourteen years risking your life for your country, you end up an instructor in a rainforest in the ass end of nowhere? Is that right?”

Ghost gritted his teeth. That about summed it up. “Yes, sir.”

“What did you do to piss them off?”

Ghost remained silent, his entire body tense. This was one step farther than he wanted to go, but he saw the value in it. He’d be a fool not to work this angle. Showing how angry he was about what had happened would sell his cover even more. The best part was, he didn’t even need to lie about it.

The stunner returned with the tea and put the tray down in front of them. “Shall I pour, Mr. Markov?”

“Please, Becca.”

She bent over, and Ghost caught a whiff of her perfume. It was light and sensual, like meadow flowers on a summer day. He watched as she poured tea into two china cups, admiring the way she moved. It was like sexy poetry in motion.

Her hair fell forward, but she made no move to tuck it back behind her ears. Suddenly, he wanted to touch it, to slide his hand around the back of her neck and draw her towards him.

Fuck, his fantasy was running away with him.

Sure, it had been a while since he’d had a woman, but still… Now? In the middle of an undercover op? He must need his head examined.

She handed him the tea with the barest hint of a smile. Her eyes were a rich brown flecked with gold, and where Markov’s were empty, hers were filled with hidden secrets.

Then she did the same for her boss, this time adding milk and one sugar cube before stirring it thoroughly. How had she known Ghost took his black?

“She makes an excellent cup for a Yank,” Markov remarked once she had left the room. Ghost noticed she hadn’t offered Ramirez any. “That’s one of the reasons I stole her.”

“Stole her?” Ghost thought he’d misheard.

Markov laughed. “Nothing sinister, I assure you. I poached her from the U.S. Embassy in Panama City. I was there for a meeting, and she served us tea. It was perfect—very rare in this part of the world—so I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Now she works for me, and to be honest, I couldn’t do without her. Becca literally runs my life. Anyway, I digress. You were saying?” He turned his dead eyes back to Ghost.

Ghost didn’t want to know exactly what Becca did for Markov, so he forged ahead with his cover story.

“I was in charge of an op that went south,” he explained. “We received some bad intel and stormed an enemy hacienda, only to find it was a hospital for sick, orphaned kids. It was a major fuck-up. There were no casualties, thank God, but we got caught in one hell of a firefight on the way out. It became an international incident, and my team was held responsible.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

Markov watched him closely. “You took the blame.”

“Yeah, I was the unit commander. I had no choice. Someone’s head was going to roll, and it happened to be mine. I was offered the post in Belize because they didn’t know what to do with me. I was an embarrassment to the squad—or to the politically motivated powers that governed the unit.”

“Is that why you went AWOL?”

Now for the fun bit.

Ghost scoffed. “The salary was fucking abysmal, and there was no action. Why would I want to stay in that shithole when I could earn ten times that on the private circuit?”

“As a paid mercenary,” Markov added.

“Of sorts,” Ghost leaned forward, preparing for the hard sell. “Sir, I single-handedly set up Alberto Suarez’s distribution ring through the notoriously dangerous Darién Gap between Panama and Colombia. I scouted the route, set up the network, bribed the locals, and then tested and secured it until it was perfect.”

“Suarez was caught,” Markov pointed out. “He was arrested two weeks ago by the DEA.”

“Not on my watch,” Ghost replied. “And not because of anything I did. He sold his product to the wrong guy—that’s what got him busted. He walked straight into a trap. My distribution network is still in place.” And therein lay the unique selling point and the sole purpose of this meeting. He let his words sink in.

Markov studied him for a full minute before he replied. “Is that why you’re here? You want to work for me?”

Ghost took a deep breath. “Since Suarez is out of play, I’m out of a job. I hear you’re looking to expand your distribution into Colombia, and I have those routes already in place. If I can speak plainly, sir?” He glanced at Ramirez and then back at Markov.

Markov nodded. “Whatever you need to say, you can say in front of Ramirez.”

Ghost continued. “It's perfect for small arms distribution. There are no end-user certificates to forge, the disseminated nature of the network makes it much harder to police, the border is in the middle of impenetrable jungle, impossible to patrol in any orderly fashion, and the best part is, I know how to get the merchandise through without detection.”

There was a pause as the relevance of what he was offering sank in. Ramirez glanced at Ghost and then to Markov, his eyebrows raised. Still, Markov didn’t react.

Ghost waited. He picked up his teacup and took a sip. He wasn’t the biggest fan, but Markov was right. It was excellently brewed.

“Who’d you hear that from?” Markov asked softly.

Ghost met his gaze. “From suppliers we used to deal with on the Colombian end. They told me they’re interested in acquiring your weapons to support their cause.”

Many of the drug cartels and criminal groups operating in Colombia purchased arms from dealers like Markov. Sometimes they paid with cocaine, other times with cold, hard cash. Either way, it was a lucrative business to be in. Markov was intent on muscling in, and Ghost was giving him his chance.

The pale blue eyes flickered over his face, but Ghost remained passive. He forced his shoulders to relax. “It’s all set up,” he reiterated. “You don’t have to do anything other than sit back and enjoy the profits. There’s a market that wants what you’re selling, and I have a way to get it to them with minimal risk.”

“It’s worth considering,” cut in Ramirez, speaking for the first time.

“How do I know you aren’t full of shit?” Markov asked.

“Because I worked for Suarez for ten months and helped make him a very rich man. Ask anyone involved in his organization—they’ll vouch for me.”

“There aren’t many left who aren’t in jail,” Markov retorted.

“Like I said, that had nothing to do with me.”

“Why weren’t you arrested?” Ramirez directed the question to him.

Ghost glanced at him. “Because I’m too smart to go along to a sting.” Markov snorted. “My business was the supply end,” Ghost continued. “I wasn’t involved in selling the merchandise. My job was to bring in the product from Colombia, that’s it. When I got wind of what had happened, I disappeared. There’s nothing linking me to Suarez’s organization.”

“Smart.” Markov drummed his fingers on the side of his empty teacup, his brow furrowed. The seconds ticked by. Eventually, he said, “Okay, I’m interested. Let’s set up a trial run and see how it goes.”

Ghost nodded.

He was in.

Becca, Markov’s assistant, returned. “Is there anything else I can get you, sir?” Even her voice was sweet, like honey.

“We’re good.” He waved her away, and she left the room, but not before shooting a curious, appreciative glance in Ghost direction.