Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
A t four-thirty, Ghost left his roach-infested dump of a motel in Panama City and slunk into the back alley, which stank of piss and rotting garbage. The sun was still beating down, baking everything in a relentless heat that made his shirt cling to his back and sweat run into his eyes.
He paused, scanning the street, waiting. Markov’s crew might’ve put someone on him. His instincts, honed by years of service, were sharp. Nothing moved. No one followed. Satisfied, he stepped out of the alley and onto the cracked pavement behind the motel. This wasn’t the safest part of town, so he kept an eye out for both petty criminals and Markov’s hired guns. The Glock tucked into the back of his jeans felt like a steady companion, just out of sight but always within reach. The military knife strapped to his ankle gave him a little more reassurance. He could handle himself, no problem—but he didn’t need that kind of distraction right now. Too much was riding on this job.
He headed toward the intersection, took a right, and walked three blocks to a run-down bar that catered to the desperate and dangerous. Before stepping inside, he circled the block, checking for tails. No one was on him.
The door creaked as he pushed it open, the stale, smoky air hitting him. No one gave a damn about non-smoking laws here. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light, and he spotted his contact—a man in his forties with close-cropped hair and a lean, hard build, sitting at the back. Even in his casual jeans and loose shirt, Pat had ex-Navy SEAL written all over him. You couldn’t scrub that kind of training off.
Ghost ignored the suffocating heat that only worsened in the bar. A ceiling fan whined and groaned as it made slow, useless rotations, and there wasn’t a whiff of air conditioning to be found. The old man hunched over the bar didn’t seem to mind as he worked his way through a bottle of Jack. Ghost’s eyes swept over the room, instinctively assessing threats. A couple making out in the corner, a group of barely-out-of-their-teens drinking cheap beer and chain-smoking, and three guys playing a drinking game, a bottle of tequila between them. None of them set off any alarm bells.
“Pat.” Ghost nodded at the man he’d met once before and slid into the chair across from him.
Pat returned the nod, tapping his beer. “Drink?”
“Yeah.” Ghost didn’t really want one, but it’d look off if he didn’t.
Pat gestured to the barman, a pock-faced Panamanian with long hair who looked like he’d stepped out of a bad Tarantino flick. No table service here. When the beer landed on the counter, Ghost got up, grabbed it, and returned to the table, giving the barman a quick nod.
“How’d it go?” Pat asked, cutting right to the chase. Small talk wasn’t in the playbook for men like them.
Ghost had first met Pat about a month ago, and it hadn’t been under the best circumstances. The former Navy SEAL had caught him off-guard—something that didn’t happen often. Ghost had been exhausted after a week in the jungle, heading back to his shabby apartment for a much-needed shower and some sleep when Pat and another guy named Blade had ambushed him. They’d been quick, well-trained, and Ghost had barely gotten in a swing before he felt the cold steel of a gun pressed into his back.
“We need to talk, Major,” Pat had hissed.
It had been a long time since anyone had called him that. They’d forced him up to his apartment, and as soon as he realized who they were, Ghost knew he’d have to move. If these guys could track him down, so could anyone else.
Pat and Blade weren’t amateurs—they were with Blackthorn Security, a private security outfit run by former SEALs that operated in the shadows.
“I’m impressed,” Ghost had commented back then, but the two hadn’t even cracked a smile.
“There are people worried about you,” Pat had growled, keeping his weapon trained on Ghost.
“There always are,” Ghost had shrugged.
“You’ve been off the grid for ten months. Your superiors want answers.”
“I’m undercover,” Ghost had growled. “They know that.”
Pat had exchanged a glance with Blade. “I don’t think they do. Your last contact was six months ago.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“There are rumors you’ve turned,” Pat had added, his steel-gray eyes boring into Ghost. “Working for Suarez.”
Ghost had scoffed. “Of course I’m working for him. That’s my assignment.”
“You can see how it looks,” Pat had said. “Undercover operator gets cozy with one of Latin America’s biggest drug traffickers, goes rogue. Why didn’t you check in?”
“Too risky. I’ve earned Suarez’s trust. Blowing that would’ve cost me the mission—and my life.”
The two men had been dangerous, no question, but Ghost could hold his own. He’d kept his voice low, calm, even as they stared him down.
“You can trust us,” Blade had said.
“No offense,” Ghost had replied, “but I don’t know you from Adam.”
“SEAL Team Six,” Blade had said, his voice clipped. “And this is Pat Burke, retired Navy SEAL commander. We run Blackthorn Security. We specialize in off-the-book ops.”
“Among other things,” Pat had added, his jaw hard enough to crack granite.
Ghost had studied them, weighing his options. “What do you want with me?”
Pat had grinned, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Glad you asked. We want to use your in with Suarez to infiltrate an arms dealer’s operation. A guy named Alek Markov.”
“I’ve heard of him. New guy, ruthless.”
“That’s him,” Pat had confirmed.
“What’s he done to you? This isn’t your turf.”
Pat’s face had darkened. “He’s involved in illegal arms deals—and he went after one of our own. We plan to take him down.”
Ghost had leaned back, considering. “He’s a hard man to get close to. Lives in a secret hacienda, guarded around the clock. His mercs are paid well enough to keep their mouths shut.”
“You got to Suarez,” Blade had pointed out.
“Suarez recruited me,” Ghost had reminded them.
Pat had nodded. “We know you were sent undercover to figure out who was recruiting soldiers from the academy. That mission’s done. It’s time to move on.”
“And Suarez?” Ghost had asked. “I’ve worked too long to bring him down. I deserve to be there when it happens.”
“With your intel, the FBI will arrest him. But you can’t be involved in the takedown.”
Ghost had slammed his fist on the table, frustration boiling over. “After all the shit I’ve put up with, you expect me to just walk away? That bastard deserves more than a pair of cuffs.”
Pat had leaned in, his voice steady. “This isn’t your fight anymore, soldier. You’re needed for something bigger—Blackthorn’s mission has been sanctioned by the government. We need you to shift your focus to Markov.”
Ghost had clenched his jaw. “You’ll take Suarez down?”
“The FBI will handle him—and his entire organization. We just need you to give us the details of his next shipment.”
Blade had chimed in then. “Once that’s done, you’ll disappear for a bit before making your move on Markov. Use your rep as one of Suarez’s top guys to slide into his circle.”
“And why would Markov hire me?”
Pat had smirked. “I’m sure you can think of something.”
Ghost quirked his lips. “I think I have an idea.”
Ghost took a swig of the beer the pockmarked barman had set in front of him and grimaced at the taste. "I’ve made contact with Markov."
Pat eyed him curiously. "You went to his hacienda?"
"Yeah, but not without getting searched and hooded. They weren’t taking any chances."
Pat leaned back in his chair, clearly impressed. Markov was known for his paranoia, keeping anyone he didn’t trust at arm’s length. "How’d it go?"
"He’s agreed to a trial run." Ghost kept his voice low. "I convinced him that the network I set up to smuggle Suarez’s narcotics into Panama could be used in reverse to transport Markov’s weapons into Colombia."
"And is that actually doable?" Pat asked, seriously.
Ghost shot him a look. "You think I’d set this up if it wasn’t?"
Pat chuckled. "Fair point. When’s this trial shipment going down?"
"That’s still up in the air," Ghost replied. "Markov needs to get back to me with the details, but I suspect he’ll want to secure an order with the Colombians first. Still, we don’t have to wait for that. My network’s still in place, but they’ve heard about Suarez getting nailed, so I’ll have to head down there, smooth things over. Make sure we’re still good to go."
Pat’s brow furrowed. "You think they’ll spook?"
Ghost shook his head. "Nah. Most of them are indigenous—farmers, fishermen, regular folk who need the cash. Suarez going down puts them out of work. They’ll come to the table."
Pat ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, shaking his head. "Hell of a way to make a living."
Ghost shrugged. Around these parts, it was just business. These guys made more in a week trafficking drugs and weapons than they ever did working the land. And no one knew the jungle better than they did. It wasn’t complicated—it was survival.
"When do you leave?" Pat asked.
"Tomorrow. I’ll be off the grid for about a week. No cell service where I’m headed."
Pat nodded. "Check in when you’re back. Anything else you need?"
Ghost hesitated for a beat. "Actually, there might be another potential source of intel."
Pat raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"A girl—well, a woman." Ghost corrected himself, the image of that tall, leggy brunette flashing in his mind. Her scent had clung to him, a heady mix of wildflowers and something more dangerous. "She works for Markov. I’m pretty sure she’s his personal assistant. American. Name’s Becca. Word is she used to work at the U.S. Embassy in Panama City."
Pat nodded slowly. "I’ll see what I can dig up on her."
"She might be useful. Markov told me himself he couldn’t run his life without her."
Pat shot him a warning look. "Careful. She could be his mistress. Markov’s not the type to share."
Ghost’s jaw clenched. "Yeah, I’ve thought about that. I’ll check it out before making any moves."
Their conversation wound down after that, each man knowing there was a lot left to do before Ghost would see Markov—or Becca—again. But as they parted ways, a surge of anticipation twisted in his gut. He couldn’t shake it.
He shouldn’t be this excited to see her again.
That kind of thinking was dangerous. He wasn’t a man who got distracted easily, especially not by a woman. But something about Becca had burrowed under his skin. Her caramel eyes haunted him, like she was hiding something—maybe something big.
Was she really just a personal assistant? Or did she know things that could help bring Markov down?
Was she loyal to him, or was there room to manipulate her into giving them what they needed?
Whatever the case, he knew one thing for sure—he was looking forward to finding out.