Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
“ M y man in Colombia has received the trial shipment,” Markov announced, breaking into a grin.
Ghost sat across from him, already knowing this from the message his own contact had sent him that morning. Miguel, a local farmer and key player in the operation, had kept him in the loop. Ghost had to stay ahead of the game—always.
It’d been five days since he’d moved into the Villa del Mar hacienda, but only two of those days were spent lounging by the beach. The other three? Deep in the Panamanian jungle, making sure the trial run went off without a hitch. He couldn’t afford to screw this up.
Miguel had collected the merchandise—just one crate for the trial—from a tribal fisherman who’d navigated the swampy waterways like it was second nature. The handoff had been smooth, ending with the crate stashed in an old warehouse on Miguel’s sugar plantation outside Cartagena.
Everyone got paid well for their part, and that’s how Ghost kept them loyal. No need for threats or bribes—just cash, and on time. So far, everything was running like clockwork.
Ghost reached across the desk and shook Markov’s hand. “Good to hear. Let me know when you’re ready to talk about scaling up.”
Markov stroked his chin, looking every bit like a cliché Bond villain. “I’ve already spoken to the Colombians. We should get the green light any day now.”
Ghost gave him a nod, keeping his expression calm.
Stay cool.
But inside, his mind was working overtime.
Get proof, Pat had drilled into him. We need something solid.
That was the tricky part.
The paperwork would be under dummy corporation names, signed by fake directors who probably didn’t even know what they were putting their names on. It was airtight. No accountability.
That’s how Suarez had run things. Nothing ever traced back to him. In the end, the only thing that brought Suarez down was the sting. He’d shown up in person for the final deal, and the whole thing had been caught on tape. No wiggle room after that.
Maybe that’s how they’d get Markov, too. But Ghost wasn’t counting on it. He needed another angle.
His mind wandered to Becca, sitting in the office next door.
Maybe she was the angle.
They hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot. He still wasn’t sure if she was sleeping with Markov. The way the arms dealer called her "Becs" rubbed him the wrong way—way too familiar. And the fact that Markov had made it clear she was off-limits? That screamed possessive .
Still, she didn’t strike Ghost as the type. He was good at reading people, and if he had to bet, he’d say she wasn’t sleeping with the boss.
What the hell? It was worth a shot.
Worst case scenario, she shut him down. Wouldn’t be the first time. He’d survive.
But best case? Maybe she wasn’t off-limits after all. Maybe Markov was just pissed because he couldn’t have her himself.
Ghost needed to up his game. He hadn’t been in the seduction business in a while—ever since he’d left the force, it wasn’t exactly high on his priority list. His pride had taken a hit after getting booted from his unit and stuck training fresh recruits in Belize.
But here? Now? The challenge had a spark to it. He was more than a little rusty, sure, but excited. And it wasn’t just about getting laid. It was the success of the mission. Becca could be a key to getting inside Markov’s operation.
Problem was, he had to make his move without security or cameras catching on. And let’s face it, subtlety wasn’t his strong suit.
Back when he was a Marine, it had been easy—he and his buddies walked into a bar, and the women hit on them . But this was different.
This was an undercover op.
And Becca wasn’t some groupie hanging out at the bar. She was beautiful, sassy, intelligent. That made it tricky.
She thought he was a mercenary, a thug. He could see it in the way she carried herself around him—polite, but tense. Careful. Always careful. A hands-off vibe.
She’s not wrong, he thought, grimly. He could be violent. But not in the way she assumed. His violence had purpose—quick, precise, and when necessary. No extra frills.
Still, there was a spark. He saw it in her eyes, no matter how much she tried to hide it behind those polite smiles. The way she looked at him sometimes, those caramel eyes with flecks of gold, her breasts thrust out defiantly, nipples taut against the fabric of her silk blouse.
Fuck. She made him hotter than he’d been in a long time.
The question was, how to turn that spark into an ember, and then that ember into a flame?
First things first—he needed to get her alone.
“Where’s the cache now?” Ghost asked Markov later that afternoon. He’d heard rumors the arms dealer had a stockpile stashed away in a secret facility. He needed to know if it was close, just in case he had to act fast. “Is it nearby?”
But Markov wouldn’t give up much, not yet. The guy was paranoid, and with good reason.
“It’s close enough,” came the short reply. “I’ll give you access once we get the go-ahead.”
Ghost nodded. That was enough for now. He had no idea how Markov had gotten his hands on these weapons, but he was sure none of them would trace back to the man himself. That was how these guys operated—clean hands, dirty deals.
“I’m heading into town to send a message to my guys this side of the border,” Ghost said, watching Markov’s reaction. He didn’t want to be babysat by that slimy security lapdog, Carlos. Surely, Markov trusted him enough by now? “I’ll take the usual precautions.”
Markov leaned back, watching him carefully. “Carlos will drive you.”
Ghost clenched his jaw. Fuck. He’d have to eat this one. Patience was key—just like with Suarez. It’d take time to earn full trust, and he needed to play the long game here.
“Sure,” he said, biting back his frustration. “If that’s the way you want it.”
He left Markov’s office, pulling the door shut behind him. As he walked into the main hallway, his eyes fell on Becca at her desk, her fingers tapping away on the keyboard. Did she know that her boss was an arms dealer? Hell, maybe she handled all the paperwork—kept track of orders, shipments, the kind of stuff that wouldn’t see the light of day.
He didn’t know how deep she was in. But she didn’t seem like the type to get her hands dirty. Still… you never know.
The place was quiet, no one else around. He took his shot. “I’m heading into town, if you want a ride.”
She glanced up, her big brown eyes locking onto his. “Alone?”
He grimaced. “No. Carlos is tagging along.”
She paused, biting that full lower lip, the pink flesh caught between her teeth. God, it made him want to be the one nibbling at her mouth, tasting her. His breath hitched, heat curling low in his gut.
Get a grip. If just looking at her was this distracting, how the hell was he going to pull off seducing her?
“Let me check with Alek—uh, Mr. Markov.”
His jaw tightened at the way she called him Alek. That felt too familiar, too casual. Was he reading this wrong? Were they together?
His scowl deepened as he watched her stand up, smoothing down her skirt as she moved. She knocked on Markov’s door and slipped inside.
Ghost couldn’t help but strain to hear the conversation. Their voices were muffled, but something about it rubbed him the wrong way. When she came back out, her expression gave nothing away.
“I’m good to go,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “When are you leaving?”
“Twenty minutes,” he replied, his tone gruffer than he meant it.
“I’ll meet you outside.”
They set off, both blindfolded. Becca with one of those cushy eye masks you get on a plane, and Ghost with the same old crude hessian sack. He was getting used to it by now.
The first few times, it had been suffocating—brought him back to when things went sideways in Basra. He and his teammate had just dropped two CIA agents at the Kuwaiti border when their vehicle got flagged at a police roadblock. They were marched to a ratty outhouse beside the checkpoint, stripped, handcuffed, and blindfolded. The bag over his head had smelled just like this one—sour with the stink of sweat and fear.
But that wasn’t even the worst of it. As the SUV rumbled over the dirt track, Ghost’s mind flashed back to the van they were shoved into and the cold, grimy cell they were tossed in at the police station. That’s when the mock executions started.
Each time the muzzle pressed against the back of his skull, he’d braced for his brains to be blown across the room.
Then— click. Nothing. Except their laughter, taunting him, soaking in his terror.
Closest I’ve ever come to death, he thought, grinding his teeth.
To shake it off, he breathed in Becca’s soft floral scent, just inches from him. She was strapped into the seat next to him, and even though they weren’t touching, her presence hit him like a jolt.
He hadn’t seen the driver, but he’d glimpsed Carlos in the front passenger seat, gun resting on his lap, right before they’d bagged him.
Ghost found it odd they were cruising in such a top-of-the-line SUV. The thing was a bullet magnet. If it were him, he’d pick something local, something low-key. But, hey, this wasn’t his op.
When they hit the city, they were finally told they could ditch the blindfolds. Ghost ripped off the bag, exhaling hard, pushing those bad memories down deep. He glanced at Becca as she quietly removed her mask, slipping it into her purse with practiced ease.
The rest of the ride was silent, but Ghost was hyper-aware of her beside him. He looked at her hands, fingers delicate and manicured. She took care of herself, and he liked that. Her cream skirt hugged her legs, and he could just make out the shape of her thighs beneath the fabric. She wore a soft pastel blouse tucked neatly in, and her sandals showed off those toned calves.
Everything about her screamed grace, beauty. Not exactly the kind of woman who’d be caught dead hanging out with a thug like him.
“Carlos, can you drop me at the market?” Becca asked, as they passed a bustling street lined with stalls. Ghost figured, having worked at the U.S. Embassy, she knew the place better than he did.
“That works for me,” Ghost added, trying to sound casual.
Carlos glanced back at him through the rearview mirror and gave a nod.
Now came the tricky part. He had to find a way to spend some time with her without looking like a total idiot. He couldn’t just come out with something cheesy like “Hey babe, wanna grab a coffee?” That would get him laughed out of town.
Besides, he wasn’t the type of guy women like her went for. She was elegant and put-together, and he was, well… rough around the edges. A brute. Someone she probably wanted to steer clear of, not get close to.
Problem was, he wanted her close.
The SUV pulled to a stop near the crowded market, and they both climbed out. The street was lined with rows of makeshift stalls selling everything from fresh produce to colorful trinkets and hats.
“Can you pick me up outside the supermercado later?” Becca asked Carlos. “I’ll have bags of stuff with me.”
Carlos gave her a short nod, then gestured for the driver to pull away.
Perfect. That was his opening.
“See ya,” Becca said, throwing him a polite, almost awkward smile as she turned to walk away.
“Wait,” Ghost called after her, his heart beating faster than it should.
She stopped, frowning as she looked back at him.
“I’ve got some things to take care of, but when I get back, I can help you with the shopping.”
Her eyes widened, like she hadn’t expected the offer. “Really? Oh, um, okay. Thanks.”
Had no one ever offered to help her before? Shopping for Markov’s household must be a full-time job on its own, not to mention all the supplies for the staff.
“How about I meet you outside the supermarket in an hour?” Ghost suggested, trying to keep his voice steady.
She hesitated, then gave him a small, tentative smile that lit up her eyes. “That sounds good.”
His heart did a little flip, and he found himself grinning like a fool. “Great. See you then.”
Before he could embarrass himself further, he turned on his heel and strode away, feeling like a damn schoolboy who just got a date to the prom.
Ghost walked the few blocks to the seedier side of the city, where he was set to meet his contact. Jesús ran a small import-export business, but it was his brother, Pedro, who was the real prize. Pedro worked for the National Border Service, and between the two of them, they smuggled contraband over the border like pros.
They’d been a vital part of Suarez’s drug network, and now that the cash flow had dried up, the brothers were hungry to get in on Markov’s operation. With Ghost running point, they knew they’d be paid on time and paid well.
“Weapons are lower risk than drugs,” Jesús had said before the trial run. “Sniffer dogs can’t pick them up.”
Ghost met him in a dingy café by the canal, the kind of place filled with grimy dockworkers, all sweat and cigarette smoke. Ghost, with his unshaven face and worn-out T-shirt, blended right in.
They hashed out the details—shipment logistics, handover points, and the routes through the jungle. It was a more substantial load this time, and they’d be using multiple middlemen, which would make it tougher for the authorities to trace.
A logger would haul the cargo on his truck deep into the rainforest. From there, a tribal fisherman would pick it up, navigate the treacherous waters of the Darien Gap, and smuggle it across the Panama-Colombia border.
Jesús was pleased. Back when they’d been moving drugs, he’d been the last guy in the chain—the one with all the risk. Now, with the weapons, he was the first rung on the ladder, and he liked it better this way.
“By the way,” Jesús said casually as Ghost stood to leave, “stay away from the marketplace today. I hear there’s gonna be trouble.”
Ghost’s spine stiffened. “What kind of trouble?”
Jesús shrugged. “Anti-U.S. protest, or something like that. Could get ugly.”
Fuck. Becca!
Ghost muttered a quick goodbye and bolted out of the café, sprinting the whole way back toward the marketplace. Now that he knew what was coming, he could see it—small groups gathering in side streets, suspicious eyes scanning the square.
This was not going to end well.
Every combat-trained instinct in his body screamed at him. Trouble was brewing, and it was going to hit hard.
Frantically, he scanned the crowd outside the supermarket. Becca was standing at the edge of the square, a pile of carrier bags around her.
Thank God.
He switched directions and made a beeline for her, moving fast. As he passed a fruit stall, he saw a man lean in, whisper something to a woman who immediately dropped her shopping bag and bolted. That could only mean one thing.
“Becca, get down!” he roared.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide as she recognized his voice. “Mr. Dominguez, what’s?—”
Her words were cut off by the deafening blast that tore through the marketplace.