Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
T hings were moving fast— too fast.
Markov had gotten confirmation from the Colombians, and the full-scale shipment was greenlit. Half the money up-front, the rest on delivery. It was happening. The deal was locked in, and soon, one of the deadliest cartels in Colombia would be swimming in enough firepower to take on half the country.
Ghost had already been handed his cut—just enough to cover "operating expenses"—which he’d passed on to his distributors. He was playing along, setting everything up like he was supposed to, but the truth gnawed at him. After this deal, he’d be complicit in arming a cartel that made most drug lords look like amateurs.
The upside? He was close— so close —to getting Markov to reveal his cache of weapons. If he could pinpoint the location, the authorities could step in, seize whatever was left, or burn it to the ground. It wouldn’t stop the shipment, but it’d slow Markov down, cripple him.
That’s why he was here now, waiting outside Markov’s office, trying not to look like he was about to head out on a mission that could get him killed. He’d be gone for days, accompanying the shipment to the border, making sure everything went smooth. The Colombians didn’t tolerate mistakes, and if there was one thing Markov was afraid of, it was the cartels. They made his strong-arm tactics look like a charity mission.
Then Becca walked in.
They hadn’t spoken since that kiss.
That. Kiss.
And holy hell, it still hit him like a truck.
He’d been avoiding her— had to—but apparently, she’d been doing the same. Their paths hadn’t crossed once in three days, and he knew she was keeping her distance.
But seeing her now? It was like a punch to the gut.
She looked incredible—dark hair glossy as ever, swishing with each step. That skirt? It was straight-up designed to mess with his head, hugging her curves in all the right places. And the silk blouse, just sheer enough to hint at the soft curve of her breasts, wasn’t doing him any favors either. He had to force himself to keep it together.
A sudden, irrational urge to stride across the office, pull her into his arms, and kiss the hell out of her hit him so hard he almost moved.
Almost.
He wasn’t into suicide.
“Good morning, Mr. Dominguez,” she said, in a polite, no-nonsense tone. The kind of voice that gave nothing away.
He nodded, fighting to keep his expression neutral, but his mind was racing. He wanted to talk to her. Hell, he needed her help if he was going to pull this off. She was the only one with access to the right information, and without her, he was flying blind.
But then Ramirez walked in behind her.
Fuck.
Any chance of talking to her now was gone.
He swallowed the frustration burning in his gut. Pat had made it clear—unless he could get Markov to the final drop, they needed something solid. Hard evidence tying him to the cartels. An invoice, a payment record, anything. Something that’d hold up in front of a judge and put Markov away for good.
Otherwise, Ghost’s whole mission would go up in smoke, and worse, the U.S. government would have blood on its hands for letting a known arms dealer move weapons across the border.
He couldn’t let that happen.
Jesus and his brother were already lined up, ready to move the crates from the warehouse to the rendezvous point on the city’s outskirts. From there, it’d be a slick handoff to the loggers, who’d haul the goods deep into the jungle. After that, the shipment would disappear onto a fisherman’s boat, skimming across the border through those swampy, winding rivers only he knew like the back of his hand. Once the weapons hit Colombian soil, it was all up to Miguel and his crew.
Ramirez’s phone rang, loud and sharp. He grunted and stepped outside to answer, leaving him alone with Becca.
Finally.
“We need to talk,” he hissed, keeping his voice low.
Becca’s eyes darted to the door where Ramirez was barking into his phone. “When?”
“Can you meet me later?” He tried to keep his voice steady, but it wasn’t easy. He needed her to say yes.
She hesitated, biting her lip, then whispered, “I don’t know. Carlos saw me coming back from your cabin the other night. I think he’s watching me.”
Shit. That explained the radio silence. Carlos was a snake, always lurking in the shadows. If he suspected anything, this whole thing could blow up in their faces.
“Okay, I’ll come to you,” he said, eyes scanning the room.
Her eyes widened with worry. “There are cameras everywhere.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know where they are.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but Ramirez barged back in, phone in hand. “Ready?” he grunted, looking at Ghost.
He clenched his jaw. “Yeah.”
Ramirez knocked on Markov’s door, and a moment later, they were both ushered inside, leaving Becca behind in the outer office. Ghost could feel her eyes on his back as the door closed.
This was it.
Everything hinged on the next few days. If he didn’t find that weapons cache, Markov would slip through their fingers, and the U.S. Government would have directly armed the cartel.
He had no choice but to trust Becca.
He just had to hope she was brave enough to trust him back.