Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
G host crouched beneath the dense jungle canopy, ten clicks from the Colombian border. The air was thick with humidity, and the ancient roots of the kapok tree snaked around him like veins through the earth, pressing up against his boots. He could feel their weight underfoot. His assault rifle rested in his hands—compliments of Carlos. Markov had made sure he was kitted out for the job.
Dammit, Becca.
He hated how they’d left things. She thought he’d used her, seduced her to get to Markov.
And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong.
But it hadn’t just been about sex. That was what really twisted him up inside—it had meant something, something real. How the hell could he make her see that, especially after what she'd told him?
Fuck, she was Markov’s daughter.
He sure as hell hadn’t seen that coming.
Blackthorn Security had dug into her past but had turned up nothing beyond her being born to an unmarried mother in North Carolina. No father listed on her birth certificate, no hints of a connection to Markov. Typical. The bastard didn’t put his name on anything.
Rebecca Lyndall.
She’d lived with her father for a couple years in California after her mother passed away. But no one had linked her to Alek Markov. Hell, he’d checked her out himself before he left the hacienda—cross-referenced her DMV records and seen her old photo. Even back then, she was stunning.
His gut twisted at the thought of eighteen-year-old Becca trying to reconnect with Markov, only to discover the man’s cold indifference. No wonder they’d been estranged. What a colossal disappointment that must have been for her.
A drop of rain slapped his forehead, progressing to a steady drizzle. The rhythmic pitter-patter on the jungle’s broad leaves usually calmed him. Not today.
It didn’t matter, he needed to stay alert. The border wasn’t far away, but in dense forest such as this, it may as well have been a hundred miles.
The Darien Gap. The most dangerous stretch of jungle on the planet was rife with criminales, guerilla fighters, displaced rebels and all manner of scumbags. If he let his guard down, he’d be finished. It only took one bullet, and his body would lie here until it rotted. No one would ever find him.
Where the hell was the fisherman?
As if on cue, he heard the low chug of a motor drifting down the river. Ghost raised his rifle, scanning the surroundings with practiced eyes. The Darien Gap’s twisting waterways were ideal for smuggling everything from guns to drugs—and sometimes people.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle, its familiar weight steadying him as his boots sank deeper into the thick mud. The narrow motorboat rounded the bend, its engine emitting a faint sputter that barely pierced the humid, stifling air. The vessel was perfect camouflage—nearly invisible to all but the most trained eyes.
Biri, the wiry fisherman, steered the boat toward the bank. His weathered face, hunched back, and wiry frame told a story of years working these waters. He used to be a simple fisherman, living off the land. Now, thanks to men like Suarez—and more recently Markov—he was ferrying drugs and weapons.
Ghost had become his best client, securing his loyalty with cold, hard cash. That money had rebuilt Biri’s house, sent his son to school.
Who said a life of crime didn’t pay?
Ghost didn’t kid himself—Biri would keep working for whoever paid, long after Markov was in prison.
It was the job of the Panamanian border enforcement authorities to keep the drugs out and guard the border, but it was a difficult, if not impossible task. The routes were varied and changeable, the load was disseminated and erratic, and mules and distributors were armed and dangerous, and often knew the slopes of the impenetrable Gap better than the crews patrolling them.
On the Colombian side, the military did border checks, but only in the navigable sections, which were few and far between.
The official border post was just a small clearing in the jungle, but all around it were endless hills, muddy rivers and swampland choked with vegetation. And that wasn’t counting the thorns, wasps, snakes and wild animals.
“Hell on earth,” his former commander at the training center had described it. He wasn’t wrong.
All this just worked in Ghost’s favor and made it harder for the authorities to catch him. He had the skillset, compliments of the Marine Corps, and he’d honed his craft working for Suarez. He gave a snort and swung his rifle over his shoulder. Now Markov was reaping the benefits.
The truck driver who’d dropped off the crates was long gone. No one stuck around these parts longer than they had to. But now it was time to move.
Ghost waded into the murky water, helping Biri drag the boat onto the mossy bank. He handed him a bottle of water, and Biri gulped it down, nodding his thanks.
Together, they started loading the crates. Twenty in total. Heavy and awkward, each one filled with weapons bound for Colombia. Sweat trickled down Ghost’s neck as they heaved the last crate into the boat.
Biri might have a crooked spine, but the man was as strong as an ox. Ghost had seen plenty of hard men in his time, but Biri—this man had survived the jungle. The two shook hands, and just as Biri climbed into the boat, Ghost heard it—the unmistakable roar of high-powered engines, growing louder by the second.
Fuck.
Panamanian border patrol. The sound was unmistakable. This deep in the jungle, it was either them or the Colombian military, and neither option was good.
“Vamanos,” Ghost growled, already back in the boat, backpack and all. He wasn’t going to wait around for armed militia to spray him down, or worse, arrest him and shove him in a stinking Panamanian jail.
The fisherman was quicker than Ghost expected, pushing off the bank and revving the engine.
They shot off downriver into the swampland and towards the Colombian border. The drone of the pursuing motorboats got louder, but the myriads of twists in the river meant they were still invisible.
Biri, gripping the wheel like his life depended on it, spotted a tiny, overgrown inlet. He cut the engine, letting the boat glide into the thick brush. They ducked, branches and vines slapping their faces as they pushed deeper into the jungle’s green labyrinth.
Ghost’s heart hammered in his chest as the boat drifted to a stop. The loud, mechanical growl of the patrol boats filled the air. They’d been spotted. He was sure of it.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. Biri didn’t need to be told—they both knew what was coming.
The engines cut out, and the jungle fell eerily silent.
Ghost crouched low, rifle in hand, ready to bail and dive into the river if they got too close. He was an expert at escape and evasion, but there was no way to know if they’d been tracked. If their pursuers opened fire, they’d be dead in minutes.
Biri’s eyes were wide with fear, his hand hovering over the shotgun stashed beneath the seat. But Ghost knew better than to go loud. There were too many of them.
This was an organized bust—they’d be outgunned and outflanked in seconds. Sweat poured off him as he focused on the water’s edge, watching for any sign of movement. The silence was suffocating.
A rustle. Then, the menacing steel nose of a patrol boat poked through the foliage.