Striker (Phantom Ops #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“Careful. Don’t want an anaconda to bite off your puny dick,” Havoc, the moron, taunted. The guys laughed with him.

“Ha-ha,” Atlas said with a scoff. He kept his back to his friends as he zipped up his fly and backed away from the big-ass jungle tree.

No way he’d let on that Havoc’s remark had echoed his own fears—minus the puny-dick part because he’d had no complaints in that department.

“At least I can find my cock,” he quipped.

Wraith wiped his brow. “Can we get a move on, lads. I’m sweatin’ me bag off.”

He agreed with his fellow soldier. The Panama jungle was hot as fuck and crawling with shit that he didn’t need in his fucking pant leg.

Atlas fought the urge to rib Wraith about his Scottish accent. Half the time, the American-raised dude spoke more Southern than he did Scot. But with his height and fair skin, he certainly looked like a Scotsman.

“You idiots done jerkin’ each other off?” Rogue, their leader, growled, his AK-47 in his hands. “We’re not here for leisure.”

“No shit.” Viper’s irritated tone matched Rogue’s expression.

“Copy,” Atlas said, nodding. He knew Rogue wasn’t in the mood. His boss had left his girlfriend, Laine, and her daughter, Emmy, at home.

Nope, he wasn’t pokin’ that bear today.

The five of them moved across the damp earth. Reaper, their team member with his helicopter license, waited in the chopper. If they came in hot with their target, they could get off the ground quick.

The sound of the chopper’s engine ceased. The air filled with jungle noise.

Hisses, croaks, and distant animalistic screeches invaded Atlas’s eardrums. He preferred the roar of propellors.

Keeping their guns trained in front of them, they moved in on their target.

Rogue’s voice came through the earpieces they all wore. “Quarter mile ahead.”

Daylight was fading rapidly. The only thing worse than navigating this region of Panama was doing so at night—even with night-vision goggles. His luck and he’d step on a fucking jaguar’s tail.

“Striker,” Havoc said sharply. “On your left.”

Responding to his callsign, Atlas swiveled his weapon and dodged away from a snake glaring at him from a nearby tree branch. Fucking fuck.

“Losing daylight, boss,” he reminded Rogue.

“Forward.” His boss strode ahead to lead the way.

They stepped quicker through the dense foliage. The mosquitos and flies were nearly as thick as the sweltering heat. The bug spray had to be attracting the bastards—it sure as hell wasn’t repelling them.

Atlas moved with little effort. Skill and training had him focused on the job despite the extra weight of his Kevlar, ammunition, and emergency pack.

Sweat rolled down his face and the back of his neck.

He swiped his brow, drenching his sleeve.

The scent of wet dirt and rotting vegetation was damn near as smothering as the bugs.

He swept his gaze left and right while also keeping an eye ahead for shit he could step in and things that could fall on him.

Five minutes later, Rogue lifted his fist in the air, motioning for them to stop.

Atlas froze. His gun trained beyond Rogue’s shoulder, he scanned the wide, thick leaves and the gnarly branches and trunks everywhere.

“Motion sensor,” Rogue said in his ear. “This is it.”

Satisfaction rippled over him. They’d reached their target’s compound. Now they had to lie low and wait.

An hour later and night encased them. The only noise, aside from the buzzing of insects and the hissing of who-the-fuck-even-wanted-to-know, was the low hum of a generator. If it weren’t for the outdoor lights surrounding the compound, they’d be in complete darkness.

“How long we gotta sit here, Rogue?” Viper grumbled.

“Hold your panties. I’ll have the drone up and running in a few minutes and then we’ll have more intel.”

“We also need to wait for them to be asleep, dipshit,” Havoc said to Viper with a snort.

Atlas reached for his canteen and took a long gulp of water loaded with electrolytes. Wraith did the same.

“Reaper, any movement?” Viper said into his mic. Their pilot waited with the heli in the open field they’d found.

“Negative. I’ve got my lights off. I’ll fire ’er up when you give the go.”

“Copy.”

Rogue took the compact drone from his backpack, then removed a satellite tablet cased in black rubber. After testing the device to ensure it was secure, he zipped it straight into the air. Its motor murmuring almost silently, it ripped through leaves until it was out of sight.

Not even a metallic whisper could be heard.

Rogue perched on a fallen log as he maneuvered the drone, gathering images.

Atlas moved to sit next to him. Rogue tilted the device to show him the live feed of the compound.

The drone’s heat-seeking sensor revealed three forms moving around outside and one moving inside. Two others were stationary in separate parts of the dwelling.

“Looks like there’s a patio entrance on the south side of the structure as well as the east,” Atlas said.

Rogue nodded briskly. “We’ll move in on the east side and see who’s sleeping in that room. Could be our asset. There’s only one guard patrolling near that part. The other unmoving person on the south side could also be our target—or a resting guard.”

Viper stalked toward them and glanced down at the screen. “The asset must be close to the south entrance since there’s two men posted outside there.” He pointed. “We’ll take out the guy on the east side first, then whoever’s patrolling inside.”

Rogue nodded again. “Havoc and Wraith, stay here for backup.”

A minute later, he landed the drone and zipped it back up in its bag. “Leave whatever you don’t need here,” Rogue commanded, shaking open a small camouflage backpack in which they could stash their items.

Atlas fit his NOD over his head, and the other guys followed suit. His vision instantly transformed. It was as if he’d switched on a glow lamp only he could see.

With his AR-15 braced in his palms, he motioned to Rogue to take out the sensor in a tree near the property. It would pick up their movement once they got close.

His leader grabbed a rock and threw it against the little device. The lens broke, and pieces fell to the ground.

“On my go,” Rogue announced.

Wraith and Havoc positioned themselves low in the trees, their guns aimed at the house.

The sound of footsteps down the hall jerked Molly from sleep. She let out a small cry. Her face still throbbed from their last inquisition . . . yesterday? The day before? She couldn’t remember. The gritty texture in her mouth told her she hadn’t had water in hours. Or longer.

They’d given her food yesterday morning. But nothing since. The darkness shrouding the patio door told her she’d passed out. She was getting weaker by the minute. Her window to attack grew narrower.

Her weapon was hidden beneath the mattress. A jagged piece of the plate she’d broken during her previous meal. Too far away, because she’d fallen asleep from exhaustion on the floor outside the bathroom.

Keys tinkled outside her door.

Not enough time.

The door swung open and two men entered the ten-by-ten room.

She pushed into a sitting position, refusing to let them see her vulnerable.

If it wasn’t for the chain around one of her wrists, she’d have tried to attack.

Resting her back against the wall, she clenched her teeth and wished she hadn’t fallen asleep.

If she’d heard them coming earlier, she could have retrieved her weapon.

Fear cinched the back of her throat. She wanted to leap to her feet, scream, fight them. Do anything but sit here passively.

Exhaustion kept her in place. She needed to keep what little energy she had.

The leader, an older man, approached. He knelt in front of her, his white hair and George Hamilton–style tan almost sickeningly perfect in this godforsaken place.

“Molly,” Rex purred, taunting. “This is your last chance. Tell me where they meet and who their contact is.”

She curled her lip. “For the thousandth time, I don’t know.”

“You said you didn’t know the business they were running.” He held out his hand as if making an offering. “Seems you lied about that in our last conversation.”

She expelled a hot breath. Sure, she’d suspected her boss, Willy Dunne, had been doing something illegal. Mis-weights had come in repeatedly from their produce shipments, yet he’d refused to investigate. That didn’t mean she knew anything else. “I told you I suspected things were off.”

He pursed his lips. “Final warning, Miss Stewart. You don’t understand what I can do to you.” His words curdled the air.

“You’ve done enough already, you piece of shit,” she hissed.

Wham!

His knuckles smacked against her cheekbone. Her head snapped backward. The room spun and she slumped but caught herself before her face hit the tile.

“I haven’t sold you yet.” He enunciated each syllable. Warm, slimy fingers slid up her bare thigh. “I’d make a lot of coin off this sweet cunt.”

She kicked his hand away, squirming to cover herself with the ratty T-shirt she wore. Every time she glimpsed at the flimsy material, she was reminded of how Rex had ordered his man to strip her upon arriving, degrading her.

“Looks like you’ve made your decision.” He stood. “Give her some water. We’ll need her alive. The buyer will be here soon.” Rex stood and stormed out of the room.

She inched her gaze up to the guard holding a water bottle. He unscrewed the cap and slowly poured the liquid in a steady stream onto the floor. Anger singed her flesh as she turned away from the splash.

“Drink up, dog.” He laughed then scrunched the empty bottle in his hand before hurling it across the room. “What, you got something to say? Woof-woof?”

“Fuck you.”

He seized her hair, tearing her head back. She flinched in anticipation of his fist and clawed at his wrist.

“I should fuck your bitchy little mouth,” he growled.

She closed her eyes, willing him to back away. To do anything but follow through with his threat.

He slammed her head against the wall. There was a sickening crack, and a flashfire of pain ripped over her skull.

The door banged shut and the lock clicked into place. Tears blurred her vision. She gently touched the aching spot above her ear. Thick, sticky liquid dotted her fingers. Nausea erupted in her belly.

She needed to lie down. To get closer to her weapon.

Holding on to the wall for support, she tried to stand, but the room spun and the nausea intensified.

Carrying the shackle in her bound hand so it didn’t clank against the tile, she moved to her hands and knees and crawled the remaining feet to her mattress.

She fell onto the thin material and brought her attention to the metal chaining her to this hellish room.

Rex always left open the glass door, letting the sounds of the jungle carry into her room, reminding her that even if she escaped, she’d never survive. And if she screamed, no one would hear it. No one was around.

She yanked on the shackle, frustration making her vision hazy.

If I lose five more pounds, the damn thing will slide right off.

Exhausted, she dropped her hands to the bed. The stench of the nasty old fabric made her move back to the floor. She dragged the thin pillow with her and fished beneath the mattress for the piece of the plate.

If they came to take her tonight, to sell her as Rex had promised, she’d find enough strength to murder at least one of them.