Chapter 11
Z stood at the wooden table, studying the map they'd pieced together from satellite imagery, stolen cartel documents, and Willow's months of reconnaissance.
Red pins marked Morales's known facilities. Blue pins showed the two sites they'd already hit—the medical facility and the maintenance depot—and another blue pin marked the airstrip he’d taken out the day they’d met.
Yellow pins indicated probable locations, facilities Guardian suspected but hadn't confirmed with human eyes.
There were too many yellow pins.
“He's got six operational airstrips,” Willow said from behind him. She'd been making notes, cross-referencing flight patterns she'd observed over the last few months. “Maybe seven. But only three handle the bulk of his trafficking shipments.”
“And he moves between them?”
“Constantly. Never stays in one place more than forty-eight hours.” She moved to stand beside him, close enough he could smell soap, and he was starting to know her scent.
He could recognize her in the dark. “After I hit the first airstrip, he went underground completely.” Z sighed as he listened to her.
“My sources say he's holed up somewhere in the mountain range, down here, but nobody knows exactly where.”
He studied the terrain. Mountains to the west, jungle to the east, river systems cutting through everything like arteries.
Perfect defensive position. Multiple escape routes.
Natural barriers against assault. “We need to make him nervous,” he said.
“Nervous enough to move, exposed enough that we can find him and track him.”
Willow crossed her arms and stared at the map. “You want to hit more targets.”
“It isn’t a matter of want. It’s need. And I need to hit the right targets.” He tapped the map. “Here. The fuel depot at San Rafael. It services three of his airstrips. We take that out, and we ground half his fleet.”
She shook her head. “That's a major facility. Twenty, maybe thirty, guards on each shift. Hardened defenses.”
“Which is exactly why he won't expect us to hit it.” Z grinned.
He loved the idea of fucking with the bastard.
“We've been going after soft targets. The isolated airstrips and lightly defended facilities are where they think we’re going to attack.
Time to make him think we're more than just a nuisance.”
Willow was quiet for a moment, studying the map with those sharp brown eyes that missed nothing. “And the second target?”
“Here.” He pointed to a compound near the Colombian border. “Intel says it’s a communications hub. He routes all his air traffic coordination through there. We take that out, and he's blind. Has to move to a backup facility, which means—”
“Movement we can track.” She nodded slowly. “It could work. But the timing has to be perfect. Hit them too close together, and he goes into full lockdown. Too far apart, he adapts.”
“Seventy-two hours between strikes,” Z said. “Fast enough to keep him reactive, slow enough he thinks he can respond.”
“And we hit the fuel depot first?”
“Fuel depot first. While he's scrambling to secure his remaining aviation resources, we hit the communications hub.” He looked at her. “Think you can fly us in and out of both?”
“Depends. You planning to blow them up spectacularly or quietly?”
“Little of both.” His grin widened. “I'm flexible.”
She snorted. “You're about as flexible as concrete.”
“Concrete's very useful. Strong. Reliable. Holds things together.”
“Also heavy and tends to sink.”
“Only if you don't know how to swim.”
They were standing close now, close enough he could count the gold flecks in her eyes, could see the way her lips quirked when she was fighting a smile.
Dangerous. This is dangerous.
But danger had started to feel a lot like home.
Day Three
The wound in his leg had stopped trying to kill him, which he considered a major win.
He stood shirtless in the morning sun outside the cave, unwrapping the bandages around his ribs while Willow watched with the clinical detachment of someone who'd seen too many injuries to be squeamish. He’d prefer it if she were lusting after him, but he’d take her eyes on him anyway he could.
“Looks better,” she said. “Less angry red, more annoyed black, blue, and yellow.”
“Story of my life.” He probed the edges carefully. Still tender, but the pain was manageable. The antibiotics from the medical depot raid were working on his leg. “I'll live.”
“Good. I'd hate to dig another grave.” She handed him fresh bandages. “You're terrible company, but you're growing on me.”
He leaned down and smiled. Fuck, he wanted to kiss her. “Like a fungus.”
“Exactly like a fungus. The type that Con teases you about.”
He glanced at her. She hadn’t mentioned Con’s name before, and he’d hoped she’d missed that, but obviously not. His explanation was truthful. “He’s a friend.”
“Didn’t ask.” She crossed her arms as he rewrapped his ribs. When he looked up, she didn't look away.
“What?” he asked.
“You've got a lot of scars.”
“Hazard of the profession.”
“That one.” She pointed to a particularly nasty mark across his shoulder. “What happened?”
“Jakarta. Target had a knife, and I had a deadline.”
“And that one?” Another scar, this one across his ribs.
“Manila. Grenade went off closer than planned.”
“Than planned?” She raised an eyebrow. “You planned to be near an exploding grenade?”
“Controlled demolition.” He grinned. “Mostly controlled. Seventy percent controlled.”
She tossed back her head and laughed, “You're insane.”
“You've mentioned that.” He pulled on his shirt, feeling the familiar pull of healing tissue. “Your turn. That scar on your forearm. What happened?”
She glanced down at the thin white line running from wrist to elbow. “Plane crash. Cessna went down over the Andes three years ago. I was the only survivor.”
“How'd you get out?”
“Walked.” She said it casually, like it was nothing. “Took me eleven days to reach civilization. Dislocated shoulder, broken arm, no supplies. But I made it.”
“Stubborn.”
“Survivor.” She met his eyes. “There's a difference.”
He wrinkled his nose and gave her a shake of his head, “Not much of one.”
“True.” With a sigh, she leaned against him when he put his arm over her shoulder.
They stood in the morning light, two people held together by scars and secrets, and something unspoken hummed between them like a live wire.
Would he have ever found this kind of connection, this …
intimacy, with someone else? He doubted it.
Where this connection was leading them, he didn’t know, but he’d follow it right down the sin-stoked paths of hell if destiny demanded it.
He let himself smile. He’d march down that trail right now because destiny was fucking suggesting it.
What in the hell would he do once they made love?
Because they were heading there. It was only a matter of time.
Until then, he’d appreciate everything the woman brought to the table.
Her humor, her intelligence, the way she devoured him with her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking.
Day Five
“No, not like that.” Levi repositioned Willow's hands on the det cord. “You're fighting it. Let the material tell you where it wants to go.”
They were in the planning room, the table covered with components. There was det cord, blasting caps, timers, and C-4 in neat blocks. Teaching her demolitions was like teaching someone to speak a new language, except mistakes resulted in explosions instead of grammatical errors.
“It's wire,” Willow said flatly. “It doesn't want anything.”
“It's det cord, and it absolutely wants something. It wants to be treated with respect.” He guided her hands, showing her the proper angle. “See? Like this. Smooth, even tension. You force it, and it kinks. If it kinks, it fails.”
“And if it fails?”
“Then nothing explodes, which defeats the entire purpose of things going boom by surprise.”
She was concentrating hard, bottom lip between her teeth, and the expression was so earnest it made something in his chest warm. Her hands were smaller than his, more delicate, but steady. Surgeon's hands. Pilot's hands.
“There,” he said softly. “That's it. Feel the rhythm?”
“Rhythm.” She glanced up at him, and they were close. Way too close, their hands still joined and touching the det cord. “You talk about explosives like they're alive.”
“They are alive. In a way.” He didn't step back. Couldn't step back. “Everything has energy, patterns, a way it wants to behave. You just have to learn to listen.”
“And you listen to explosives.”
“I listen to everything.” His voice had gone lower, rougher. “Timing. Breath. Release. It's all connected.”
Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then back up. “You're talking about more than explosives.”
He was so fucking hungry for the woman. They’d been dancing around their attraction, and he was tired of dancing. “Oh, hell yeah.”
The air between them felt charged, dangerous, like standing too close to something about to detonate. Her pulse jumped in her throat, visible, and he wanted to press his mouth there, feel it flutter against his lips.
“Levi—”
His comm crackled. Con's voice, tinny and distant. “Berserker, you copy?”
Levi stepped back, touching his ear. “Copy.”
Willow blinked, the moment broken. She looked confused and then understanding crossed her face. “You have comms. This whole time, you've had comms?”
“Yeah.”
She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, bending to look at his ear although he knew she wouldn’t be able to see anything. “Who is it?”
“My comms and computer specialist.” He met her eyes, refusing to apologize. “They need to know where I am, what I'm doing.”
“Are they talking to you now?”
“Yes.”
She should be angry with him, and maybe she should even feel betrayed, but instead, she just nodded slowly, processing. But that was another thing he was fascinated with about her. She nodded and said, “Okay.”
Well, that gave him nothing. “Okay?”