Chapter 10
Special Forces Sergeant Ian “Rusty” Sinclair wasn’t used to being the screwup. He’d always excelled—until this covert team, where everything he touched seemed to detonate. Even a simple check-in with Lurch had gone sideways.
The market was packed, the food trailer busy, but Lurch was nowhere. Ninety minutes. No messages. No updates. Just silence.
Had he messed up the time? The place? The day?
He wasn’t sure he’d survive another round of being treated like the team’s problem child. One mistake and BD would glue him back to the chief’s hip. Saving Lurch on that rescue mission, helping Ski and the Wizard with the Russians—none of it would matter if he’d botched this.
Maybe Lurch had picked another spot. Maybe he was waiting somewhere else.
Ian tugged his cap lower and stood. The main path through the market held most of the food carts; if he walked toward the front, he’d pass nearly all of them. He didn’t want to think about Lurch giving up on him.
He moved with purpose, posture loose. The market was sensory overload—bright fabrics snapping in the breeze, vendors shouting, grilled meat and citrus thick in the air. A place where a man could vanish in plain sight.
He checked every cart. Every trailer.
No Lurch.
By the time he reached the permanent vendors, discouragement settled in. Missing this check-in meant disappointing the captain. Worse—putting Lurch at risk. Ian could already feel the chief’s shadow looming over him again.
He was rehearsing excuses when a familiar face cut through the crowd.
Baggs. And two men shadowing him and Io.
Ian slowed, letting the crowd flow around him. Baggs was aware he was being hunted. Good. Ian knew better than to approach him. If he blew Baggs’s cover, he’d never forgive himself.
No one looked twice at Ian. Just another mercenary killing time. People gave him space, but didn’t really see him.
Including the Russians.
After the run-in a few days ago, he knew exactly who they were. But why were they targeting Baggs and Io? Their mission was Torres, not Petrova.
Ian drifted to the side and watched. Io and Baggs slipped into a massive produce pavilion. The two Russians followed, but didn’t enter. Not yet.
Two more mobsters arrived. A quick conversation. Then the second pair peeled off while the original duo went inside.
Ian started after them, then stopped.
Baggs knew about the first two. He didn’t know about the second pair.
Ian tracked them instead.
He stayed back, unnoticed, watching them talk to vendors. Money changed hands. A cart rolled toward the pavilion and blocked an exit. Then another. Then a third.
They weren’t tailing Baggs, they were corralling him.
When the third cart locked into place, the second pair entered the pavilion. Baggs and Io were boxed in.
No time to call the team.
Ian slipped inside through the one angle not yet blocked. The tall tiers of produce hid him as he moved deeper. Papayas. Citrus. Heat thick enough to taste. Ceiling fans stirring nothing.
Women in teal smocks glanced at him. Curious, wary. He wasn’t here to shop.
People were moving quickly in the opposite direction. The trap was already sprung.
Ian pushed forward faster.
A voice—Spanish with a Russian accent—cut through the noise. An order for Io to cross to him. Sharper the second time. Threatening.
Ian edged closer.
Baggs and Io were cornered exactly where he’d expected—but they were also trying to shield each other, switching positions, making the mobsters twitchy.
A quick sweep gave him an idea.
To their left, stacked high against a prep station, was a tower of crates—bananas, mangoes, citrus. Heavy. Unstable. Close enough to do damage.
Ian moved low, weaving through bins of grapefruit and limes. The locals had already cleared out. Just Baggs, Io, and the Russians remained.
No innocents.
He crouched behind the stack, breath steady. The Russians were close—too close. Their impatience was a fuse burning fast.
He didn’t have time to think. Only act.
He braced one foot, planted the other, and shoved.
The tower wobbled, tilted, and then crashed down in a thunderous cascade. Bananas spilled first, then mangoes, then a crate of citrus burst open, juice spraying like shrapnel.
One mobster took the edge of the stack to the chest and went down hard. The second disappeared under the crates.
Baggs didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Io’s hand and pulled her through the opening Ian had created.
As soon as they were clear, Ian ran.
None of the Russians had seen him. Maybe the captain would forgive the missed check-in once he heard what happened.
Or maybe Ian would be handcuffed to Chief Cordell again.
Io didn’t need telepathy to know Cal was furious. The air around him felt charged, like he was holding himself together by will alone.
No, he was beyond furious. But what did he expect? Stand there and watch them kill him? Petrova wanted her alive. Cal was expendable. The thought made her stomach twist, but it didn’t change the math. Shielding him hadn’t been reckless. It had been necessary.
Okay, so she was betting they wanted her alive, but bets weren’t guarantees. The way Cal moved beside her made it clear he was royally pissed off at the risk she’d taken, calculated or not.
He tried for casual, but the intensity in his stride gave him away. Blood seeped through his left sleeve. She wanted to ask how bad it was, but one question would detonate the anger he was barely containing.
And if they fought here, on a public sidewalk in one of the nicer districts, they’d draw attention they couldn’t afford. Worse? Cal would say too much. She’d have to pull him from the op. She didn’t want that.
Up ahead, a statue rose above a small park—palm trees, concrete spokes, benches. Io barely registered it.
“Io! Io! Iona!”
She froze. A young woman sprinted toward her, waving like they were long-lost friends.
Of all the people in Trujillo, this was the last one she wanted barreling toward her.
Ellis Vandenhoff. Brilliant. Sweet. Dangerously na?ve. Exactly the person Io did not need right now.
Cal stopped beside her, tension ratcheting even higher. He didn’t have the bandwidth for this. Neither did she.
Ellis reached them, blonde hair bouncing, tote bag thumping against her hip. She looked impossibly young and delighted to see Io.
“Hi, Io! Hi Mr. Baggs.”
“Just Baggs,” Cal said.
Io turned slowly, eyebrows raised. “You’ve met Ellis?”
Cal didn’t answer, but Ellis filled the silence. “Frankie—you remember Frankie Lewis?”
“Best archivist at the Paladin League,” Io said.
“Archer sent me, Frankie, and Nyx—”
“I know Nyx,” Io cut in.
“Great! Anyway, Archer sent us to research the Lost Treasure.” Ellis leaned in, whispering loudly. “We were chased by Norwegian treasure hunters. Frankie’s fiancé and Ian extracted us.”
“Extracted?” Io echoed. Not a word she expected from Ellis.
“That’s what Ian called it. BD took Frankie somewhere safe, but I stayed at the house. Baggs was there, and Ski, and—”
“Io met them,” Cal said, patience thinning.
Io stepped slightly in front of him, instinctively shielding Ellis. “What are you doing in the park? I thought you were an art historian.”
“I am!” Ellis beamed. “Frankie went back to the convent to verify something, but the sisters are strict, so she told me to wait at the hotel.”
Io’s stomach dropped, cold and sharp. Frankie at the convent was bad. Very bad.
She turned to Cal. “You need to call BD. Ellis and I will sit.”
“Yeah.” Cal scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I’ll watch over you while I’m on the phone.”
“Why’s he calling Frankie’s fiancé?” Ellis asked as Io guided her to a bench.
“We were at the convent earlier,” Io said carefully. “There were dangerous men hanging around. I don’t want Frankie walking into that.” She shifted. “So why the park?”
Ellis launched into an enthusiastic explanation about the statue, independence from Spain, motifs she wanted to sketch. Io murmured encouragement, but her eyes stayed on Cal.
His mask had slipped. Not the “someone needs saving” look. Something sharper. Frustration. Irritation. Anger.
He ended the call, shook his head, and strode toward them.
“What happened?” Io asked. “Is Frankie okay?”
“Frankie’s fine. She saw the perimeter, avoided the convent, and got out clean.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Cal looked at Ellis. “Frankie returned to the hotel and you were missing. Half the guys are out searching for you. She’s scared to death.”
Ellis blinked. “Oops.”