Chapter 45
The night was much shorter than Rocco had expected.
On his way to the bedroom, he’d stopped off to piss, then overheard Dante on a call.
“It’s happening tomorrow night?” Dante had asked, then was quiet. “I’ll mobilize and head out now.”
He’d watched from the darkened hallway as Dante gathered his armory, made a few more calls, then left the house.
The call had to be related to the arms shipment, which was technically out of his jurisdiction for the op. He could alert Proteus and the DoD, but he didn’t know what to tell them. Couldn’t be sure his hunch was correct. The best thing to do was follow Dante and determine if he could get intel that would help the DoD bust a future shipment of guns trafficked by El Sombro.
Following at a far enough distance on a rented moped, Rocco had traveled across the island, trailing Dante to the Port of Puerto Plata, where he and his men picked up four trucks hauling cargo containers from the dock. The trucks left under the cloak of darkness and arrived in the Samana jungle shortly after midnight.
Rocco hid his electric motorbike near a dense copse of trees, then maneuvered his way through the fauna closer to the clearing. Dante supervised the dismantling of the cargo containers, then the trucks departed, leaving him with half the men and half a dozen cargo containers arranged in a semi-circle around the perimeter of the clearing.
The heavily armed men erected electronic devices strategically within the jungle. Rocco realized the devices were designed to disrupt cell signals. His phone was fucking useless. There was no way to alert Proteus of his location. He kicked himself for not calling before he left Dajabon, but it was too late for regrets. He also couldn’t let The Two Carlas know he wouldn’t be coming in for his shift at the clinic. It wasn’t the first time he’d abandoned them with no notice. They’d be okay, but give him hell about it tomorrow.
Rocco huddled against the jungle floor, motionless as he waited for the next moves. The armed men had vacated the area in the trucks, leaving a single SUV with Dante inside. He’d watched the sunrise and the sunset from the spot as Dante remained in the SUV, waiting for … Rocco didn’t know what. After twenty hours, the debate on whether to stay or leave raged in his mind until he decided to see this through. There could be useful intel for the DEA or the DoD if he exercised patience.
But that left him alone with nagging thoughts of … Jemma.
Dante’s words haunted him.
When you love someone.
Love someone.
A knot tightened in his chest.
Who was he kidding?
He couldn’t deny the unsettling realization that his feelings for Jemma were deep. But was it love? Real love? He couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to think about it anymore.
Rocco wanted to figure out who the man was in the photos with Jemma without tipping off Proteus. He knew she wanted to handle the man alone, which meant this was personal and not work-related. Proteus was in the dark about her relationship with the man. He cared too much about her to risk revealing private details of her life that she didn’t want to share. Plus, asking Proteus for help identifying the guy would raise too many questions.
Maybe walking out on Jemma had been a mistake.
Sure, he was angry for being shut out on this part of her life. But maybe Dante was right. She needed him to trust her. If he had, perhaps over the weekend, she would’ve opened up and shared the truth with him.
He’d never know because he was too stubborn to stick around. Too stubborn to make it clear that he didn’t give a fuck what the story was between her and the man. He would help her fight him without knowing those details because they’d become a team—both professionally and personally. A connection he didn’t want to let go.
The ground rumbled under him.
Rocco reached for his night vision binoculars and trained them on Dante’s SUV. A plume of dust billowed in the air as ten-foot trucks emerged from a narrow road into the area. The bright lights illuminated the jungle”s darkness, casting long shadows from the towering trees across the clearing. The trucks curved around the space, stopping near the cargo containers. Dante exited the SUV and approached the men who poured out of the vehicles. Four men per truck, three unarmed and one toting military-grade weapons. The armed men were likely members of Dante’s team assigned to protect the shipment.
Dante spoke to the unarmed crew, giving instructions Rocco couldn’t hear. The men moved quickly, erecting temporary spotlights around the cargo containers.
He needed to move to keep his line of sight on Dante and give himself a better vantage to record what was happening. Moving silently through the dark shadows of the jungle, Rocco paused. Men scurried to open the container doors and then offloaded wooden crates. Crowbars swung through the air, opening each crate, but Rocco couldn’t see what was inside. He couldn’t confirm that weapons were being trafficked.
He had to get closer.
But the closer he got, the higher the risk he’d be discovered. It was a chance he’d have to take. He hadn’t spent almost twenty-four hours in the jungle to leave empty-handed. He crept closer to one of the trucks, an idea forming in his mind.
He saw his opening when one of the workers ducked behind a truck and lit a joint. Rocco pounced, his arm snaking around the man’s neck in a chokehold designed to subdue, not kill. As soon as the man’s limbs grew limp, Rocco dragged him into the jungle and emerged minutes later dressed in the same dark jeans, black t-shirt, and baseball cap pulled low on his head as the other men. He eased into the choreographed moves of the men seamlessly, having watched the cadence since they arrived.
Heaving the next crate out of the cargo container with the help of three other men, they maneuvered into an open space. One man handed Rocco the crowbar, and he set to work. The lid creaked and strained, eventually opening.
Packing paper covered the contents.
He reached in and pushed it aside.
“Jackpot,” Rocco said under his breath. Inside the crates were hundreds of hand guns and semiautomatic rifles manufactured by the top gun makers in the U.S.
As the other men hustled to the cargo container to get another crate, Rocco whipped out his phone, holding it low and out of sight of the others, and took photos of the area and the guns.
“What are you doing?” Rocco froze.
The voice was unmistakable.
Vance Neville.
When the hell had he arrived?
Vance said, “You’re supposed to be helping to carry the crates with the others. So get your ass over there. We’re on a tight schedule.”
Rocco nodded, then jogged toward the other men and unloaded the next crate. As they carried it to an open spot, he saw Vance standing near a broad, towering man. The man turned as he talked to Vance, giving Rocco an unobscured view of his face.
The face that had caused a strain in his relationship with Jemma.