Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“Get out of here.” He tapped the hood and stepped back, watching Tomas drive off.
As the taillights faded into the shadows of sand and desert buttes, he switched on the transmitter in his pocket. “We’re live. Do you copy?”
“Loud and clear” came through his earpiece eight times, once for each of his teammates.
They all carried receivers with sensitive microphones and wireless nano earphones that operated over a radio frequency like walkie-talkies. They would sleep in shifts, check in every hour, and wear the earpieces at all times.
“Out.” He muted his mic.
Now, they waited.
Cole returned to the house, keyed up and primed for battle.
He lived for this shit—the tremor of looming danger, the rush of adrenaline, and the thrill in fighting for something meaningful. That was the reason he’d enlisted to become a Navy SEAL all those years ago—a decision that had hurdled him through the ranks and landed him in a unit so covert and off the record that it didn’t exist. At least, not to those who didn’t have the clearance.
In the kitchen, he holstered a 9mm in the waistband of his jeans. A blade went into his boot. The rifles he set by the door. He left the listening device on the table to record his movements around the house.
It could be days before someone showed up, depending on how far they had to travel. While he was in Missouri for the past few months, he assumed his pursuers had stayed in Texas, waiting for him to reemerge. They wouldn’t be far.
He lowered onto the couch and measured his breathing, taking on the cold, competitive mindset that had accompanied him on every mission over the past fifteen years. He was nothing if not a soldier rooted in grit, preparation, and confidence.
Grit rose from a place of deep purpose. Preparation came only through patience and tenacity. And confidence? That had been drilled into him through experience, training, and resilience.
Kill or be killed. Didn’t matter what he faced or how badly the odds stacked against him. He believed in his ability to overcome.
In most missions, he knew his enemies inside and out. But not this one. From this point on, anything could happen.
A retrieval team would likely be sent for him. A few armed men. Maybe a dozen or more. That was the best-case scenario. If an army of thugs tried to take him by gunfire or physical force, the Freedom Fighters would rush in and wipe them out, save one. One breathing man was all they needed to torture for information.
But if only one man showed up, that would mean his enemy wielded something more powerful than bullets. If he had any fear, it lay in that unknown variable, a potential misstep he hadn’t calculated, like an unforeseen hostage.
Everyone he cared about was accounted for. Trace Savoy had Danni locked up in the tower of his St. Louis casino, claiming his security was as impenetrable as Cole’s safe house in Missouri. It wasn’t. Which was why Cole had demanded they stay at his house. Trace’s refusal to do so was infuriating and unfounded. Evidently, the uptight bastard didn’t trust Cole around his wife.
Was it a valid concern? Maybe. Cole had no idea what he would do if he saw Danni again. Right now, all he cared about was keeping her safe.
As for the rest of his friends, he’d spoken with Matias an hour ago. The cartel boss affirmed they were safely on his plane and on their way to Texas. When they arrived, they would wait at an undisclosed location until Cole gave them the go-ahead to approach.
He hoped he wouldn’t need Matias’ assistance, but he wouldn’t reject it. Give help and get help. It was a crucial motto in his line of work.
An hour rolled by, and radio check-ins were made. Then another hour, another check-in.
With the use of a dedicated frequency and encrypted communication, their conversations transmitted over secure lines. As an added layer of protection, everyone used nicknames.
Just before the third hour, Tate’s voice came through the earpiece. “Come in, chief.”
Cole lurched from the couch and closed himself into the bathroom, where the bug couldn’t hear him. “Go ahead.”
“Eyes on incoming movement. A single light approaching from the east. Looks like a headlight.”
“A motorcycle?”
“Affirmative.”
“On it.” His pulse kicked up. “Stand by.”
“Copy.”
One motorcycle.
That wasn’t a goddamn retrieval team. It was something far worse.
Returning to the front room, he peered around the window curtain, his neck tense and senses on high-alert.
A bright light bobbed over the horizon and headed straight toward him.
Only one.
Goddammit. His gaze darted to the rifles by the door. Useless. Whatever the biker was armed with couldn’t be defeated with gunfire.
His heart rate escalated as he stepped away from the window. Perspiration formed on his brow as he chambered a round in his pistol and returned it to his waistband.