Before We Kiss (Uncharted SEALs Book 6) Read online

  But he’d hardly given her a look, other than growling the moment she’d dropped her sari on the sand. Not that she was disappointed in his reaction. He wasn’t looking at her because he didn’t want to grow aroused. Something she didn’t bother fighting. She relished the feeling. Her nipples were visible against the tiny triangles shielding her breasts. She narrowed her gaze. She’d let him play possum. As soon as they returned to the ship, she’d have her way with him.

  “Wheelchairs won’t be able to maneuver in the sand, but the walkway will allow access to the water’s edge.” She gazed out at the deep blue bay. “And we’ll have plenty of helpers who can get them the rest of the way into the water if they want to swim. It’s really lovely here. Well protected,” she said, glancing around the cruise line’s beachfront. Shops lined the promenade—all perfectly clean, cheerfully painted. A couple of restaurants and bars were located among the shops.

  “So, this particular excursion passes muster?” he asked, finally looking at her.

  “Yeah. The cruise line’s security is tight but unobtrusive. They’ll feel safe, but not smothered.”

  “Is that a personal observation?”

  “Yeah.” She rolled to her back and stretched her arms upward, biting back a grin as his gaze swept her breasts and belly. Not so immune now, are you? Feeling frisky, she gave him a sideways glance. “Want to cool off?”

  Wiley dropped his sunglasses onto his nose. “You’re not ready to head back?”

  Now that he’d masked his sexy eyes, his expression was impossible to read. “I’m hot and sticky, and I smell like a piña colada,” she said. “I promise we’ll go back to the boat after a quick swim.”

  His mouth pursed, but he nodded. Then he reached for the radio beside him and clicked the button on the side. “This is Whiskey Charlie. Our tango wants to swim.”

  She listened as one by one, the radio squawked, followed by all clears.

  “Guess we’re going into the water,” he said, handing the device to Joe.

  As one, the old men swung their legs over the sides of their chairs, moving to follow.

  “You don’t have to come,” she said, feeling guilty for taking them away from their comfort.

  Joe arched a furry gray brow. “We need to get up and move around anyway. Don’t you worry about us.” His smile was quick. His gaze, shadowed beneath the brim of this hat, was sharp.

  Wiley tugged her hand until she was upright. “Last one in the water…” With a grin, he took off at a lope toward the waves.

  She laughed and ran after him, diving headfirst into a small wave. The water, the sun, and the smile of the handsome man who swam beside her lulled her for a while. Helped her forget the fact she was the center of a security op.

  They kicked out, stretching their arms and legs to fight the incoming waves, and then turned to catch them, gliding on the crests toward the shore. They repeated the process until she tired. Treading water, she tilted back her head to dunk her hair into a wave, loving the feel of the silky saltwater as it slid over her shoulders.

  Wiley swam closer and dove beneath the surface, coming up in front of her, his hands gripping her waist to bring her in for a kiss. Thrilled he was so publicly declaring their relationship, she wound her legs around his waist and her arms around his strong shoulders.

  When they drifted down into the water, she held her breath for as long as she could, enjoying the kiss, before finally pushing away to surface, laughing.

  As she wiped water from their eyes, a distant sound, muffled but harsh, drew her gaze toward the sea. A plume of black smoke rose, too distant to see the source. She glanced toward Wiley, but he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was on two jet skis buzzing from the far side of the bay toward the swimming area. One was operated by a dark-haired man dressed in a knee-length wet suit. The other carried two men, both well-built and dark. Both jet skis were speeding toward them.

  “Back to the beach. Now,” Wiley shouted, turning her and pushing her toward the shore.

  But they couldn’t swim faster than the men bearing down on them. She didn’t have to be told she was in danger. The target. Wiley kept behind her, trying to shield her with his body, but the jet skis separated—one driving between her and the distant beach, the other moving closer to Wiley.

  When they were only ten feet away, she noted the handgun held by the second man on the jet ski nearest her. Her heart raced.

  His engine quieted as he pulled nearer. “You will come with us,” he said, in heavily accented English. “Do not resist, or we will shoot your boyfriend,” he said, aiming his gun at Wiley.

  A lump formed in the back of her throat. She glanced wildly at the man treading water beside her. His face was as hard as granite, his gaze narrowed with deadly intent.

  The jet ski with the single operator drew up beside her. The man reached out a hand, his intent clear.

  Wiley gave her a hard look. “Do what you must to stay alive,” he said, his voice harsh.

  She knew what he left unspoken. He’d find her. Or die trying.

  “Quickly, before your friends on the beach do something stupid,” the man with the gun said, smiling. A single rotted tooth at the front of his mouth added to his sinister appearance.

  She cast a glance at the beach, noted the men dressed in Hawaiian shirts and linen shorts, in jeans and crewneck shirts, all carrying high-powered rifles and racing toward the water’s edge. Rifles braced against strong shoulders as two men went down on their knees to take aim.

  Swimmers were in the water between them. People on the beach scrambled out of the way as the force converged. But the detail was too far away. Maybe they had a shot. But she knew without a doubt the minute they opened fire, she’d be dead. Rotten Tooth wasn’t letting her escape. One way or another, he’d have her. “Wiley,” she said, but her throat closed before she could say more.

  He gave her a nod, his anger tightening his features and the tendons in his neck.

  She pushed back her hair from her face and turned toward the man who held out his hand. She reached, letting him pull her up onto the ski, and although she hated touching her kidnapper, she gripped the sides of his waist as he twisted the gear handle. The rumble of the engine built, and the ski pulled away. Unable to stop the shudders that settled deep inside, she glanced over her shoulder, watching as Wiley and the men fanned out at the edge of the water grew smaller and smaller.

  The moment the jet skis peeled away, Wiley sliced through the water toward the beach. How the hell had that happened? They’d had men in a boat anchored half a mile off shore with radar to monitor traffic. “Jet Ski Assassinations” had been known to occur on the Mexican west coast in Acapulco. They’d planned for this contingency.

  When his toes touched the sand, he ran through the water to reach Mike who was already on the radio, shouting, “Get that helo in the air. And what the hell happened to that fucking boat?”

  Wiley bent at the waist, trying to catch his breath and slow his heart, which hadn’t stopped thudding double-time in his chest—as close to panic as he’d ever been. Who the fuck had Poppy, and where were they taking her?

  God dammit, he should have put a stop to this exposure. Never let her step foot off the fucking boat. This was his fault. If anything happened… Wiley shuddered. He straightened and waited for Mike to end his conversation.

  Mike lowered his radio. “Helo’s already riding the coastline. We have eyes in the air.”

  “Federales? Mexican police?”

  “Already called, but they’ll be too late.”

  “Fucking convenient.”

  “The kidnappers used an M-72 Law on the boat. We’re scooping up the men who were aboard.”

  Not exactly the latest technology, but still good enough to take out a boat. Or a tank. Vehicles pulled up to the parking lot adjacent to the beach. Wiley turned to the Joe and his friends. “Make sure everyone’s off the beach and back on that conch train, heading to the boat.”

  Joe nodded and reached out
to pat the side of Wiley’s arm. “You go get your girl.” Then he and his friends hurried toward the parking lot where others were already herding passengers onto the train to take them back to the docking area.

  After stopping only long enough to snap up his clothing and Poppy’s beach bag and sari, Wiley headed straight to the row of dark SUVs. Charter’s vehicles. He knew because Jax Keller, another ex-SEAL and Charter covert operative, stood, waving him over.

  Wiley raced toward him and swung into the vehicle. Every operator they’d had watching the beach disappeared into the other SUVs. The Mexican police would have a hard time getting witness statements, but then again, who knew how many of the officers had foreknowledge of the kidnapping.

  As they pulled away, Wiley began changing his clothes. “Charter notifying her father?” Of course they were, but he had to keep talking. To think out loud, or he’d go crazy.

  “I’m sure he knew five minutes after it happened.” Mike gave him a quick sideways glance. “Your head in the game, Coyote?”

  Wiley slammed his fist against the door. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Detail was solid, even had divers in the water in case the bastards tried to breach the beach. We had every avenue covered.”

  “Obviously not,” Wiley said, giving him a blistering stare.

  “This was a tight operation. Let’s just hope they took her for the ransom.”

  Wiley prayed that was the case. This situation could be over inside a week. But some Mexican drug traffickers had ties with ISIS. Had helped ISIS get men across the U.S. borders to scout out locations for future attacks. If ISIS wanted her, they’d have her. Then God help Poppy.

  The thought of her in a terrorist’s hands, tortured, burned, beheaded—in retaliation for her father’s victories against them—made him sick to his stomach. His body tensed, and he grabbed the dashboard. Fuck, if he’d let that happen.

  Hold on, Poppy. I’m coming for you.

  Chapter Six

  ‡

  Poppy sunk inside herself. No use panicking. She couldn’t help her situation. Whatever her kidnappers’ intentions, they couldn’t be good. When she’d been plucked from the water, her mind had worked at warp speed, imagining every scenario possible until she’d drawn a deep breath and deliberately began to withdraw.

  Her abductors hadn’t traveled far, barely a mile down the shoreline until they beached the jet skis, hopped off, and then led her over sand and jagged rocks to a banged-up pickup parked on the side of the road that edged the ocean. Before they’d pushed her inside, they’d tied her hands together with rope and dropped a rough canvas bag over her head and shoulders.

  Now, she lay on the small space behind the bucket seats, fighting nausea and panting due to fear and claustrophobia. The fact she was nearly nude and barefoot rankled, making her feel more vulnerable than she had to be. But she didn’t dwell on those facts or let herself think about their destination. Instead, she kept the image of Wiley, with his face reddening from fury, his eyes narrowing. Wiley wouldn’t let this go. Would move heaven and earth to save her. She knew it.

  And not just because she was “the job.” He was personally invested and had let down his guard for just a moment. He’d rail against himself, but after he got the rage under control, he’d call upon his skills. He’d find the men who had taken her. She had to believe he’d do it before it was too late.

  Unwilling to think about what was in store, she drew back from the precipice. She’d hope this was a kidnapping for ransom. Something that could drag on for weeks or months. Not something more nefarious. Her father would want this situation kept quiet. Off the books. Because if terrorists didn’t know she’d been taken and couldn’t pay her ransom, the men her father had hired stood a better chance of retrieving her.

  Eventually, the heat inside the truck cab, and the lack of fresh air from the bag still covering her head, lulled her, despite the bumpiness of the ride. She relaxed, and finally, she gave herself over to oblivion. She’d need to be rested, alert, and ready.

  Again, she thought of Wiley. Of the night they’d spent together. She was fiercely glad she’d allowed him into her bed. Sweet and intense, he’d seen to her pleasure. It was just a damn shame they might not have the chance to discover whether they had more in store in their future. She thought he might be the kind of man she could trust with her heart. One who’d weather any storm. A rock she could lean against. Thinking of his warm embrace, she slipped into darkness.

  Wiley jumped from the open door of the helo onto the hard-packed dirt airfield. All the operators, who’d come out of the woodwork when Poppy had been attacked, headed straight to Charter’s camp, deep in the Yucatan jungle, and far from any prying eyes set to watch their movements. Within minutes of the abduction, they’d had access to satellite surveillance. Government satellites, although Wiley didn’t ask for details. The general had his friends. Charter had their own. They’d tracked the movement of a vehicle along the coastal highway until it made a turn, heading into the jungle. Once forest canopy cut off their view, they’d used infrared to track heat signatures, keeping tabs, hoping they’d found the right target, because otherwise Poppy could be anywhere in Cancun. They’d let the Federales and the local police follow those leads.

  Charter’s analysts didn’t believe she’d be found there anyway. Not after they’d caught a single transmission. One that, once decrypted, had spoken of a special package ready for delivery to “the sheikh.”

  The moment Wiley had heard that final word his blood froze. Rumors had abounded for over a year of a Yemeni sheikh who’d allied himself with a Mexican cartel. In exchange for heroin the ISIS-affiliated warlord smuggled to the cartel, he was provided a safe place to train terrorists, and coyotes to help smuggle his fighters across the porous U.S. border. So far, the intelligence community had only heard of scouting missions. Fighters looking for soft targets in the southwest and Texas. And U.S. intelligence agencies hadn’t found the supposed camp.

  If Poppy fell into the sheikh’s hands… Wiley tightened his fists.

  His team commander, Deke Warrick, met him beside the runway, reaching out to shake his hand. His hazel gaze studied his expression. “You holding it together?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Wiley said, keeping his emotions carefully guarded, his expressions neutral. If Charter knew he was hanging on by a thread, they might make him sit this one out.

  “Look, I’ve been where you are, Wiley. When my wife Nicky was taken, I only had me. I had to keep a lid on my emotions. Had to work fast. At least, I never lost track of her.” He pressed his hand harder before letting go. “We’ll get Poppy back. But I need you steady.”

  With both hands fisting at his sides, Wiley gave Deke a curt nod.

  “Good. Now, come see Teague. He’s been pulling together intel and is ready to brief us.”

  Wiley followed Deke to the command center, an impressive title for a rather unimpressive little building. Close to the hangar, it sat on piers, with dirty whitewashed siding and a shingled roof. Inside, they passed empty desks, heading straight to the back where the real work happened, the guts of the operation. There, blackout curtains covered the windows. A long table held computers, monitors, and a radio.

  Teague sat on a stool and swiveled toward them when they closed the door.

  If he hadn’t been wound tight, he might have smiled seeing Teague. The guy had a face that looked like it had been chiseled out of rock. His hair was cut high and tight. And the bristles on top showed more silver than the last time Wiley had been here.

  Teague gave him an icy stare. “Heard you fucked the pooch.”

  His neck stiffened. “Yeah, I messed up.”

  Teague grunted at his admission and crossed his arms over his chest. “Commander Martir,” he said, referring to the former SEAL commander who now ran special operations for Charter, “tapped his old buddies at the DEA. Remember that bastard Diego Guzman we took out last year?” He didn’t wait for Wiley’s nod. “A spl
inter group, not beholden to the son, has her. They’ve been trying to reconstruct Guzman’s supply chain, to gain back trust after his organization scattered to the winds.

  “Martir says this is a good thing. Because communication is fractured as well. No one trusts anyone. The men who have Poppy want to trade her to the sheikh for exclusive rights to move his heroin over the border. It’s a power grab. Guzman’s lieutenants have been killing off each other, one by one. Last man standing gets the crown.”

  “Who’s in charge of this particular group?” Wiley asked, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. Poppy was being held by some desperate, ruthless assholes.

  “Fernando Peña. The fact he’s kept her kidnapping under wraps is a good thing. It means we won’t have to fight an army to get her back. Just his most trusted men.”

  Wiley still wasn’t feeling better. “Do we know where they are?”

  “Heading straight down the coastline to an airstrip near Chetumal.”

  Airstrip. She could wind up anywhere. A muscle jerked along the side of his jaw. “Where do they plan to take her from there?”

  Teague’s lips tightened. “Straight to Chihuahua.”

  And the Yemeni’s training camp. Cold sweat broke on his brow. Wiley ground his jaws. “I take it we’re intercepting them at the airfield?”

  Teague arched a graying brow. “Too predictable for you, Coyote?”

  Wiley glanced away at the computer monitor which showed the surveillance footage that followed the large heat signature of a vehicle traveling through the jungle. “Won’t they be ready for us?”

  “Does that worry you?”

  Wiley inhaled, filling his lungs with air and stalling before giving his answer. He was too edgy. Too ready to slam his fists into something soft. He needed control, needed his head straight, or he’d be no good to Poppy. No help to his team. Again, Poppy’s pale face as she’d glanced back while the jet ski pulled away flashed through his mind. Their gazes had locked. She’d been scared, but she was strong. She’d hold it together until he got to her. “I’m not worried. The bastards are going to pay for ever touching her.”