Baby, It's You (Uncharted SEALs Book 5) Page 9

  “You mean you didn’t pack any Hawaiian shirts?”

  “Don’t own one,” he’d gritted out.

  “How are you managing not to blow your cover?”

  Wiley grunted. “I haven’t shaved, and I have my cowboy hat and boots.”

  “So you’re sticking out like a sore thumb.”

  “She won’t expect any security detail to stick out quite like I do.”

  Deke grunted. “Just remember you have people positioned around the ship. Channel two if you need them.”

  Which would be great if they were actually aboard the ship. The deeper into the jungle their tour bus drove, the deeper his concern grew. They were on an excursion into the jungle to view Mayan ruins. Anywhere along their route would be a great place for an ambush. The two security people provided by the cruise line to accompany his target were in good shape, but he could tell neither was armed. Conventional weapons were impossible to smuggle aboard the ship, and the weapons kept under lock and key aboard the ship wouldn’t have been permitted for this little jaunt.

  And why were they out here? If he remembered right, the pyramids weren’t exactly wheelchair-friendly. But he knew she was thorough, that she took her job seriously. No stone would be left unturned. No tour unvetted, personally, by her.

  He’d read the dossier Charter Group had put together. Poppy Shackleford, daughter of Lieutenant General Randall Shackleford, wasn’t some spoiled daughter of a famous man. She’d endured her own tragedies—the loss of her mother when she was young and her father stationed in Afghanistan, the loss of her fiancé after he’d sustained wounds in Iraq.

  Not from the physical wounds that had claimed his two legs. Frank Sutton, who’d been despondent over the loss, had killed himself. His death was why Poppy was involved in Soldiers’ Sanctuary, a non-profit that helped disabled soldiers adjust to their new circumstances, whether helping with additional therapies the VA was slow or unable to provide, or seeking the latest in prosthetics and mobility devices. And they provided mentorship, one wounded soldier to another, so that no veteran of war would feel so alone, so hopeless they’d choose Frank Sutton’s path.

  Wiley understood and admired her for not simply crying, and then moving on, but embracing a cause that might help others. However today, he wished she wasn’t quite so determined to make it impossible for him to protect her. Not that she had a clue he was there. If she’d glanced toward the back of the air-conditioned bus, all she might have noted was one dark head amid a sea of white, gray, and blue.

  The fellow seated next to him gave him another narrow-eyed glance.

  Wiley aimed a frown his way, hoping the old man would mind his own business.

  The man was burly, surprisingly muscled for an old dude. He leaned sideways in his seat toward Wiley and whispered, “Name’s Joseph Olinsky, but you can call me Joe. I’m a marine.” He nodded toward the head of the bus where Poppy stood beside the tour guide, asking questions. “She someone important?”

  Wiley blinked. “No, sir. I think she’s just another passenger. A noisy one.”

  The old man grunted. “She has a detail. That guy with a clipboard ain’t a cruise director. I’d say he’s ex-Navy, probably a SEAL. Has a trident tattoo on his upper arm. Saw it when he was stowing her backpack in the overhead.”

  Knowing there was no use convincing Joe he was just a guy on a trip to see a pyramid, Wiley gave the old guy another look. He recognized the type—his dad had been the same steady, patriotic sort. Once a marine, always a marine. Maybe he did need backup should shit go sideways. “You’re right,” he murmured. “The cruise line provided her security.”

  “What about you?” his gray-haired companion said.

  “Name’s Wiley, and I was Navy.”

  “A SEAL,” he said, nodding. “Can’t hide that look. Everyone else, besides her, has been taking a nap. Not you. You’ve been watching the road ahead. Expect trouble?”

  “Not expecting, but prepared.”

  Joe nodded. “Don’t get along as well as I used to,” he said, patting his knee. “But I can be another set of eyes. And I do know who she is, son. She’s the daughter of that general ISIS wants taken out. Had his face plastered all over Facebook faster than Homeland and the FBI could take their pages down.”

  Wiley almost smiled at how in tune the old guy was. “Nothing much gets past you, does it?”

  Joe lifted his chin toward two older gentle men seated across the aisle from him.

  Wiley glanced over to find the two old codgers both staring back.

  “We were in the same division, the 3rd, during Viet Nam. We’re all that’s left. Try to take a trip every couple of years. Went to Nam five years back. There were eight of us then.”

  Wiley nodded his understanding.

  “That’s Morty,” he said pointing at the thin one with a round belly. “The other one’s Sly.”

  Sly gave him a grin that displayed unnaturally white teeth.

  Wiley gave both men a little wave then turned his attention back to the front of the bus.

  “She know you’re tailing her?”

  Wiley wondered how the old guys had figured out he was there for Poppy. He remembered how they’d jostled him, cutting him from the rest of the group. He’d thought it unintentional, but now knew they’d meant to be seated beside him. He shook his head, admiring their cunning. “She doesn’t know. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Need a better cover,” Joe said, eyeing his boots and the scruff on his chin. “Could tell folks you’re my grandson.”

  Wiley chuckled. Sounded like a better plan than the one he’d had. “Just don’t get in the way. If things go down…”

  “You could use another set of eyes—between the three of us, we might just make one good pair.”

  This time Wiley laughed.

  Joe grinned and gave a slow nod to his companions, who settled back in their seats and now directed their attention to the job at hand—and the woman wearing the pretty blue dress at the front of the bus.

  Suddenly, the bus shuddered and slowed. Cries arose from those seated near the front.

  “Fat’s in the fire now,” Morty said, pointing toward the road ahead.

  Wiley cussed. A pickup was parked sideways in the middle of the road.

  He began to rise, but then he noted the men standing in front of the truck. All dark, but with features that were clearly Mestizo. So bandits rather than terrorists. He settled back in his chair. He’d let this play out a bit before he gave himself away. So long as no one was hurt, he’d keep his cover.

  Joe pulled out his wallet and quickly removed his credit cards, leaving the bills inside. The cards he bent and stuffed into the tops of his socks. He glanced at Wiley. “You got anything in that pack you don’t want them to find?”

  He did, but he was also trying to keep an eye on his target. The guy with the clipboard was pulling her down into a seat.

  When the bus came to a halt, the driver opened the door and quickly raised his hands.

  Two men with bandanas covering the lower halves of their faces boarded the bus. Their gazes swept the passengers, then one bent toward the driver. His Spanish spilled out too fast for Wiley to catch every word, but he got the gist. They were going to force the passengers onto the road and rob them.

  As quietly as he could, Wiley unzipped his bag and drew out a long cylinder.

  Joe glanced down and grimaced. “Think that peashooter’s gonna help?”

  “Guess you’ll never know, so long as everyone plays nice.”

  The driver stood and keyed his microphone. “These gentlemen request that you all disembark in an orderly fashion, front rows first. As long as you cooperate, no one will be hurt, and we’ll soon be back on our way.”

  Knowing the bus driver was probably well-versed in these sorts of operations, Wiley kept in his seat, breathing slowly to keep his heart rate steady. His mission had just grown exponentially from keeping an eye on one target to protecting a busload of elderly Americans. The last th
ing he wanted to do was excite the armed men into doing anything stupid. When the passengers in the rows ahead of him shuffled down the aisle, he stood and waited for his three companions to move in front of him.

  Joe was last and gave him a nod. “We’ll follow your lead,” he said under his breath.

  Wiley patted his shoulder then followed him. As he exited, he noted Poppy’s position farther down the line, her face pale, her mouth forming into a thin line. So far so good. She wasn’t drawing any undue attention. He and Joe followed the point of a rifle to stand at the edge of the highway as one of the bandits, his weapon slung over one shoulder, walked down the row with a large open bag, waiting as passengers emptied their pockets, removed watches and jewelry, and dropped them into the bag.

  Wiley’s gaze remained on Poppy. The two banditos at the end of the row were watching her. One raised a cell phone and took a picture. A moment later, the opening notes to Eye of the Tiger sounded, and he swiped the screen. His smile was slow and sinister. He leaned toward his companion to speak quietly then strode toward Poppy.

  They’d made her. Not hard to do. Her face was the face of the charity and had been plastered on the news channels when her father’s bounty had been reported.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He stepped behind Joe and lifted one foot, smoothed up his jeans to the top of his boot, and removed the strip of tape he’d applied to his ankle, which held the tranquilizer darts he’d prepared that morning. When he straightened, he removed one dart and pushed the strip into Joe’s right hand. “Give me one at a time.” He took the first dart and inserted it into his blow gun, then quickly lifted the end of it. A quick, hard push of air sent it sailing to toward the first bandit positioned toward the rear of the bus. It struck him in the back of the shoulder.

  The man tried to reach behind him, but lost his balance and melted to the blacktop, unnoticed by his friends because they were engaged in a conversation with whomever was on the other end of the cell phone as to what to do with Poppy.

  Morty and Sly shuffled sideways and stood in front of the crumpled body.

  The passengers nearest them began to tug on each other’s arms and look his way.

  Joe shook his head and pointedly stared toward the men in front. Those around them quickly caught on. They edged closer together, masking his movements as he loaded another dart, chose his target, and let the dart fly.

  Another group of men shuffled forward, setting their packs, pronged walking sticks, and their own bodies in front of the fallen bandito.

  Again, Joe handed him a dart.

  “I need to get closer.”

  With his hand on Joe’s shoulder, the two men slipped behind the row and slowly made their way forward, toward Poppy and her two useless bodyguards. When they were only six feet away, Wiley squeezed Joe’s shoulder to bring him to a halt. Any closer and he’d never be able to hide what he was doing.

  Clipboard man was speaking furiously with the one who appeared to be in charge.

  “This is has to be quick,” Wiley said under his breath.

  Joe nodded, but didn’t look back. Using Joe’s body to hide his blow gun, Wiley slowly brought it up over Joe’s shoulder and aimed for the back of the man standing next to Poppy. The dart struck his right arm.

  He made a sound, a sharp cry. Poppy looked down, her eyes widening on the dart. She stumbled into his arm, as though shielding the sight from the last bandit still standing.

  The man in front of her scowled, but the moment the one beside Poppy began to crumple, he raised his weapon.

  Wiley shoved Joe out of the way, swept out his arms to get between the people in front of him, and dove for Poppy, all the while praying clipboard man had more than a damn pen to take the bastard out.