Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90685 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90685 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
There would be no logical explanation for my phone to be down here, and much like me, Jason Carter comes across as the paranoid type.
When the voices start to fade, I let out a relieved breath. I give myself a couple of minutes to compose myself so I can sneak back out of here.
Now comes the tricky part—getting back on dry land without using the gangway.
Domino knows it too, because as soon as I go to the stern, he’s waiting for me at the end of the dock with an amused look on his face.
“Fuck it.” I throw myself over the side and hold my breath as I hit the water.
I swim toward a lower pontoon and pull myself out of the water to climb up the ladder.
Domino’s laughing at me when I reach the top. “Nice swim?”
“I got the job done. Whatever they’re smuggling is inside the limestone.”
“Inside …”
“You know how we thought it was weird that they were exporting blocks of limestone instead of the sand?”
“But they manufacture the blocks here because it’s cheaper.”
“That’s what they told us. They’re hollowing it out and filling with … whatever it is. I ran out of time before I could get a good look, but I don’t think it can be weapons. The blocks aren’t big enough.”
“Well, we don’t need to know what it is. We just need to know how he’s smuggling it. So job’s done.”
“It is. Now all we have to do is make it back to LA without our cover being blown, and I’m not exactly working under the radar.”
“Let’s go back to the hotel, where you can shower and change.”
For the rest of the afternoon and into evening, I’m paranoid about having risked it all. I don’t think anyone saw me on board, but what if they did?
I’m on edge for most of the journey home, but somewhere around the ten-hour mark, as we get closer to the Port of Los Angeles, the gut instinct that something is wrong hits full force. My military training kicks in. Something’s … off, but I can’t put my finger on it.
There’s an eerie stillness to the night. The hairs on my arms and neck stand to attention, and my immediate thought is one of Carter’s crew is going to show their face any minute and put a bullet through my head. But then the sound of a helicopter in the distance rings in my ears, and the water around us is calm. Almost silent.
Too fucking silent.
I speak into a radio that the others and the captain of the ship have. “Guard up. Something’s not right.”
The helicopter is closer now, looking like it’s approaching us specifically.
“Who’s that?” Domino radios. “Someone to take down?”
“No. Not yet. Hold your positions until we know who it is and what they want,” I order.
The helicopter flies over our heads and then hovers above the ship with its flashlight shining into the bridge of the boat. The engines on the boat cut out, and then we drift … right toward a wall of boats that light up and blind us.
It feels like I’m onstage at a damn concert with how many floodlights are pointed at us.
Someone, somewhere, has a megaphone. “Put your weapons down. This is the United States Coast Guard.”
I radio my guys. “Do it.” And then I take my M16 and place it on deck.
Men in black uniforms drop from the helicopter above while others start climbing up from the smaller boats below us.
“DEA. Hands up,” a voice says behind me.
Coast Guard and DEA? This must be big.
I do as the voice says.
“Get down on the ground. Hands behind your back.” The growl in the guy’s tone is kinda sexy.
I want to turn around, but I also don’t want to be shot.
Difficult choice.
“Now.”
With a sigh, I do it, laying my cheek on the rough surface of the deck. Plastic cuffs enclose my skin. The zip ties tighten against my wrists, and then I’m hauled back up to my feet by two guys either side of me.
One of them leads me, pushing me from behind, over to where my teammates are, all handcuffed and sitting against a crate in the middle of the ship. He spins me around to place me with my men, but he doesn’t even need to push me down.
No, I fall on my ass on my own when I come face-to-face with the guy arresting me. Dark hair, big brown eyes, amazing skin. The smile is missing, but it’s definitely him.
“Hey, isn’t that—” Alphabet starts.
“Yep,” I say.
It’s Dylan.
Chapter Two
Dylan
SEVEN YEARS AGO
I should give motivational speeches. Three ways to tank your career with one botched raid.
One: Sleep with your target.
Two: Find absolutely no evidence at the scene.
And three: Sleep with your fucking target.
As I stare into the interrogation room behind a two-way mirror at the man who, in my own words, fucks like a god, I want to recoil in embarrassment and shame.