“Talk to me, Red,” he demanded gently.
“He’s the reason I’m here.” She met Rafe’s gaze, lifting the picture up with a shaking hand. “Diego Fuentes has my niece, my best friend. And I’m not leaving Honduras without her.”
CHAPTER TWO
News that the same man who brought Alpha Security to Honduras three months ago had also lured a determined Penelope Kline went over like a bomb dropping into the middle of a churchyard. Handling crazy shit was Alpha’s specialty. Terrorists. Hostage retrievals. Not bogged down by bureaucratic bullshit, they got stuff done when the government couldn’t. Hell, they were currently aiding the Drug Enforcement Administration with an international manhunt for one of the most sought-after drug traffickers this side of the hemisphere—Diego Fuentes.
Penny’s grit was admirable, but on the third hour after the dropping of the metaphorical bomb, it was starting to give Rafe a damn headache that an entire bottle of aspirin and the sight of her curvy body couldn’t cure.
Three hours of tension. Of glares. Of listening to the faint squeal of the rotating ceiling fan in the background, and they were no closer to talking sense into the redhead than they’d been before. Even Trey, their trained hostage negotiator who could talk himself out of five-point steel restraints, hadn’t so much as gained an inch of her cooperation.
Penny Kline had systematically bested each of Rafe’s four teammates in the stubbornness department, and for Alpha operatives, it was a hard and bitter pill to swallow.
Sweaty and annoyed, Rafe cracked his neck and prayed for patience as he got his turn. “I’m not so sure you’re following along, Red. Fuentes isn’t a tame little pussycat. He’s the goddamned Dr. Frankenstein of the drug world.”
Penny leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded across her chest. She cocked up one delicate eyebrow as if something were wrong with him. And hell, maybe there was. He’d always prided himself on being cool and levelheaded. In his line of work, a quick temper got you in tough scrapes. Or dead. But for some reason, this little sprite of a woman put him close to an edge he didn’t know he had.
“He also loves dabbling in human trafficking and generalized murder and mayhem. Do you have something to tell me that I don’t already know?” she asked.
“Do you have any idea what would happen if a man like him got his hands on a sweet little thing like yourself?”
“No, because I’m too busy imagining what a man like him is doing to Rachel.”
Her voice caught on her niece’s name. Her gaze, previously matching his head-on, lost its ferocity with a few quick blinks. But it was the nibbling of her lower lip that was a red flare shot inches from his face.
Rafe told himself to give her a second to collect herself. But there was too much on the line, and not solely the team’s mission to bring down Fuentes before the bastard spread his superdrug, Freedom, to the States. Left to the atrocities of San Pedro Sula, no way could Penny come out whole and intact, and more importantly, she shouldn’t have to take that kind of risk. The fact she felt it necessary bothered him a hell of a lot.
Rafe ignored Trey’s grumbles from across the room. “If Fuentes has Rachel, we’ll find her.”
A chorus of nods and hell yeahs filtered through the group.
“You mean like you’ve found him?” She rolled her eyes with a snort. “I’m sorry. You said you’ve been down here looking for him for how long? Months? Rachel doesn’t have that kind of time. You’ve said yourself that Fuentes is a monster. If he doesn’t kill her or sell her to the highest bidder, then she becomes a walking guinea pig. I’m not going to let that happen.”
Trey unfolded his six-foot body from the couch and stood. “And you think you can do any better? Jesus, Penn, we’re trained for this kind of shit. You’re trained to place children in loving homes and help the elderly work out the kinks in their social security checks. What you’re not is a—”
“A social worker.”
“That’s exactly my point.” Trey nodded, looking smug.
“I mean, I’m not a social worker.” She gestured toward the laptop that sat on the beat-up coffee table. “Look it up. And it’ll speed things along if you use the Lebanon County Sheriff’s Office database.”
Logan, former Marine sniper and resident country boy, was already on it. With his well-worn cowboy boots and chewed-to-hell toothpick sticking out of his mouth, no one but his teammates would’ve expected it to take him less than a minute before letting out a loud, and obviously impressed, whistle. “Hot damn. Looks like our redheaded viper’s packing more than a mean kick. She’s got a license.”
Logan chuckled. Hands propped behind his head, he leaned back so the rest of the team could read the screen.