“You said it yourself. I’m world-class.” Rafe had no intention of taking Vincent’s bait—until he turned away muttering Penny’s name under his breath.
Rafe jumped to his feet, hands bunched and ready for action. He’d been itching to go a good round or two ever since he saw the way Penny melded so naturally to the bastard’s side. “What the hell was that, Frankie?”
Vincent turned back in a flash and didn’t stop coming until their faces were inches apart. “I said that only a fucking moron would let Penny walk away. So, are you a moron, Ortega? You’re really going to sit back and watch the best thing that could ever happen to your fucking life walk the fuck out? Be a man. Go for what you want before you end up hurting her more.”
“Hurting Red is the last thing I want to do. Why the fuck do you think I’m trying to stay away?”
“And what the fuck do you think it’s doing to her the longer you do?” Vince retaliated before turning on his heel and stalking back toward the village.
Hostage extractions. Unraveling drug operations. That was what Rafe knew. Forming a relationship that required openness and communication…not so much.
Why the hell did he think he needed to stay away?
The answer to Vince’s question hit him like a cannonball to the gut.
Because he loved her too damn much to use her as a fucking experiment.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Even though the Forward Operating Base Mocoron meant Honduran military, American troops, and the DEA, the government facility wasn’t a synonym for safety. They all knew it, which was why the joking banter of the eight men surrounding Penny slowly morphed to focused, at-the-ready stances the closer they got to the base.
Sean, in the lead, raised his hand and brought everyone to a dead stop. Safeties clicked off. Guns lifted. Her own awareness heightened, Penny slipped the 9mm from her waistband and waited.
“Easy, Red. Stay by me.” Rafe drew her closer to his side.
She wasn’t about to argue. Especially when with nearly no warning, chaos erupted from every angle as a dozen green camo–wearing men stepped straight out from the jungle, their high-powered rifles pointed in their direction.
“Drop your weapons,” the closest of the newest arrivals demanded. “Drop your weapons now!”
“You’re going to have to do fucking better than that, my friend,” Sean snapped back, no more lowering his rifle than did the rest of the team. “Why don’t you lot lower your weapons first?”
The soldier studied Sean through narrowed eyes. Each second that ticked by brought Rafe closer to Penny’s side. Eventually, he’d gotten so close that she could feel the flex of his muscles when he regripped his gun. A tense minute later, with no one eager to be the first to stand down, another man stepped out of the throng.
This one wasn’t wearing a uniform. In fact, with slicked-back blond hair and a clean-cut black suit, the thirtysomething man ridiculously contrasted with everyone else’s grime-covered appearances.
His gaze momentarily rested on Penny before scanning the men around her. “You must be the notorious Alpha Security,” he said in English. “I’m glad that we finally found you.”
“And who the hell are you?” Rafe still didn’t lower his gun.
With a too-white smile on his face, the man tossed Rafe his badge and credentials. “I’m Special Agent Royce Collins. American Drug Enforcement Administration. My superiors just patched me through to a coworker of yours—a charming woman with the mouth of a trucker. I believe her name was Charlie She’s-Not-Giving-Me-Her-Bloody-Last-Name.”
“You’re the AIC in Mocoron?”
“Special agent in charge,” Collins emphasized. He turned toward the soldier who’d first demanded they lower their weapons. “Lieutenant Ramón, if you and your men will please holster your weapons…let’s show our guests a bit of hospitality, shall we?”
It took a few seconds for Lieutenant Ramón to bark the order to his men, but then they started doing as directed. Collins, looking pleased with himself, nodded toward the direction in which they’d been heading. “If you all will follow me, I’ll show you to our humble dwellings.”
*
Tucked into the wildlife of the Miskito jungle with meager personnel, the Honduran outpost didn’t look like the first line of defense in the Central American drug war. Only a few dozen Honduran soldiers littered the grounds, some in guard shacks while others walked the fence line with security dogs. Notably fewer in number, American uniforms and plainclothes DEA agents came in and out of unidentified, flat-front buildings. Tallied, the numbers couldn’t have reached more than sixty.
It surprised Rafe that Fuentes hadn’t yet assumed control of the entire fucking world if this was his opposition.