Midnight Target

  He rubbed his tired eyes, wondering what the heck he was doing in here instead of catching a few hours of much-needed sleep in his bunk. It was five a.m. and he’d been watching Aguilar’s house all night. The general and his wife had woken up at three o’clock for a late-night quickie, but aside from that, there’d been no activity from the Aguilars. Which only brought a pang of guilt to Ash’s stomach, because, in light of tonight’s uneventful stakeout, there was really no reason why Cate couldn’t have come along.

  Well, other than that he didn’t want her anywhere near this Rivera mess.

  “She was running around chasing after Aguilar and Rivera’s wife with her camera this morning.”

  His jaw ached from holding in the world-class ass-chewing he wanted to deliver to Cate. Why did she always have to run toward danger, damn it?

  “Maybe you were too strict with her,” he muttered to Jim. “If you’d loosened the reins a bit, taken her around the world to see things, maybe she wouldn’t be so determined to—ah, hell, what am I talking about? Girl had more stamps on her passport at the age of seventeen than most seventy-year-olds.”

  Which was one of the many reasons he needed to stay away. It wasn’t just for shits and giggles that Morgan wanted Cate to have a normal life. Cate had grown up the pretty, pampered princess of a sick man who forced his granddaughter to pretend her dead mother was alive. And then she’d watched that man die in a gun battle between her real father, Noelle, and a bunch of hired thugs.

  So yeah, Cate definitely deserved a dose of normal. And Ash knew the value of that because it was something he’d never had. His life had consisted of drunken shouts from his dad, insults from his peers about how every man in his dead-end town had dipped their wicks between his mom’s legs, and a grandmother who’d struggled to make ends meet to support them. Normal sounded pretty damn perfect to Ash.

  What wasn’t normal was a twenty-five-year-old panting to get into a girl’s panties when she was only seventeen. What wasn’t normal was fucking some of the most beautiful, willing, flexible women on the planet and thinking about that jailbait teen back home. What wasn’t normal was having a hard-on from just looking at her.

  Yet at the same time, he didn’t regret a single second he’d ever spent with Cate. They’d become close fast, and even knowing it was wrong, Ash hadn’t done anything to stop it. He hadn’t wanted to stop it. Their friendship had become one of the most important things in his life. She had become one of the most important things in his life.

  But his need for her had always been superseded by one thing—his loyalty to the man lying in front of him.

  He wanted Morgan to wake the hell up so that they could talk, so he could finally tell the man that Cate was all grown up and she should be allowed to choose who she wanted to be with. Of course, that would be met with Morgan’s boot in his ass. And Cate would probably slap him silly. She might’ve wanted Ash at one time but he’d ground that affection beneath his boot heel. At best, Cate might want a revenge fuck where she’d rock his entire world and then leave him begging for more.

  Sad truth was, he’d take it. He’d snap that chance up in a heartbeat if he knew it wouldn’t result in everyone hating him. He wasn’t sorry about much about his past, but he sure as hell regretted not taking Cate up on her offer. He’d dreamed too many times about having her to turn her down once again.

  “Your doc said we should talk to you. Apparently you can hear things and if you hear things it’ll make you wake up faster. So you’re faking it? You’re lying there, enjoying a good ol’ rest? How about I tell you that I’m gonna go down the hall, strip your daughter bare, and give her what she begged me for years ago?” Ash taunted.

  Morgan didn’t move.

  “Fuck me.” A hollow laugh escaped. “We both know that threat won’t fly, because I’m not going to do shit. Jesus. I feel like a fool.” He scrubbed his face with both hands.

  It wasn’t the loss of his home that Ash feared—it was the loss of Morgan’s trust. Jim had given Ash a chance when the rest of the world had turned its back on him, and he refused to repay Morgan by taking his only child. Morgan didn’t deserve that. Cate sure as hell didn’t either. She deserved someone good and decent. Someone like Ethan or Kane. Ash was . . . well, he wasn’t any of them.

  He was good at following orders, most of the time. He was good with a gun. He didn’t mind getting shot at because he figured every day he was alive was some sort of gift.

  He knew he wasn’t good enough for Cate. Morgan had seen it immediately and all his warnings that he didn’t want Cate to end up with a merc had been meant for Ash.

  He knew that, but he didn’t take offense. Morgan loved his daughter and wanted the best for her—like any good father would. It was just another reason why Ash admired him so damn much.

  “You’re a good man, Jim,” he said hoarsely. “Decent. Real decent. When I was discharged and I went home, there was no hero’s welcome. You once asked me if I was tired of people thanking me for my service. No one thanked me there. The news of my discharge beat me home.”

  Ash propped his elbows on his knees and stared at his hands. The ones that killed people. The ones that engaged in casual, meaningless sexual encounters. He wanted to mold his hands against Cate’s curves until he could map them in his sleep. He wanted to dirty that girl up until all she saw when she closed her eyes was his face, his body—him.

  He wanted her to look at him with that undisguised desire and worship because he had the same feelings churning him up inside.

  “You’d kill me right now if you knew what was going on in my head,” he whispered. “I stayed my hand so many times because I respected you. Still do. I kinda want you to rise from the bed and smite me.”

  He’d never had a lot of affection in his life. There were girls. Always girls, but that wasn’t affection. That was . . . a back scratch. A temporary relief for an ongoing, dull ache. His gran hadn’t been very warm. His mom wasn’t around. His dad’s idea of affection was not beating on Ash.

  “I had a crap dad, you know,” he informed the unconscious man. “I’m not going to be him—drinking, slapping people around, shitting on the people he’s supposed to love.” A lump formed in his throat. “You did good with Cate. I know you’ve been fighting, but forcing her to go to college was the right thing to do. She had these ideas in her head about what the world was like—all fucking adventure and fun times. But you and I know that it’s full of garbage and Cate’s the opposite of that. She’s life, Jim. And this world is only worth breathing in if she’s alive.” He swallowed hard. “So while you’re taking your nap, I’m going to protect her, even if it means she hates my guts. I can live with that. What I can’t live with is her dying. I think that’s how you’ve always felt too.”

  Ash pushed to his feet, feeling unsettled. He wasn’t much for talking about his feelings. The only person he’d ever really shared with was Cate.

  He placed a palm on Morgan’s arm. “You’re a good man,” he repeated. “The best I’ve ever known and you’re the only real father I’ve had. I—”

  A shuffling sound at the door had his head shooting up. He found Sully standing there, a frown on his face.

  “Here to confess your sins?” he asked his old friend, forcing out a small laugh.

  The Aussie cleared his throat. “Actually, you’re the guy I wanted to see.”

  Ash raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure what Sully needed from him. They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in two years. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

  Sully’s gray eyes flicked toward the bed, down to the floor, and then back up at Ash. “I just wanted to talk to you about, ah, what you heard me say a couple years back.”

  “About what?” Ash experienced a beat of confusion before understanding hit him.

  Two years ago, Sully had been captured, raped, and pumped full of heroin. Luckily, the man was a modern-day
superhero, managing to escape by himself and kill his rapist. And then, after the mission wrapped up, he’d taken off on his boat to parts unknown. Before he’d left, though . . . Ash had overheard Sullivan desperately offering his best friend a blow job in exchange for smack.

  “Oh,” Ash murmured. “Gotcha.”

  “Yeah, about that.” Sully’s voice was full of self-directed disgust.

  “Nah, man, you don’t need to say anything about that. That wasn’t you.”

  Sully shoved his hands in his pockets and blew out a stream of frustrated air. “No, it was me, and it’s bloody humiliating when I think about it.”

  “Then don’t,” Ash advised. “I don’t think about it. And I don’t see that person when I look at you.”

  Their gazes locked awkwardly before hastily shifting around their surroundings. Damn. If Ash thought talking about his feelings to an unconscious man was uncomfortable, then this scene was exponentially worse.

  He struggled to find the right words to reassure Sully. “What happened back then is your past. You look behind you a lot when you’re sailing?”

  Sully tilted his head. “Don’t we all?”

  He was talking about more than sailing, obviously. “I suppose we do, but we probably shouldn’t.”

  “Easy to say, but it’s a lot harder to live by, isn’t it?” Sully’s perceptive eyes signaled he’d heard some of what Ash had been telling Morgan.

  It was Ash’s turn to stare at the ground. “The past has a loud fucking voice,” he finally said.

  Sully barked out a sharp laugh. “Fucking truer words were never spoken, Rook.”

  He snorted. “How about we both try moving forward? Starting with you calling me Ash, you old fuck.”

  “I can try. Not making any promises, though.”

  Ash headed for the door. “I should probably get some sleep. It’s been a long day and even longer night.”

  “Good luck with that. I’m pretty sure Noelle and Cate are keeping everyone in the barracks awake with their bickering.”

  His shoulders went rigid. “Why are they bickering?”

  “You didn’t hear? Cate got a call from Rivera tonight and decided to wait to tell Noelle about it. Said she didn’t want to interrupt the lady killer’s recon.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Ash shouted, then instantly lowered his voice when he remembered where they were. “She spoke to Rivera?”

  “Apparently so. Holden tried to trace the call but he wasn’t able to pinpoint the loca—”

  Ash was out the door before Sullivan could finish the sentence. His boots pounded the floor as he tore down the maze of corridors, pushing through doors until he was in the barracks wing of the building. Anger pulsed in his blood the closer he got to Cate’s door. Mateo Rivera had phoned Cate and she’d decided to sit on the news until the team returned to base? She couldn’t have phoned in the fucking update?

  Ash flew into the room without knocking, catching the tail end of Noelle’s sharp request. “—to repeat the conversation for me.”

  His gaze traveled from Noelle’s irritated expression to Cate’s resigned one. “Rivera made contact?” he snapped, directing his accusatory gaze to Cate.

  “Yes. He did.” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept your lectures to yourself. I’ve already heard them from Noelle.”

  The blond assassin flattened her mouth. “You should’ve called.”

  “Why? It wasn’t urgent, and I didn’t want to distract you guys when you were on surveillance. Holden traced the call as best he could but Rivera didn’t stay on the line long enough for us to get anything other than that he’s in Guatana. We couldn’t even narrow it down to a neighborhood.”

  “Tell me what he said,” Ash commanded.

  Cate looked like she was gritting her teeth, but rather than argue, she dutifully recited everything she and Rivera had spoken about. As Ash listened to her relay the man’s taunts and promises of finding her and torturing, his pulse raced faster and faster. And the vow he’d just made to Morgan about keeping Cate safe suddenly became a whole lot more crucial.

  “Any background noise that you can remember?” Noelle asked. “Sounds of traffic? The market? An echo?”

  Cate paused in thought. “No, just his voice. He was somewhere quiet, either alone or else everyone in the room had their mouths zipped shut. The only thing that stuck out to me was that he was somewhat breathless, like he’d been laughing or running. It wasn’t obvious, but . . . it was there.”

  Ash frowned. “Laughing?”

  “He just sounded more excited than I thought a mastermind criminal would sound. You and Jim are always so cool,” she told Noelle. “The only time you get riled up is with each other.”

  Noelle nodded slowly. “He’s emotionally invested in us. Our emotions only go haywire when it involves someone we care about. Obviously he loved his son. And . . .” She pursed her lips. “He’s got the other kid, right? Benicio. Stands to reason Rivera worships that one too. He’d take extra care in making sure his remaining son is protected. I think we need a tail on him.”

  Ash nodded in agreement. The problem was that even with the entire team in Guatana, they still didn’t have enough manpower to cover a wide stretch of area without any fore planning. They were running blind and undermanned.

  “I’ll talk to Kane,” he said. “Maybe we can put Castle and some of the other contractors on Benicio Rivera.” His fists clenched as he glanced over at Cate. “And if he calls you again, you’re not the one who gets to decide whether or not it’s urgent.”

  Her blue eyes flashed.

  “I fucking mean it, Cate. Anything related to this op comes up, and you get on the goddamn phone and report it in. End of fucking story.”

  He spun on his heels before she could answer, Noelle’s soft chuckle tickling his rigid back on his way out the door.

  * * *

  “It was a lovely service.” Camila slid into the bedroom and gently closed the door behind her. She wore a simple black dress and not a trace of makeup, with her hair arranged in an elegant bun at the nape of her slender neck.

  As Rivera watched, she began removing the pins from her hair. She laid each silver needle on the night table, then fluffed her hair with both hands until it flowed past her shoulders. There were no streaks of gray in those long tresses. At forty-four, she was still a beautiful woman, with pristine posture and a youthful air to her.

  The nearly twenty-year age difference between them had never bothered him before, but nowadays, with his sixty-year-old bones aching from arthritis and his hair almost completely silver, being around Camila made him feel like an old man.

  “Any unwanted guests?” Rivera asked his wife.

  “There were some suits there,” she admitted.

  His gaze sharpened. “Government?”

  “I think so. Some military too. But they kept their distance.”

  That didn’t appease him. Those sons of bitches had no right showing up at his son’s funeral, especially when Adrián’s own father wasn’t able to attend. Now that every government agency out there knew he was alive, Rivera couldn’t risk leaving this safe house again.

  The cocksuckers would be actively pursuing him; President Flores would demand it. That idiot had made too big a production after the car bombing that “killed” the infamous Mateo Rivera. Press conferences, photo ops, sound bites touting his victory against the cartels. Flores was a peacock puffing out his feathers and pontificating about change, when the only thing he truly cared about was his image. If the world discovered that Rivera had not perished in those flames, the good president would look very, very bad.

  “We expected intruders,” Camila reminded him when she glimpsed his irate expression. “Don’t let them tarnish our boy’s memory, querido. Today is a day to remember Adrián, not to bother oursel
ves with government rats.”

  A lump of pain rose in his throat. “You dressed him in the gray wool suit? The one that belonged to my father?”

  She nodded, her elegant features equally pained. “He looked strong. Proud.” She smoothed out the front of her dress. “Father Ruiz delivered a beautiful eulogy.”

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  “It was a lovely service,” she repeated.

  Rivera heard more than what her words conveyed. “But?” he prompted.

  His wife’s dark eyes slitted dangerously. “But it lacked one thing.”

  He waited.

  “Blood.”

  An unwitting smile sprang to his lips.

  “I want their blood, Mateo.” Her voice was calm, as was her stride as she walked over to the bed. “I want the people who killed our son.”

  He patted the mattress and she lowered herself beside him. “You’ll have it, mi amor,” he promised.

  They both fell silent for a moment, sitting side by side on the edge of the thin mattress. Rivera didn’t miss the way his wife’s nose turned up slightly as she swept her gaze over his living quarters. He understood her disdain. This dark, musty basement was starting to close in on him, making him long for their sprawling hacienda with its dozens of rooms.

  Here, he had only this bedroom, a sitting room where he did his reading, and the meeting room where he conducted his business. In the three months since he’d staged his death, he’d been moving money to various offshore accounts while grooming his son to take over the business. Everything had been on schedule. The money, the transportation, the private island where he and Camila would live out their retirement.

  But that nosy little photographer had changed all that. Now, he would not leave Guatana until he exacted his revenge. Until he’d run his blade over every inch of Cate Morgan’s lily-white skin. Until he’d ripped her hair out by the roots, one strand at a time. Tore off her fingernails. Cut off her nipples, her arms, her legs. Maybe he’d take her head to the island with him and display it in the great room of his villa.