Midnight Revenge Page 6

  Operatives didn’t leave the Smith Group. Derek had known that. He’d signed away his life when he’d joined the agency, and Bryant would be damned if he let the bastard go unpunished for his treason.

  Bryant settled in his desk chair and stared at the closed oak doors of his office. He could practically taste the victory. The vengeance.

  After nine years, Derek was finally back on the grid—and the prisoner would lead Bryant right to him.

  Chapter 6

  D packed in a hurry, all the while wondering how he would make it out of the compound without anyone noticing or cross-examining him. Too many people lived here, damn it. It made him miss the days when he’d lived alone.

  After he finished tossing gear into his go bag, he slung the duffel strap over his shoulder and swiped his trusty HK off the bed. He’d grab the bigger guns once he reached Mexico, but he felt naked without his pistol, so that he tucked under his waistband on his way out the door.

  There was only one person he was interested in talking to before he left, but everyone was still out back, toasting to the newlyweds. Sighing, he pulled out his phone and texted the boss, telling Morgan to meet him in the tunnel. There’d be too many questions if he left through the gate.

  Mendez.

  The name continued to darken his mind like a thundercloud, and he quickened his strides as he hurried downstairs.

  Jesus. Mendez had Sullivan.

  The team had run dozens of scenarios about who could’ve nabbed Sully. Old enemies. Former clients. They’d even investigated a few special-ops soldiers Sully had had run-ins with during his stint in the Australian army. It hadn’t occurred to anyone, D included, that the most powerful sex trafficker in the Western Hemisphere was the one responsible for their missing teammate.

  How the hell had Mendez made a move without D’s knowledge? D had kept tabs on the bastard ever since Smith Group had shut down, and he hadn’t heard even a whisper that Mendez had figured out the alias he was using. But the name Derek Pratt had raised a red flag in Dublin, which meant Mendez knew its significance—otherwise he wouldn’t have snagged Sullivan.

  Despite the urgency tightening his gut, D couldn’t help a smug chuckle. Mendez must have thrown a hell of a hissy fit when he’d realized the man his goons had brought him wasn’t the one he’d been hunting all these years.

  The humor faded fast, though, because it was damn lucky Mendez hadn’t killed Sully on the spot. Or hell, maybe he had.

  No. He wouldn’t have. Mendez was smart. He recognized the value of having a live victim to interrogate instead of a dead man to bury.

  D didn’t even want to think about all the ways Sullivan had been suffering at those sadistic hands.

  He was rummaging through a cabinet in the armory in search of extra clips when footsteps echoed in the cavernous concrete tunnel. A moment later, Morgan appeared, exactly three minutes after D had texted.

  “What’s going on?”

  D shoved the spare ammo in his bag. “I’ve got something I need to take care of. I wanted to give you the heads-up that I’m taking off.”

  Morgan paused, then asked the question D had been expecting. “Sully?”

  He shook his head. “Some personal shit came up.”

  The boss’s dark blue eyes narrowed, probing D’s face, but D had been a professional liar for most of his career. He’d been trained by both Delta and Smith, and trained well. Not even Jim Morgan, a man who could read any person he came across, was immune to D’s considerable talents.

  The trick was to sprinkle the truth into the lie. Just a few morsels, just enough so the person you were lying to could draw his own conclusions.

  “An old friend got in touch,” D said, because that was the truth. An old friend had gotten in touch. “Mr. Smith,” he added, and that was the lie.

  He could see Morgan quickly doing the math. The boss was one of the few people who was aware of D’s background. The others knew he’d worked black ops, but didn’t know the name of the agency, so while other people wouldn’t even blink at the name Mr. Smith, Morgan immediately understood what it meant.

  “Shit. You need backup?”

  “Nah. I don’t want to drag anyone else into this.” D shrugged. “Actually, there’s nothing to drag them into. It’s a simple matter of tying up a loose end.”

  Morgan nodded. “Are you taking the jet?”

  “No, I’ll take one of the Cessnas. I’m not going far.” Even if he was, he still wouldn’t take the jet, which was on standby at Morgan’s private airfield outside of Turtle Creek, the town nearest to the compound. It made more sense to take one of the smaller aircraft in the hangar—he could fly those fuckers himself and avoid dealing with questions from their pilot, Sam.

  “Keep your cell on you,” Morgan ordered. “And send an SOS if you need us.”

  “Roger.”

  As the boss stalked off, D released a breath heavy with relief. Nice. That had gone easier than he’d anticipated.

  He locked the armory and stepped into the corridor, following the fluorescent-lit space to the massive garage where the Humvees were stashed. He’d just hit the button to open the mechanical door at the tunnel’s entrance when footsteps sounded again.

  D stifled a curse when Liam marched into the garage.

  Fuck. So much for easy.

  “Where are you going?” Liam spoke sharply, forgoing any preamble.

  “I have some business to take care of,” he said coolly.

  Liam searched his face. “You’re going after Sullivan.”

  “No. It’s a personal matter.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve got no family, no friends. There’s no such thing as personal in your life.”

  “I told you, it’s business. Personal fucking business. I had a life before I joined the team, all right? Not everything I do involves you assholes.”

  Liam advanced on him with military precision. “If you’re going after Sullivan, I’m coming with you.”

  “I’m not going after Sullivan.” D set his jaw. “Like I told you before, I’ve got people looking for him. If they call, I’ll let you know.”

  He headed for the driver’s door, but Liam intercepted him, his hand moving at lightning speed toward the door handle to prevent D from opening it.

  “Get the fuck out of my way,” D said coldly. “I promise you, you don’t want to do this right now.”

  “Do what? Find my best friend?”

  “No, find my fist in your jaw. Because I’ll fucking do it. I’ll beat the shit out of you if you don’t get out of my way.”

  Liam didn’t move his hand.

  “This has nothing to do with Sullivan.” Frustration bubbled in his throat. “A ghost from my past is causing some trouble. I need to take care of it.”

  Liam eyed him uneasily. “I . . . don’t believe you.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t give a fuck. I have to go.” D struck like a rattlesnake, giving Liam’s wrist a sharp twist and forcibly shoving it off the door.

  Blue eyes blazed angrily at him, but D didn’t care that his teammate was pissed. He didn’t care that his teammate was right. Damned if he’d bring Liam along. The guy had gotten so out of control he’d needed to be benched, for fuck’s sake. D refused to put him in the field again and possibly risk Sullivan’s life.

  “Look, talk to Morgan if you don’t believe me,” D muttered. “Tell him I give him permission to explain to you who I used to work for. Maybe that’ll shut you up.” He opened the Humvee door and threw his bag into the passenger’s side. “Now go get some fucking sleep, Liam. You look like shit.”

  Before Liam could object, D slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. For good measure, he hit the power locks in case his teammate tried anything stupid. But the other man just backed away from the vehicle, arms tight across his chest as he glowered at D through the windshield.

  Ignoring the contempt being aimed his way, D started the engine and sped out of the tunnel, leaving his angry teammate in the rearview mir
ror.

  The terrain was bumpy on this side of the property, so he waited until he’d cleared the rocky hillside before reaching for his phone. His first call was to the airfield, ordering Morgan’s pilot to gas up one of the planes. His second call went to his guy in Cancún, to arrange for a car to meet him when he landed.

  The third call . . . it was to a number he hadn’t used in years. He knew it was in service, though—he always made sure his contact numbers were up-to-date, no matter how much time had passed since he’d used them. It had been nine years since he’d dialed this particular number, and when a familiar male voice slid into his ear, D’s shoulders went stiffer than boards.

  “It’s Jason,” he rasped, the name burning his tongue as it left his mouth.

  A hiss of shock filled the extension. “Is this a fucking joke?” was the answering sputter.

  “Did you ever know me to joke?” D gritted his teeth. “Look. How about we skip the bullshit and hellos and where’ve-you-beens? I’ll be in the neighborhood soon. We need to meet.”

  His former colleague was smart enough not to argue, because the man knew from experience what happened when you argued with Jason.

  After a short silence, the caller said, “When and where?”

  • • •

  Doctors made the worst patients. Sofia hadn’t thought the old saying applied to her, but that morning she discovered it absolutely did.

  The nurse had left Sofia’s chart on the desk. Other patients would have kept their hands to themselves and waited for the doctor to come in and go over the results with them. Sofia wasn’t other patients.

  The second the door closed behind the nurse, she snatched up the thin folder and popped it open.

  Relief swept through her as she skimmed the first page. Gastroparesis had been ruled out, thank God. No intestinal problems. Nothing bacterial. Not the flu, but she’d already known that.

  Since her only symptoms were nausea and vomiting, the first thing she’d done this week was take a pregnancy test, but it had come back negative. That was when the worrying really started. Worst-case scenarios had flashed through her head like scenes from one of those medical-anomalies reality shows. She’d envisioned all sorts of gory stomach conditions that had scared her enough to drive to the hospital in Oaxaca and get tests done.

  She flipped to the next page and studied the lab results. Blood work looked good. No signs of—

  She sucked in a breath.

  What the fuck?

  But . . .

  The door swung open before she could make sense of what she was seeing. Sofia hurriedly closed the folder, but didn’t manage to set it on the desk in time.

  “Caught red-handed, Dr. Amaro.” The silver-haired doctor held out her hand, wearing the expression of a schoolmarm about to slap a pupil’s wrist with a ruler.

  “The results are wrong,” Sofia blurted out.

  Dr. Bella Torres took the folder from Sofia’s guilty hands, the corners of her mouth crinkling as she smiled. Although the doctor was more than twenty years older than Sofia, the two women were good friends. Sofia had referred many patients to Bella, who was a specialist at the hospital.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Bella mused, her smile widening. “The blood tests, the ultrasounds—they’re all wrong, huh?”

  Sofia bit her lip.

  The woman’s tone softened. “I see that this is a shock for you, but the results don’t lie, Sofia. You’re pregnant.”

  She ignored the panic shooting up her spine. “I took a test when the nausea started. It was negative.”

  “Well, those results were wrong.” Chuckling, Bella consulted the chart. “According to this, you’re eight weeks along.”

  Another protest rose. “I got my period. Twice. At the time it was supposed to come!”

  “You know as well as I do that women can experience light bleeding during pregnancy, especially in the early stages. And if it occurs at the time you’re expecting your period, it’s easy to mistake it as such.” The doctor’s eyes narrowed in concern. “How heavy was the bleeding?”

  “Not heavy at all. But I’ve always had light periods.”

  “Was it lighter than usual?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing. It wasn’t your period.” Bella set down the chart. “Are you experiencing any bleeding now?”

  “No.”

  “Spotting?”

  “No.” It had stopped since her last “period.”

  God. How could this have happened? She’d peed on that stick only because she’d needed to rule out every possibility, and when the minus sign had appeared in the plastic window, it hadn’t surprised her in the slightest, because she truly hadn’t believed she was pregnant. They’d used a condom, damn it. And she was on the pill.

  A hysterical laugh flew out. “Two methods of birth control and they both failed me. What are the odds?”

  Unless . . . had the condom broken? D had been the one to dispose of it, and Sofia had taken out the garbage the next day without thinking to check it. But he would have told her if the condom broke, right?

  Maybe he hadn’t noticed?

  Bella’s tone went gentle again. “Do you know who the father is?”

  If a stranger had asked her that, she might have bristled, but she’d known Bella for five years and considered her a friend. So she nodded.

  “Okay.” Bella paused. “Well, first things first. We’re taking you off the pill. And I want you to go in for another ultrasound. If you plan on letting the pregnancy progress—”

  “I do.”

  The swift response startled her. Sofia had barely had five minutes to absorb the news, but the second Bella voiced the word if, she knew there was no if about it. She was thirty years old. She was healthy. She had the financial means to support herself and a baby.

  And she wasn’t about to terminate the pregnancy just because . . . well, because the father was the scariest man she’d ever met in her life.

  Jesus.

  Derek Pratt was the father of her baby.

  Panic clamped around her throat, making it impossible to talk. Bella was still talking, though. About ultrasounds and prenatal vitamins and—

  “Stop,” Sofia interrupted. She swallowed through the tightness in her throat. “Do you mind giving me a minute?”

  Concern filled the doctor’s eyes. “Sofia—”

  “Please, I need to be alone for a minute. To let this sink in.”

  Despite the reluctance creasing her forehead, Bella nodded. “All right. I’ll check in on my next patient and come back when I’m done.”

  “Thank you.”

  The moment Bella left the room, Sofia’s heart rate doubled. Tripled. Her pulse drummed frantically in her ears, and the lump in her throat became massive. Suffocating.

  She was pregnant. All thanks to a one-night stand with a hardened mercenary who she only saw a few times a year when he showed up with a new bullet hole in his body.

  Not exactly Daddy of the Year material, was he?

  Desperation weakened her hands, making them tremble. She could keep it from him. D didn’t have to know about the baby. She could keep it a secret and—

  Yeah, right. As long as Jim Morgan funded her clinic, his men would need to be patched up, which meant she was bound to run into D again. Maybe when she was seven months pregnant. Maybe when the baby was already born. He’d see her belly, or worse, he’d see the baby, and he’d wonder. No, he’d know. The bastard knew everything.

  Sofia drew a shaky breath. Okay. She had to tell him, then.

  And then what? They weren’t in love. Hell, she wasn’t sure Derek Pratt was even capable of loving a woman.

  But was he capable of loving a child?

  Did she want him in her child’s life?

  He lived a dangerous life—how could she trust him with her child’s safety?

  Her strangled groan echoed in the empty examination room. God, she needed to think, but her brain was on the verge of shutting down. Too many question
s were racing through her mind. Too many decisions.

  Sofia buried her face in her hands, breathing hard as her jumbled mind was finally reduced to only one thought.

  Fuck.

  Chapter 7

  Cancún, Mexico

  He hated this city. The crowds, the tourists, the bars. So many damn bars, packed to the rafters with college-age assholes who never failed to annoy him. Girls in so little clothing they may as well be naked. Dudes wearing T-shirts with idiotic sayings decaled on the front.

  It was D’s idea of hell, and being there brought back memories of all the unwanted time he’d spent in tourist traps like these. Cancún, Cabo, Cozumel, Puerto Vallarta—they all offered a plethora of stupid, drunken targets.

  Mendez’s MO had never been all that original. The man’s organization specialized in kidnapping tourists and shipping them to Asia. His foot soldiers brought him the girls, and Mendez took care of the rest. For a short time, D had been one of those foot soldiers.

  He scowled as he stood outside the bar. It boasted a bright yellow sign featuring a frog wearing a red crown. Christ, the last thing he wanted to do was walk in there.

  He’d arrived in Cancún late last night, and this morning and afternoon had been spent making calls and preparations. His first order of business had been arranging for a safe house. He hadn’t wanted to use any of Morgan’s usual places or ones linked to his own aliases, so finding a new place, totally off the books, had taken some time. After that, he’d gathered the supplies he’d needed, made some more calls, and tailed his target for six straight hours.

  Now it was time to finish the job.

  When he walked inside, the bar was packed with warm, sweaty bodies, the overpowering stench of perfume, sweat, and alcohol permeating the air. D strode up to the counter and ordered a Corona.

  He’d cased the area ahead of time and cleared it of threats, but he was armed and alert as he turned to study the crowd. He couldn’t lower his guard, couldn’t be certain Caruso wouldn’t betray him. But he was probably being paranoid. Caruso would be stupid to cross Jason. When D had helped the former federal agent disappear, the only compensation he’d demanded was that Caruso keep tabs on the Mendez family. For nine years Caruso had been doing just that, and in exchange D made sure the Feds stayed off the guy’s trail. One phone call, and Caruso’s superiors would have his location—the man would be a fool to take that risk.