Chapter 3

Chapter Three

PacAtlantic Flight 423

Present Day

FINN HAD LEFT pissed off behind about an hour ago and was deep into furious now. He'd listened to Zo's voicemail as soon as his plane had landed at LAX, taking it at face value. Until he'd been walking up the jetway, and Archer called.

He'd had to hear from his boss that Zo was in trouble.

When Finn thought about her contacting him when she knew he was in the air and the fucking message she left in that offhand tone, it raised his blood pressure into the stratosphere. As soon as he'd hit the terminal, he'd headed for the PacAtlantic flight to Rio Blanco. Archer's admin had arranged a business class seat for him, and he had the row to himself. Thank God. The last thing he wanted to do was chat.

Finn leaned back and took a deep breath. He'd lived with Zo for two years, and he knew how her mind worked—or at least he understood her as well as any man understood his woman. She'd downplayed the situation, but she hadn't lied. Zo never lied to him.

She'd likely come up with a plan to get herself out of trouble before she ever touched her mobile. He could also guess she was incensed with Archer for insisting on sending help. Zo never relied on anyone else. Not even him. She didn't seem to realize he would willingly walk into hell for her. And it hurt.

A flight attendant interrupted his thoughts, and he slipped his tray into position for the appetizer course—salmon rolls, some soup he couldn't identify, and a salad. As she moved to the next row, Finn reached for the spoon.

He didn't know what was going on with Zo. Even Archer didn't know what was happening because the damn phone hadn't been secure, and Zo couldn't fill him in. The only info he'd been able to share with Finn was that she'd called the emergency line, she planned to destroy her mobile, and she was headed for San Isidro. One of these things alone would have concerned him, but three of them? Yeah, he was scared, and it fueled his anger. It was easier to be pissed off than it was to worry because there was fuck-all he could do at 35,000 feet, and anything might happen to Zo while he was in the air.

Anything.

Eight more hours until he landed in Rio Blanco. The thought made his heart rate jump, and he dug deep to find control.

Zo would get herself safely to San Isidro. She was brilliant, resourceful, and determined, and he'd trained her so she could take care of herself if something happened to him. Besides, once she arrived in town, she wouldn't be on her own. She'd have others watching out for her until he could reach her.

She'd be fine until he got there. She fucking had to be. Had to be.

It was bad timing that his former captain called right before he and Zo were scheduled to fly to Rio Blanco. Finn had guessed the debrief would involve Puerto Jardin since he was there regularly, and he tried to put it off until his return, promising up-to-the-minute intel. But the captain was insistent that he come to Tampa ASAP. That pretty much guaranteed his old Special Forces team was inserting soon and didn't have time to wait.

Needing intel had turned out to be an excuse.

Captain Nguyen wasted about ten minutes pelting him with questions about Puerto Jardin. The rest had been spent trying to convince him to work with the team as a freelancer. Damn, he'd laid it on thick—Finn was invaluable, nobody else came close to his skill at playing a role, his talent was unique, and other bullshit—but while it was tempting, he didn't want to be called in as a contractor on every important op. Look what happened this time. Zo had gone alone, and now she was in trouble. Someone on the team needed to step up and replace him.

He never should have allowed Zo to go to Puerto Jardin without him.

A soft snort escaped at the thought. Right. Stop her. Like that was a possibility.

If it had been any other relic, he might conceivably have had a small chance of talking her out of the trip, maybe, but it was the Lost Disk of the Gods. Stopping Zo would have required a pair of handcuffs and a solid steel bar, and even then, she probably would have worked her way loose and gone to retrieve the artifact.

He inhaled deeply and blew out his breath silently. The disk would have disappeared if Zo had waited for him to return—Finn got that—but it underlined something that had been nagging at him for a while. She was used to taking care of herself, used to doing everything on her own. So was he Zo's person, or did she view their relationship as temporary?

Trujillo, Puerto Jardin

27 Months Earlier

From the exterior, El Arrecife looked like a case of food poisoning waiting to happen. Finn leaned his shoulder against the light post and studied the building across the street. It was bright orange with dark blue trim and bars over the windows. A cartoon fish grinned from beside the door, but the paint had peeled, and what was left had faded.

The restaurant couldn't be as bad as it seemed. Silva and a phalanx of bodyguards wouldn't be holding court here if it was. There were six with him today, two more than usual. That meant something.

Finn became more alert as a pair of men entered the restaurant, but they exited in less than a minute, the older of the two complaining bitterly about being asked to leave. As he watched, other customers were turned away.

This wasn't normal operating procedure for Silva. Sure, he liked to conduct business in cafés, but he'd take a corner of the room, have a buffer zone of open tables around him, and the rest of the restaurant stayed open. This was in the intel reports Finn read, and he'd seen it for himself the past three days as he tailed the man. Something he normally wouldn't do without a team because it was too easy for a lone man to be spotted, but it was part of his plan.

Per the intelligence reports, Silva had a habit of making people wait, making them sweat, and he didn't have time for that. But if the arms dealer knew Finn was tracking him, it might irritate him enough to act sooner. It was a risk. Silva could decide to jettison the deal completely if the tail pissed him off enough. Finn hadn't asked for permission to push. He knew his captain would tell him to sit tight. If this blew up in his face—

She strolled down the sidewalk casually, as if she didn't have a destination in mind. Finn knew better. As he followed Silva, he'd noticed his brunette was doing the same thing. She wasn't a pro—that was obvious, especially since she hadn't spotted him—but she wasn't messing up, either. If she tried to enter the closed restaurant, though, the arms dealer and his bodyguards would take note of her. The amount of danger it put her in made him tense. He shouldn't get involved. He had his own op to worry about.

As he watched, she angled toward the entrance. Fuck.

Finn crossed the cobblestone street, coming up silently behind her. "I wouldn't do that," he said as her hand reached for the door handle.

The woman didn't jump or gasp, but she did lower her arm and turn to face him. "Why not?"

The hard note in her voice impressed him. He knew what he looked like right now, and he scared a lot of people bigger, stronger, and more dangerous than her. Finn glared at her, but she didn't back down. His interest deepened. He had a thing for strong women.

Her chin came up, and she met his scowl with one of her own.

He was right about her eyes. They were the blue of a Norwegian fjord.

Her face was oval with a sharp, elven chin, there were a handful of freckles on her nose, and a small birthmark on her right cheek. Finn felt heat rise as he thought about kissing her in each of those places.

And he wouldn't have to bend far. He put her at about five foot ten, only six inches shorter than he was. Finn shifted his attention. Her hair wasn't as dark as he'd originally believed. Up close, it was a blend of different shades of brown, and though she had it pulled back in a braid, he remembered it loose, falling past her shoulder blades.

The red on her cheeks deepened. She glared at him, her eyes fierce. "Stop gawking at me."

Finn shrugged. "Sorry. I'm trying to figure out if you really are stupid or just acting like it."

Now she gasped, but in anger, not surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Come on, let's get out of here." Finn gestured up the street.

"I'm having lunch."

"Not here, you're not."

"You can't—"

"Listen, sweetheart, Silva has the place closed to everyone else, and if you walk in there, he'll know without a doubt you're following him. Now, we need to get the hell away from this door before we catch someone's attention inside the café."

After a brief pause, she looked around. "I'll have lunch over there instead. Happy?"

The restaurant across the street had a large outdoor patio that was more than half full. He'd prefer she not tail Silva at all, but at least she wasn't a complete idiot, and lunch would give him time to learn what the fuck she was up to. Finn followed her when she headed that direction.

"What are you doing?" she demanded quietly as he walked beside her.

"Joining you for lunch."

"Oh, no you're not." She stopped in her tracks, her hands going to her hips.

"You realize arguing on the sidewalk won't make us inconspicuous, right?"

Frowning fiercely, she stalked to the other side of the road. "I'm not sharing my table with a mercenary," she told him. Her voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking her determination.

"Then I'll sit at the table next to yours. The other diners might enjoy listening to me quiz you about your interest in an international arms dealer." It was a bluff, and Finn wouldn't be surprised if she guessed it, but he was banking that she wouldn't call him on it.

"It's obvious you're following Silva, too," she said, and he hid a grin. She was attempting to find leverage she could use against him.

"Yeah, but I don't care if he knows. You do."

If he wasn't so attuned to her, Finn might have missed the slight grimace that marked her capitulation. She ignored him until they were in the vestibule of the other café. "Table for two," he said in Spanish to the man who greeted them.

"On the patio, please," the woman added, also in Spanish. She shot Finn a look, as if daring him to countermand her request, but he shrugged.

While he might prefer to keep her under wraps, Finn needed to be on the patio.

His lunch companion was tense, maybe expecting him to start questioning her immediately after they were seated, but instead, Finn picked up the menu beside him and opened it. He didn't look at it. Ten minutes before the hour and everything remained quiet at El Arrecife .

Time to find out who she was and what the hell she was doing. Putting the menu aside, he held out his hand. "Tom Finley," he said. Finn wanted to correct himself and give her his real name. He resisted the urge.

She looked down at his hand before meeting his gaze and crossing her arms over her chest. "I'd say nice to meet you, but that would be a lie."

Finn lowered his arm. "You're not going to tell me your name?"

"Hell, no. You're a mercenary." There was a definite note of distaste in the word.

"So what?"

Her expression became contemptuous, and anger blazed in her eyes, but her voice remained low. "So what? So what! You come down here, destroy a country that isn't yours, take your ill-gotten gains back to the US, and pretend it's only a job. It's not a damn job. You're playing with people's lives, their homes, their families."

She took a deep breath, pressed her lips tightly together, and looked away. After a moment, her expression smoothed out, and she picked up her menu, ignoring him.

"You know, even if there weren't mercenaries in Puerto Jardin, the civil war would still be happening, right?"

"I know." Her sigh was nearly inaudible. "But it might be over by now if it weren't for men like you."

Finn shrugged. "The country had issues before the war broke out."

"I know this, too."

"Why are you following Silva?"

"I'm not following anyone. It's your imagination."

Finn leaned closer and glared. "It's too late for that bullshit, sweetheart."

"I'm not your sweetheart," she told him, snapping her menu shut and setting it beside her. "And even if I am following someone, it's none of your business."

It wasn't. Unless she had something to do with Torres, Silva, and the illegal arms trade. He wished he didn't feel so damn protective of her. Hell, he wished he could switch off the desire he felt. This woman was turning him inside out, and he didn't know her name or anything about her except her dislike for mercenaries.

A waiter approached their table, stopping the discussion. Finn noticed he addressed her in Spanish and that she answered in kind. It wasn't merely a short phrase, but a brief conversation. She sounded Puerto Jardinese, not like an American speaking a second language. Who was this woman?

"What would you enjoy, se?orita?" the waiter finally asked .

" Chicharrón de pescado," she said.

"Make that two," Finn jumped in, not liking the interest in the man's eyes as he looked at her. "And a coffee."

"Se?orita?"

"I'll have coffee, too. Gracias."

Finn handed the waiter the menu, adding a hard stare of warning. Protective and possessive. Fucking hell, he was in trouble. What was it about her that made him forget everything he was supposed to be doing?

It wasn't her clothing. She wore khaki pants and a white polo shirt—nothing remotely provocative.

It wasn't her appearance. Yeah, she was beautiful, but he'd dated women who were better looking and more glamourous than she was, and he hadn't been tied up in knots like this.

And it wasn't her strength or the intelligence in her clear blue eyes or the fact she was willing to confront him about being a mercenary. Maybe it was the sum of these things.

He forced himself to return to the conversation they'd been having. "Swee—Lady," Finn corrected himself, "Silva won't think twice about having you killed. His bodyguards have probably already spotted you, and you're only breathing right now because he doesn't see you as a threat. But if you keep tailing him, that's going to change, and I might not be around to bail your sexy ass out of trouble when it happens."

"I can take care of my own ass, thank you very much."

Before he could figure out what to say to convince her how wrong she was, two of Silva's bodyguards exited the café across the street. They were watchful, alert. Yeah, it was showtime.

A man approached from up the street. Another false alarm, or was this who they were waiting for?

When he reached El Arrecife, he stopped and conversed with the bodyguards. One gestured him toward the door, and Finn's gaze sharpened. The dude appeared to be in his forties, was balding with gray at his temples, and sported a salt-and- pepper goatee. He was maybe five-and-a-half feet tall with about twenty extra pounds on his frame. Finn mentally ran through the intel reports he'd studied but couldn't come up with anyone who matched this guy.

He might not have recognized the man, but the woman sharing his table sure as hell had—her muscles went rigid. "Who is that?" he demanded, keeping his voice low and his eyes on the newcomer.

"I don't know."

"You might not know his name, but you know who he is. Tell me."

At first, he thought she'd continue to stonewall him, but then she shrugged. "I've seen him with Alfonso Ramos. He either works for him or is a business associate of some sort."

Alfonso Ramos? Ramos was a drug lord with a reputation for being vicious. A man like him should already have more than enough firepower. "Why would Ramos need more weapons?"

With another shrug, she said, "Knowing Al, he's probably getting ready to launch a war against a rival."

Knowing Al? She casually referred to a drug lord as Al? Who the hell was this woman?