Dark Enemy (DARC Ops Book 9) Read online

“It’s a good thing. It helps. It keeps us on our toes and creative.”

  “Way too creative, too,” Jackson said.

  “I just took the shot, Jackson. I had an open shot, and I took it.”

  The DARC Ops leader looked over at his laptop for a moment, typed something up, and then turned back to Logan with, “We would have had our shot either way. That was the whole point of the training, the planning, the whole exercise. That’s why I had men stationed at their transfer point. I mean, fuck, if we wanted to go in cowboy style with guns blazing, I could have tracked them down at taken them out. It could have almost been as sloppy as the shit you pulled today.”

  Logan could hear someone in the room next to theirs, a door opening and closing. Muffled voices through thin walls. He thought about how large the trafficking operation was, how many odds and ends, all the people who had been set up all across Mexico, how it had started at their base camp in Texas. All the careful planning, and then to end with unplanned car trouble for the target. And then unplanned holes in their heads. He figured it went with the territory. But Jackson didn’t seem so thrilled about his conclusion.

  Jackson spoke again. “It was arranged in a very specific way to limit as much threat as possible, to take away any risk of casualties, both of locals in the crossfire and the kids. Most importantly, the kids.”

  “I was thinking about that, too, Jackson. Like I said, it was a clear shot. It couldn’t have been any clearer.”

  “Okay, the shot was clear. What about later?”

  “Later?”

  “What about when they had a clear shot on you?”

  Inside his mind, Logan saw the darkness inside the gun barrel. The darkness pointed at him. Then he felt the other barrel in his back.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, hoping Jackson wouldn’t know what was on his mind. But Jackson was a smart man who’d seen a lot, and who had undoubtedly had guns pointed at him before. Stuck on him. Fired upon him. He was a man who undoubtedly thought about these things from time to time. After all, he was somehow human.

  Logan wondered if that kind of thing ever kept Jackson up at night, if it made him more careful about things. Maybe that was the whole point of this, the rules and regulations even after the army.

  “That was the risk you took,” Jackson said. “And if it was just you involved, fine. But we had those kids in the car in the middle of a crossfire. I’m not sure if you realized it at the time, but they had a sniper a block away trying to take you guys out once the plan went to shit. Did you know about that?”

  Logan could still hear the deafening clunks of bullets as they hit the body of the van.

  Jackson continued. “The cartel had someone there to do cleanup in case it went wrong. And it did go wrong. If we weren’t there, you and the kids and whoever else would have gotten mowed down.”

  Logan looked away from his boss, thinking of the kids once more as he stared at the dust caked on his boots.

  “I mean, you went in, and that took balls. So, congrats for that. But you went in hot and without backup, and especially without authorization. If we hadn’t been there to save your ass, we’d be looking at perhaps one of the most horrific crimes involving Americans abroad. And Mexico already has a bad enough rap.” Jackson shook his head, closing the laptop lid. “But let’s talk again about risks.”

  Logan didn’t want to. He was finished talking about risks. He was maybe finished with it all.

  “Let’s talk about a guy on probation taking risks,” Jackson said.

  The thought never once crossed Logan’s mind that he was new. That he was still on probation. It was supposed to be his last mission on that status.

  “You’re still on it, by the way,” Jackson said, a grimace crossing his face. “Probation. You’re lucky that’s all it is.”

  Logan couldn’t work out what he was feeling. Was he irritated that he was still on probation, or that he was still on the team at all? He thought he’d made the decision, halfway across Mexico, up in the air in the helicopter. Alone in the back with his thoughts. The idea that he was tired of being tied down. He was tired of being a follower and not a leader.

  “But if you can’t take orders,” Jackson said, “then I’ll have to let you go. I’ll dump your ass right here in Mexico if it comes to it. You got me?”

  Logan didn’t offer a word or a nod. Nothing in response.

  “You got me?” Jackson said, his eyebrows raised. “One more fuckup like that, and you’re out.”

  Logan finally said, “Yes, sir.” He’d stick around, for now. If he indeed decided to leave DARC Ops, he could at least make it interesting.

  7

  Holly

  Where else would she look for him but social media? Holly spent the last ten minutes in a happy diversion from her immediate problems by web-searching his name, dazzling her eyes with the latest photos of Logan Williams. The years since she’d seen him had worked their magic. She knew he’d gone into the military, the muscle mass on his frame making that obvious. It wasn’t gym bulk, but a toned perfection that came from damn hard work. Light stubble covered the lower half of his face, and his brown hair was a tad longer than regulation. Eyes the same rich color drew her in and she blushed, realizing she was staring at his profile image. Thank God he’d never know.

  In every photo, he looked strong and happy and more than capable of handling a wide range of problems, from the intellectual and abstract to a left hook in someone’s mouth. That was the type of insurance she was looking for. Even better: he came along with his own army. She wasn’t sure the public was really supposed to know about DARC Ops, but her access let her see under the façade to their real profiles. There could be any number of options at their disposal, ways around ruining her CIA career and releasing a human-trafficking criminal back into the world.

  She stopped herself there, not allowing her imagination to wonder about what other things they could save together.

  It had been a long time. Seven long years since it had been decided they would stop trying to salvage their tattered relationship. When it was clear that Logan had listened to his “higher calling,” back when he believed he would remain always a career military man with ambitions beyond rank advancements. He wanted advancements to be made in the world, and to effect positive change. To not only save lives, but to elevate whole regions of humanity.

  Lofty goals, and she was always impressed by his dedication. At the same time, Holly would often think it was too bad that he couldn’t spare a little extra energy to save their relationship. He could save so many other things . . .

  That was what did them in, in the end. But he was nice about it. He’d solemnly promised to always help her out if she ever needed it. No matter what, no matter how much time had gone by, no matter who either of them were with when the need arose.

  In the end, she took the dog. He took his piles of gym bags that he’d been living out of for over a year. And that was it.

  Holly took one last look at his grin before moving away from her computer, trudging somberly to the kitchen, finding herself pulling a bottle of white wine out of the fridge. It felt good and cold in her hands. It would feel better, after a few glasses, to work up the courage to call.

  Still, even after two glasses, the fear remained.

  Would he make good on an old promise?

  8

  Logan

  He had to forget it. Forget a lot of things, starting with the sandy beach R&R in Playa del Carmen. Instead, Logan found something close and convenient outside Mexico City. No need for another of Jackson’s impromptu helicopter rides across the country, especially as it would be shared this time with the man himself. He needed a little time apart. He needed time to think.

  He also needed time to type up a resignation letter. An email, rather, Logan hunching over it in his little economy suite at a chain hotel next to a busy airport.

  It was just a precautionary measure, sitting facing the door with his loaded gun on the table. Just a p
recautionary measure that he’d gone in under a fake name, and a hundred spot to the front desk to keep it even faker.

  A precautionary measure that he’d written up a draft email to Jackson while the emotions and the ideas were still fresh. It probably wasn’t the best idea to send it now under those circumstances, but a good idea to get a head start on writing it. As a rule, he hated writing. He hated resigning or quitting even more. But he also knew that he couldn’t work in a system that made him follow the same artificial rules as if he were back in the army. There was a reason why he was done with that. It was also the same reason why he started with DARC Ops to begin with, but now, alone in his hotel room, hundreds of miles away from his “boys,” it was beginning to come clear that he’d reached the end of the road—and reached it alone.

  That was okay. Some of the best things in life came to him while he was alone.

  He typed up a couple of paragraphs, one of thanks, the other of an explanation of his feelings on following rules he didn’t believe in. He typed up a few lines to wrap it up, or so he thought, then he saved it in the drafts folder—careful not to send it. No. He would at least wait a day before that. He’d sleep on it. Maybe drink on it.

  Maybe find a girl like he’d hoped. He needed a reset.

  The girl, though . . . that sort of fun might be too risky right now.

  Back in Playa del Carmen, with the comforts of his security team around him, a crazy idea like that could have been entertained. But here, alone, he was vulnerable. The added distraction and risk of a strange body would make him even more vulnerable.

  No, it was better to get the hell out of Mexico, alive. Come back to Washington before moving the rest of his junk back to Colorado. Maybe learn a trade. Something low risk, low key, and civilized.

  Fuck it. Logan re-opened the email. He sat back in his chair, slumping as he re-read the beginning. A sound in the hallway pulled his concentration away from the screen. A loud close of a door. It was so loud that he almost felt relieved. No one with bad intentions would be slamming doors like that. Then he heard a pair of footsteps shuffling away down the hall.

  It was, he supposed, really annoying and unnecessary to feel this way after his mission. Yes, he’d personally gunned down some low-level agents in a cartel, but really, with the DARC guys still on their tail, they had enough to worry about without putting effort into tracking him down.

  Unless their new scheme involved kidnapping him and using him as bait or as a bargaining chip to make their battle a little easier.

  He thought more about dulling himself with a few drinks and a few bodies. There was a bar attached to the hotel. Maybe he’d break a few of his own rules before the end of the night. It was the weekend, after all.

  Logan stood from his work table, kicked the chair aside, and took a few frustrated strides toward the windows overlooking a busy commercial airport. He muttered a few obscenities as he looked through the thick glass and watched a distant 747 taxiing along one of the runways. At least the windows and walls were thick enough to block out the noise of jet idle. He was glad for that. If it was at all possible, he needed a decent night’s sleep after the events of the day—and before the events that he’d kick off when he finally worked up the guts to send the email to Jackson. He wondered if the walls would block out his screams, since the window couldn’t be thick enough to block a sniper’s bullet. But there would be nowhere a sniper could get him, backed up against the airport as he was. That was the whole point of it. The thin wall to the hallway, on the other hand . . .

  Just watch the planes. Just breathe calmly.

  Just make it through the night and then he’d be lucky enough to be aboard one of those planes, flying through the air back to his old life. His old, boring, ordinary life. It sounded so good. Something good and safe to slink back into. He could figure out his job later. At first, it would be about rebuilding his life, his circle of friends. Getting some hobbies, some purpose. There must be a less violent way to make a living out there that he could get excited about. Was that too much to ask?

  What would it be? What career would he naturally settle into?

  A taxi driver? No, that could be violent, too, if need be. If he picked up one too many annoying drunks or self-important yuppies.

  And he could do better than drive a car.

  He had friends with a small law firm in Hartford. He had just enough education to pull of paralegal duties. The writing, though . . . he had enough patience to sit behind a desk for a week at maximum. Just the half hour he’d taken to sit and type his resignation letter had taken as much of a toll on him as the whole abduction rescue.

  Logan walked back to the laptop, his heart suddenly heavy, his hopes dashed away with each step. He knew he had to do it. He knew he had to quit something he loved for the first time in his life.

  He knew he’d find something else. Though he expected it to be hard, the transition tough—like the sharp but brief pain of pulling off a Band-Aid in one hard yank.

  He sat looking at the screen as he awoke the laptop from its slumber. He thought about ripping off the Band-Aid. He moved his hand to the touch pad, moving the button to click send when he heard his room phone ring.

  He froze.

  The loud digital ring froze his hand from the touch pad, from sending the email to Jackson. It also froze his body, stiffening him rigid and scared in his chair. His breathing, too, froze up while he waited for the second ring, while he waited to see if it was indeed real—if someone had indeed just called him.

  If he’d been called on the burner cell, it would mean that he’d been found.

  If he’d been found, it meant he could be dead at any minute. Maybe even as soon as he answered the phone to prove his presence in what had quickly become the kill zone.

  Logan reached for the phone like it was a live grenade. He barked a short and hard what into the receiver.

  Nothing in response but dead air.

  “Who is this?”

  He expected a little voice to come on and say something through a Spanish accent about the front desk, or room service, or some other completely safe and banal conclusion to his latest adventure. Instead, he got an American voice. A woman saying his name.

  “What?” he said. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Holly.”

  At first his brain couldn’t catch up with what she’d said. It was a sound among millions of other random, colliding sounds and ideas that made up his current head space. A sound in the utter and impossible quiet of his airport hotel room.

  “Holly?” he finally said.

  “Yeah, Holly Adams. It’s me.”

  At the name, the me, it became all too clear. His mind caught up to his body in a rush, the idea of Holly, the sound of her, the feel of her. For a time, they’d been inseparable. For a time, anything but an immediate recognition of her voice would have been unthinkable. It was so unthinkable now, her calling him. Unthinkable how she’d called him, how she’d tracked him down and discovered him. It must have been a bad sign.

  “I’m glad you called,” Logan said. “But I’m not happy about how.”

  “I know.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “I work for the CIA.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Are you okay?” Holly said, her voice already sounding so natural and familiar to him. “Is everything okay out there?” She must have known at least a little about what was going on. If she could find him like this, she could also know all about the shit storm that day. Perhaps she followed through some channels of the intelligence agencies. At least a little bit of Jackson’s income came from there, DARC going on missions only so everyone else could deny any knowledge. It was amazing, and freighting at the same time, how everything was so interconnected. He supposed that Holly had a lot to do with that.

  “Did you have to hack anything?” Logan said. “Or did you find me easily through your work?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
<
br />   “Yes, you do,” Logan said. “Are we even safe talking on the phone?”

  “Safe from whom?”

  “Alright,” Logan said, “how much do you know about what’s going here? I suspect a lot.”

  “I know enough,” she said. “But that’s not why I called.”

  He made a mental note to get to that later, why she called. For now, he was worried. “You know what we’re doing here,” he said. “But do you know about what happened today? What I did? I’ve got to be honest, the fact that you can find me like this . . .”

  Logan took a deep breath, reminding himself that it was likely Holly who needed the reassuring and the help. He would have to eventually drop his paranoia about a Mexican cartel. Holly was in some sort of trouble. He would also have to not joke about why she would have only called him about trouble. But the trouble in her voice was so obvious that he didn’t even need to ask about it. Instead, Logan said, “How’re you doing?” He meant it, genuinely, and on a personal level. How was she in reality. How was she as a human being and not a problem or a solution, or another pawn of the US government. He still cared so much about her, despite their gaps in communication.

  Was she crying?

  “Holly?”

  There was a muffled sound on her end, something rubbing up against the phone, and for a second, he was worried she’d dropped it into the toilet. Or maybe she’d gotten taken up by a street sweeper.

  “Holly, what’s that noise?”

  She came back on the line and said, “Nothing.”

  “Holly . . .”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m glad you called, but, under the circumstances—”

  “I know,” she said, interrupting him, “and I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s not that. I mean, I’m glad to talk to you, but I’ve got a feeling, since you called like this, that there’s some sort of problem.” Just like that, he already felt freed. He felt as if all his problems had flown away already in one of the passenger jets outside his window. Now it was just him and her, and whatever was happening in her life to make her call like that.