Before We Kiss (Uncharted SEALs Book 6) (2 page)

“You could use another set of eyes—between the three of us, we might just make one good pair.” Joe tilted his head toward his buddies.

This time, Wiley laughed.

Joe grinned and gave a slow nod to his companions, who settled back in their seats and now directed their attention to the job at hand—and the woman wearing the pretty blue dress at the front of the bus.

Suddenly, the bus shuddered and slowed. Cries arose from those seated near the front.

“Fat’s in the fire now,” Morty said, pointing forward.

Wiley cussed. A pickup was parked sideways in the middle of the road. He began to rise, but then he noted the four men standing in front of the truck. All dark, but with features that were clearly Mestizo. So, bandits rather than terrorists. He settled back in his seat. He’d let this play out a bit before he gave himself away. As long as no one was hurt, he’d keep his cover.

Joe pulled out his wallet and quickly removed his credit cards, leaving the bills inside. The cards he stuffed into the tops of his socks. He glanced at Wiley. “You got anything in that pack you don’t want them to find?”

He did, but he was also keeping an eye on his target.

The guy with the clipboard pulled Poppy down into a seat.

When the bus came to a halt, the driver opened the door and quickly raised his hands.

Two men with bandanas covering the lower halves of their faces, one with a handgun and the other with a rifle held in front of him, boarded the bus. Their gazes swept the passengers then one man bent toward the driver. His Spanish spilled out too fast for Wiley to catch every word, but he got the gist. They were forcing the passengers onto the road to rob them.

As quietly as he could, Wiley glanced toward Poppy to check her position then unzipped his bag and drew out a long cylinder.

Joe glanced down and grimaced. “Think that peashooter’s gonna help?”

“Guess you’ll never know, so long as everyone plays nice.”

The driver stood and keyed his microphone. “These gentlemen request that you all disembark in an orderly fashion, front rows first. As long as you cooperate, no one will be hurt, and we’ll soon be back on our way.”

Knowing the bus driver was probably well-versed in these sorts of operations, Wiley stayed in his seat, breathing slowly to keep his heart rate steady. His mission had just grown exponentially from keeping an eye on one target to protecting a busload of elderly Americans. The last thing he wanted was to excite the armed men into doing anything stupid. Seeing the passengers in the rows ahead shuffle down the aisle, he stood, put on his cowboy hat, and waited for his three companions to move in front of him.

Joe was last and gave him a nod. “We’ll follow your lead,” he said under his breath.

Wiley patted his shoulder then followed him. As he exited, he noted Poppy’s position near the front of the row, her face pale, her mouth forming into a thin line. So far so good. She wasn’t drawing any undue attention. He and Joe followed the point of a rifle to stand at the edge of the highway.

One of the bandits, his weapon slung over one shoulder, walked down the row with a large open bag, waiting as passengers emptied their pockets, removed watches and jewelry, and dropped them inside.

Wiley’s gaze remained on Poppy, body tensed.

The two men at the front of their line watched her, too. One raised a cell phone and took a picture. A moment later, the opening notes to
Eye of the Tiger
sounded, and he swiped the screen. His smile was slow and sinister. He leaned toward his companion to speak quietly then strode toward Poppy.

They’d made her. Not hard to do. She was “the face” of the charity, and her pictures had been plastered on the news channels when her father’s bounty had been reported.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He stepped behind Joe and lifted one foot, smoothed up his jeans to the top of his boot, and removed the strip of tape he’d applied to his ankle, which held the tranquilizer darts he’d prepared that morning. When he straightened, he removed one dart and pushed the strip into Joe’s right hand. “Give me one at a time.” He took the first dart and inserted it into his blow gun, then quickly lifted the end. A sharp, hard push of air sent it sailing toward the first bandit positioned toward the rear of the bus.

The dart struck him in the back of the shoulder. The man tried to reach behind him, but he lost his balance and melted to the blacktop, unnoticed by his friends. They were engaged in an animated conversation with whoever was on the other end of the cell phone as to what to do with Poppy.

Morty and Sly shuffled sideways to stand in front of the crumpled body.

The passengers nearest them tugged on each other’s arms and looked his way.

Joe shook his head and pointedly stared toward the men in front. Those around him quickly caught on. They edged closer together, masking Wiley’s movements as he loaded another dart, chose his target, and let fly.

Another group of men shuffled forward, setting their packs, pronged walking sticks, and their own bodies in front of the fallen bandito.

Again, Joe handed him a dart.

“I need to get closer.”

With his hand on Joe’s shoulder, the two men slipped behind the row and slowly made their way forward, toward Poppy and her two useless bodyguards. When they were only six feet away, Wiley squeezed Joe’s shoulder to bring him to a halt. Any closer and he’d never hide what he was doing.

“Clipboard Man” spoke furiously with the one who appeared to be in charge.

“This has to be quick,” Wiley said, under his breath.

Joe nodded but didn’t look back. Using Joe’s body to hide his blow gun, Wiley slowly brought it up over Joe’s shoulder and aimed for the back of the bandito standing next to Poppy.

The dart struck his right arm. He made a sound, a sharp cry.

Poppy looked downward, her gaze widening on the dart. She stumbled into his arm, as though shielding the sight from the last bandit still standing.

The man in front of her scowled, but the moment the one beside Poppy began to crumple, he raised his weapon.

Wiley shoved Joe out of the way, swept out his arms to get between the people in front of him, and dove for Poppy, all the while praying “Clipboard Man” had more than a damn pen to take out the bastard.

‡

P
oppy slammed into
the ground, crushed from above by a huge man wearing a cowboy hat. Unable to suck in a breath, she closed her eyes, expecting gunfire to erupt, but it never happened.

Instead, cheers rang out as the sounds of scuffling came to a halt.

“We’ve got it handled,” came a gruff voice from above.

Poppy peered beyond her rescuer’s shoulder to find an elderly man standing over them.

As the cowboy who rested against her came up on his elbows, she tried to drag in a deep breath but realized she couldn’t. He’d knocked the breath out of her. She balled her fist and hit his chest.

His dark brows drew together in a ferocious scowl when he noted her distress. “Can’t breathe?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble.

She nodded, panic starting to set in.

He leaned closer, pinched her nostrils together then sealed his mouth over hers and blew.

Her chest expanded. His fingers let go of her nose, and she drew a deep breath through her nostrils, and then another, before realizing his mouth still pressed against hers.

Their gazes locked, and he slowly drew back his head.

She wheezed, her breaths ragged, and wondered why she wasn’t still hitting him. “That wasn’t necessary,” she gasped.

“I know,” he said, with a wicked waggle of his eyebrows.

“My diaphragm was only temporarily paralyzed. As soon as I relaxed, my breath would have come back.”

“I was only helping you relax,” he drawled.

Then she remembered the thin dart that had dangled from one of her assailant’s arms before he’d dropped like a rock to the pavement. “Was that your dart?”

The man above her arched a brow. “What dart?”

“The one that…” She glanced beside her to the body lying in repose on the road. No dart protruded from his arm. She frowned. “I know what I saw…”

“Things happened fast.”

Poppy narrowed her gaze. “Who are you?” She angled her head to give him a blistering glare. “Did Daddy send you?”

A throat cleared beside them. Again, the elderly man with the burly build loomed over them. “My grandson bothering you, miss?”

The other passengers crowded closer. The two security officers the cruise line had assigned were busy using zip ties the driver held out to bind the feet and hands of the still-sleeping bandits. But the passengers were whispering among themselves, their gazes locked on her and the man in the cowboy hat.

All she needed was for one of them to snap a picture of her lying on the ground, a big man with a lazy grin pinning her there, and her father would have a conniption. “Can you move? I don’t think I’m in any danger now.”

Mike Espinoza, the security guard who’d been at her elbow ever since they’d left the ship, stepped into view just as her rescuer climbed off. Mike extended a hand to help her up. “You okay, Miss Shackleford?”

No doubt she was bruised, scraped, and dirty, but she counted herself lucky. She’d understood enough of the conversation between the bandits and whoever was on the other end of the phone to know she’d barely escaped a kidnapping for ransom. “I’m fine.”

“Unfortunately, this excursion is at its end.” Mike turned to the driver and handed him the bag of stolen wallets and jewelry. “You get everyone aboard the bus and then have one of the passengers return the stolen items. We’ll move the truck out of the way. There’s a turnaround not too far ahead.” He aimed a glare at her rescuer. “I’ll need your assistance to get this crew into the pickup truck. We’ll leave them for the local authorities.”

The cowboy touched the brim of his hat and followed Mike.

His grandfather moved to cup her elbow, turning her with surprising firmness toward the bus. “After you, ma’am.”

Wiley followed “Clipboard
Man” over to the bandits’ vehicle. The other security guard had dragged their unconscious bodies closer to the truck bed. Grabbing shoulders and feet, they swung each of the bandits onto the bed.

“Name’s Mike Espinoza,” said the one who’d lost his clipboard somewhere along the way.

They flipped another man into the pickup bed before Wiley responded. “William Coyote. Mind telling me how you took down the last one without him popping off a shot?”

Mike grinned. “I pushed his weapon against his chest then spun him. Got an arm around his neck. Took him down with a chokehold.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two darts. “These yours?”

Wiley didn’t bother to make up a story. The man facing him was obviously ex-military and knew exactly what he’d done. “Yeah. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t include that part in any report you have to write.”

Mike nodded then glanced over to the bus.

Poppy was just stepping up into the doorframe. Her gaze rested on him and Mike.

“Charter told you they’d have operatives among the passengers and crew…” Mike lifted his shoulders and smiled.

“DEVGRU,” Wiley said, reaching out his hand.

“SEAL Team 10.” Mike shook his hand.

As Mike’s partner climbed into the truck and parked it in the ditch beside the road, Mike and Wiley stood side by side, watching as the last passengers boarded.

“She’s got to know something’s up,” Mike murmured.

“I’m just a guy accompanying my grandfather and his friends on a trip.”

Mike nodded. “We’ll have to meet for drinks…” He reached out and slapped Wiley’s shoulder. “Better get a move on. She’s still staring.”

Wiley grunted and strode toward the bus. Once he climbed the steps, applause erupted. He dipped his head but otherwise ignored the beaming faces all around him.

Joe waved from the rear of the bus. Again, he’d saved him a seat.

As he passed, Wiley gave Poppy a sideways glance. “I better make sure Gramps is okay.”

Poppy’s gaze reflected her distrust. Wiley wasn’t sure why he did it, but he paused beside her, tipped up her face with his fingers, and bent to kiss her.

She sat frozen, mouth gaping as he moved away.

A grin stretching across his face, he slapped wrinkled hands raised to give him high-fives as he ambled down the aisle.

Poppy fumed all
the way back to the ship. No way was that cowboy just a man accompanying his grandfather on a cruise. She’d felt his large frame, chest to toes. He was too hard, too muscled, too damn cool in a dangerous situation to be some random passenger who just happened to be in the right place at the right time to save her.
And with a damn blow gun.

No matter that his solid weight had thrilled her to
her
toes. As soon as she got back to her room, she was calling her dad. He’d promised he wouldn’t make a fuss about this trip. If the cowboy hadn’t knocked her to the ground, she was completely confident the security team assigned by the cruise line would have handled everything—and in a much less embarrassing way.

No way would she let the drama surrounding her father overshadow her mission. She wasn’t the focal point. The soldiers who would be sailing with the Countess line in just a few weeks needed all the attention. Her shoulders sank as the realization hit her. Perhaps she was more of a distraction than a help. Maybe she should have heeded her assistant’s advice. Kylie had offered to make this trip to assess the ship’s ability to accommodate handicapped vets. Kylie wasn’t in the public eye. The bandits who had stopped them wouldn’t have realized she was a high-dollar target they could ransom for a bigger payoff than the items they’d stolen from the mostly elderly passengers.