Delta: Revenge (27 page)

The familiar jolt of anxious energy wasn’t there. If this call had come at any other time, Javier would have packed up and waited at rendezvous until the rest of the team arrived on time. He’d have paced a hole in the ground, thinking of every memory and last moment. But the only thing that came to mind was the haunting assertion in Sophia’s voice that they were headed down two different paths in life. And he wanted to be on her path.

***

Brock stood next to Jared Westin, both glaring down the war-room table. Alongside Javier was the entire Delta team: Grayson, Ryder, Luke, Colin, Trace. Parker Black, who ran the war room and logistics, had just stepped back from thermal images on the flat screen, and everyone was quiet. Even Luke, who had an eerily similar past, waited silently.

The mission was tough. Risk was high. The chance of casualties and equipment loss was outside their usual parameters. All were waiting for Javier to say his opinion. Every man in the room would walk into a hurricane of artillery for him. His lungs hurt, he noticed. Tension and unease that he had no experience with burned in his veins.

There was one answer.
Go.

This was what Titan had promised him when he joined, what he lived and breathed for: to string up the men responsible for his sister and to crucify Rodrigo Moreira.

Brock cleared his throat. “It’s your move, Brazil.”

Jared crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve got one answer.”

Yup, just like he thought. So why the hesitation?

Sophia.

He didn’t want to be the blood-hunting savage he’d always been—the guy she didn’t want and couldn’t imagine her life intersecting with. But screw it. She wasn’t his goal in life. PC was. Avenging Adélia. Javier nodded. “Thumbs-up from me.”

Brock and Jared reciprocated with a similar acknowledgement. Parker moved to a laptop at the head of the long table and started what would be the course of action. Logistics. Ammunition. Assault. Rendezvous.

They had two hours until they were headed to his home country, Brazil, where Titan had made the connection with the Honduran and Saudi terrorists and the PC. They had to travel the world to find one asshole connection from his hometown. Titan had unraveled a giant hole in the knotted spiderweb of networking and funding of terrorist activity.

Javier should have been stoked—high-fiving, shit talking, and getting amped up. Instead, he sat in the chair, leaning back, and studied the thermos, ignoring the guys who moved around the war room. There was no bloodthirsty hunger that accompanied the job.

He had nothing except one question: instead of revenge, was it
Sophia
that was supposed to be his life goal?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Ten Clicks Outside the PC Compound, Brazil

The night was muggy and hot, and the tepid breeze failed to feel good against Javier’s perspiration-covered forehead. Again, his team leader’s eyes were on him, and Javier was the last one to give a thumbs-up. “Ready.”

Brock nodded as they all waited in the dark of night. The Primeiro Comando compound wasn’t on lockdown. They were not alert to the fact that they were the hunted, the prey, or that they would die tonight.

Javier’s blood pounded. He could taste the excitement coursing through his veins. The adrenaline kick from an op was always nice, but this was more. It was the culmination of every blood-soaked dream, every vengeful prayer and promise. Tonight was the night.

The operation was simple: dismantle the home base of Rodrigo Moreira, the PC’s second-in-command, as cartel leadership played poker and drank
cachaça
and as Moreira smoked a cigar, leaning back, not realizing he was about to take his last breath.

Javier checked his weapons, running through the mental checklist of shit he’d already completed. Then they loaded into two armored Rovers, Ryder at the wheel. Brock sat passenger while both Luke and Javier brooded in the backseat. This job was as personal to Luke as it was to Javier. Trace was in the other vehicle. Three guys from the main Titan team worked this job as well: Cash and Roman were working a sniper-spotter angle on the opposite side of the PC compound, and Winters would go broadside, using as much brute force as tactical know-how to breach the back side of the house. Luke and Javier would have a similar plan while Brock maintained operational command.

The tense drive intensified as they neared the compound.

“Six clicks out,” Ryder mumbled.

Luke cracked his knuckles.

Brock radioed the other Rover then checked in with Titan HQ back in the US. They were all monitoring satellite coverage with their eyes to the sky.

But Javier closed his eyes and pictured Adélia. Her sweet face, her innocent laugh, and the way his older sister watched out for him as he should have watched out for her. Blood thumping again in his chest, he opened his eyes as they slowed into the brush cover. The other Rover signaled radio silence as they separated.

In fifteen minutes, they’d link back.

They parked as planned and hoofed the remaining quarter mile. The night covered them in a thick blanket of darkness, but up ahead, the house and its lights came into view. Javier’s pounding heartbeat slowed even as they hustled.

“In position.” Luke led the second team, his focus laser sharp.

“Locked and loaded, my friends,” Ryder called in from his sniper nest one hundred yards to the west, cradled in the limb of a cashew tree.

Javier took a knee by the door. Grayson stood tall across from him and Trace a few feet from them.

“In place,” Javier replied.

“You have a go,” Brock confirmed in their earpieces.

Three, two, one… a blast sounded from the back side of the house. Diversionary tactic in place, Trace breached the door. Thick wood splintered open. Grayson swung in, assault rifle high, searching the room as Javier went low.

Gunfire spat at the back of the house, and they swept room to room. A maid cowered in a corner. Grayson peeled off to ascertain whether she was friendly or foe while Javier and Trace continued.

The lights were bright. Music played in the background. Cigar smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of blast charges. They went in blind, not knowing who was where.

“Hands on the ground! Hands on the ground!” The words boomed through the comm pieces.

Javier and Trace secured room after room, making their way to Luke upstairs.

The place was clean. The violence had started loudly and was quick to silence. He took a deep breath. Finally.
Finally!
He had what he needed: the sense of peace. Of revenge. Of a future and a life. Of Sophia Cole. One job had done it all.

Trace and Javier rounded the stairs. Three men were subdued. The poker-table pieces were scattered. Gunshots marred the wall, and PC security was down for the count. Gunpowder and blood smelled like victory.

Yet… Luke’s face wasn’t triumphant. “We lost him.”

And all the peace and serenity Javier had experienced for the first time in his life dissipated. “What do you mean you lost him?”

Pure panic, stronger than anything he’d ever felt, hit him. Luke was right. The faces on the ground were not of PC’s number two. They were high ranking, no doubt, but not the man he needed. Damn it!

Javier pounded down the stairs. His gaze swept back and forth. No Moreira. “Fuck!”

He kicked over a body, just to be sure. A sniper round had done this man in, and it was not who Javier was looking for. He moved to another room. And another. Roman and Cash’s voices communicated over the radio. They had thermal up, night vision on. They had nothing.

Nothing.

“Shit.” Javier came to a stop. It was a dead end. Nothing. He had nothing. Fuck!

Slamming his fist into the wall didn’t change the outcome. He’d failed. Delta had failed.
Titan
had
,
and Titan
never
failed. But as Brock and Parker communicated with Luke about what they were finding, taking, detaining, and learning, Javier knew no one else would call this a failed mission.

This was success. They had inventories and shipping information. They had connection and evidence. They had shit that could stop a hundred sales and save a thousand girls. But they had nothing on Rodrigo Moreira, the one and only reason he’d been on this team for years, and now that Javier had a name to go with his life’s mission, it was all he could think about, not just the PC. But there was no Moreira. Blood boiling, temples pounding, he couldn’t think, couldn’t—

Trace walked in, slapping him on the back. “Keep it together, Brazil.”

“Fuck that.”

He didn’t let go of his hold on Javier and gave him a shake. “Move. Let’s go.”

Javier bunched his shoulders as tension crawled down his spine. Rage made him an asshole, and desperation made him question everything and everybody. If Moreira had escaped during a highly planned, hyper-tactile operation, he didn’t need a military team as well trained as Delta after him. Rodrigo Moreira needed the grim reaper. Javier could find him. He shouldn’t have sidetracked with Delta all these years. No, he should’ve stayed on the hunt, tracking the PC until he discovered Moreira on his own and put a slug through the asshole’s forehead.

He slammed a fist into the wall again. How the hell did that dude evade Delta?

Trace clamped both hands on his shoulders. “I see it in your eyes. You’re questioning everything.”

“Go away.”

“Brazil.”

“Trace, back off.” Yeah, he was questioning the team. His decisions. Life. The PC. Sophia—
Sophia?
Hell. Javier turned and clomped toward the hall—his footsteps echoed. The dull thud of a hollow floor stopped both of them. Trace’s eyes met Javier’s, and their gaze dropped to the ground. Javier pulled the rug, falling to a knee.

“We’ve got a possible escape route,” Trace called in.

False floor. How did it open? Javier studied the grain of the wood, knocking on the floor with the back of his knuckles. It was well constructed and virtually undetectable. In the flash and fire of a raid, it was easy to miss.

“How the shit does that open?” Trace murmured.

“Don’t know.” Javier shook his head and knocked farther down on the floorboard, then his eyes tracked the faint difference in wood slats.

Trace nodded to him. “Definitely a door.”

“Let’s go.”

“Take it slow,” Brock ordered in their earpieces.

Right.

“Ten-four.” Trace inspected the opposite side of the hollow-sounding section.

Javier ran his finger on the ground, tracing the section to what had to be a corner piece. It was. He dug in, clawing into the corner.

Trace stepped closer, joining Javier in search of the door. “Slow down, man. It has to be easier than this.”

No. There wasn’t time. Just like he’d wasted time with years on Delta and months sidetracking with thoughts of Sophia. Time wasn’t on his side tonight, and who cared if they tore up this place? Brute force was needed because stealth tactics had failed. Hell, Javier wanted to drop a ton of C4 and blast his way in. Moreira was probably halfway to Rio by now.

Trace clenched a hand on Javier’s shoulder. “Chill. You’re not in a good head space, Brazil.”

“I am.” He traced the floor until he found the edge of what had to be a corner to the trapdoor. Flicking his knife open, he pushed it in, jimmying the floor.

“Fuck, man. Slow down. This shit could be rigged—”

Pressure and heat blew them back. Smoke seared his nostrils and burned his eyes. The taste of it burned his throat and tongue as they both fell back from the blast.

Trace rolled over on the floor, pulling Javier back. The words were muffled, and his ears rang. Compression waves from the small blast were too much to hang through. Fighting it off, Javier closed his eyes to the night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Is it supposed to hurt so much?” Sophia said, trying to smile but gritting her teeth.

“Sorry, darlin’.” But the tattoo artist never looked up from her upturned wrist.

The biting sting into her flesh wasn’t the high she expected. It wasn’t entertaining, wasn’t exciting. If anything, it was heartbreaking. Sophia watched the man memorialize the tree losing its leaves into her flesh. For thirty minutes, she watched and wondered what made Javier like this as much as he did. An addiction, he’d said. Was the bite of the tattoo gun worthy of a craving? No. Because as much as it stung, as much as she tried to hide her grimace and focus on the simplicity of why Javier liked tattoos, she couldn’t stop thinking that her tattoo would make her remember him. Forever.

The leaves were lifelike yet had a heart shape, and they were floating off the tree. They were meant to symbolize love found and then lost, but there were new leaves budding on the tree, a simple reminder that one day, she’d find her partner in life.

The gun stopped for a longer pause than what she’d established as the normal process. “Does it really hurt that bad, darlin’?”

She blinked, lost in her thoughts. “What? Um, no.”