Special Ops Exclusive (7 page)

There were four doors in the hall—two were open, revealing a bathroom that stank to high heaven and a room full of metal cabinets. The third was marked
Storage
. Nick paused in front of the fourth and rapped his knuckles on the closed door.

A moment later, it swung open and he found himself looking into the dark brown eyes of Enrique Salazar.

“Prescott?” the man said sharply.

Nick nodded. He didn’t need to ask if
he
had the right man—he recognized Salazar from the photos Eva had managed to compile. And just like the first time he’d seen Salazar’s picture, he was surprised by how handsome the man was. Rugged features, tall, muscular body clad in jeans and a black leather jacket, a head of wavy black hair; the man seemed better suited for a career in Hollywood than the presidential secret service.

Salazar gestured for him to enter, and Nick stepped into a musty-smelling room that offered a green felt poker table surrounded by half a dozen chairs. Before he could take another step, Salazar began patting him down.

Nick’s jaw tensed when the man confiscated his SIG, but Salazar simply shrugged and said, “Just a precaution, Mr. Prescott. You’ll get it back when we conclude our business.” He spoke in perfect, unaccented English.

“Fair enough.”

“Let’s sit.”

They sat down on opposite ends of the table. Salazar leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his lean chest.

Nick was having a tough time battling his bewilderment. The man in front of him conveyed a calculated intelligence and understated charm that Nick had not expected. And he seemed incredibly...unruffled. Like he had no care in the world, which was seriously ironic considering he was betraying his president and government by dealing with El Nuevo Diablo, a wanted man in Cortega.

“So who’s Jose?” Nick finally asked, referring to the name he’d been ordered to use with the bartender.

Salazar waved a careless hand. “Just a silly code. A man in my position doesn’t want to advertise his presence—or his identity.” He lifted a brow. “Do you have the money?”

“You mean you didn’t feel that fat envelope of cash in my pocket when you were patting me down?”

He was rewarded with a genuinely warm laugh. “I thought you were—what’s the American phrase?—happy to see me?”

Nick couldn’t help but laugh, too. Reaching into the pocket of his brown bomber jacket, he extracted the envelope and slid it across the green felt tabletop.

Without a word, Salazar picked up the envelope and thumbed through its contents.

“It’s all there,” Nick assured him.

The other man kept counting.

Nick stifled a sigh. “Twenty grand, which is above and beyond what I ought to be paying you to set up a simple introduction.”

A minute later, Salazar tucked the envelope into the inner pocket of his leather jacket.

“Well?” Nick prompted.

“Well what?”

Impatience traveled through him, trailed by a rush of annoyance. He was beginning to wonder if Enrique Salazar was toying with him, purposely stalling just for the hell of it.

“Where can I find El Nuevo Diablo?” he demanded.

Amusement filled Salazar’s dark eyes, another hearty laugh leaving his mouth. “You’re looking at him.”

Chapter 8

D
espite an initial bout of shock, it didn’t take long for Nick to realize that Salazar’s confession was not shocking at all when you really thought about it. Members of the presidential guard carried a lot of clout in Mala—they had even more authority than the police. Salazar would have a mile-long list of connections, not to mention security clearance, and insider information about the president’s movements and political agendas.

Nick released a rueful breath. “Why am I not surprised to hear that?”

The black-haired man chuckled. “There is something very devilish about me, no?”

Jeez. How was this man so damn charismatic? Every person Nick had spoken to in regard to El Nuevo Diablo had cowered at the mere mention of the infamous criminal. Drugs, guns, women—the man was involved in more than one shady enterprise. If you crossed him, you paid the price. If you did business with him, you were locked in for life.

And yet here he was, Mr. New Devil, sitting across the table with that dimpled smile and palpable magnetism.

“So you’re not a middleman at all,” Nick remarked.

“Clearly not.” Salazar’s lips twitched. “Now, tell me what you want with Mr. Waverly.”

Nick’s head jerked up. “So he
did
come to see you.”

“Of course. There is no one else in Cortega worth seeing.”

“Did you acquire documents for him?” A note of urgency echoed in Nick’s voice. “Can you tell me what name he’s traveling under? Or where he went from here?”

Salazar held up his hand to silence him. “First, let me tell you about the way I operate, Mr. Prescott. You probably already have an idea, considering you interrogated half the city about me these last few days.”

He didn’t bother asking how Salazar knew he’d been asking around. The man undoubtedly possessed more connections than the president he was sworn to protect.

“The people I do business with, they keep their mouths shut,” Salazar began, his tone downright pleasant. “In return, I keep mine shut. Secrecy is the name of the game, as well as a sign of respect. Private transactions stay private—my clients trust me to deliver on that promise, and in return, I trust them to do the same.”

“And if they don’t?” Nick couldn’t help but ask.

“They suffer the consequences.” Salazar shrugged. “Not many men attempt to double-cross me these days, Mr. Prescott.”

“No, I don’t imagine they do.” He slanted his head. “Is this your way of telling me that you won’t sell out Waverly? He’s protected under your, uh,
confidentiality
agreement?”

“Not quite.”

Salazar shoved a hand in his pocket and extracted two items. A Polaroid picture and a folded-up piece of white paper. He set them facedown on the table, but did not invite Nick to take a peek.

“I photograph every individual I do business with,” Salazar told him.

“Another precaution, I presume?” Nick said drily.

“Of course. It allows me to keep my customers in line, should they think about selling me out or revealing my identity somewhere down the line. Oh, they all protest at first—‘You can’t take my picture!’—but I usually succeed in making them see reason. Now, as I said before, I don’t typically betray my clients’ identities. It’s bad for business, and I am, first and foremost, a businessman.”

Nick tried not to roll his eyes. “Of course.”

“But the man you’re looking for? Mr. Waverly?” Scorn flickered in Salazar’s dark eyes. “I don’t feel the need to extend the same courtesy to him that I do to other clients.”

“He tried to double-cross you,” Nick guessed.

“He tried to
negotiate.
”

Salazar sounded so disgusted you’d think Waverly had done much worse than haggle for a better price. But apparently haggling was a big no-no in the eyes of El Nuevo Diablo.

“My fees are set in stone,” the man harrumphed. “But that little prick thought he could mess with me. Rude, entitled bastard. I was happy to be rid of him.”

“You arranged his new papers, then.”

“I did.” Salazar slid the Polaroid across the table. “This is the man you’re seeking, is it not?”

Nick flipped over the photo and found himself looking at the pale face of Paul Waverly, former aide working out of the Pentagon, and the man who’d handed Sebastian a water bottle infected with the Meridian virus. Waverly’s appearance had a very ghoulish vibe to it—with his light blond hair and vampire-white skin, he looked washed-out and sickly. But Sebastian had warned Nick not to be fooled by the man’s outward fragility. Supposedly Waverly was built like a football quarterback—tall, muscular and strong.

“This is him,” he said brusquely.

“My forger always makes sure to send me a photocopy of any documents he procures for me.” Salazar gestured to the folded paper. “That’s the passport he did for Waverly.”

Nick unfolded the sheet and studied the photocopy, which showed the front page of Waverly’s new travel document. It was a bogus British passport under the name William Neville, and impeccably done judging by the watermark and security features that showed up on the copy.

“Can I keep these?” Nick asked.

“The copy, yes. The photograph, no.” Salazar swiftly reached for the Polaroid and pocketed it.

“Thanks,” Nick told the unlikely criminal across the table. “You’ve been more than helpful.”

Salazar flashed a rogue grin. “Who says I’m done?”

Nick lifted a brow.

“I assume your next move will be tracking down our friend William Neville?” When Nick nodded, Salazar’s grin widened. “Lucky for you, the little prick required more than documents from me. I was also gracious enough to arrange for his charter out of Mala.”

He sucked in a breath. “You know where he went from here?”

“Indeed.” The man cocked his head. “Out of curiosity, what do you plan on doing to Mr. Waverly when you find him?”

Nick’s jaw hardened. “Whatever it takes to make him talk.”

Approval glittered in those dark eyes. “Interesting. You are often underestimated, aren’t you, Mr. Prescott?”

Surprise jolted through him. “Pardon me?”

“You appear civilized on the outside, but there is a savage beneath that quiet, polished exterior. You are a man who will go to great lengths to right a wrong.”

Now he felt uneasy. “How about you quit psychoanalyzing me and tell me where Waverly went?”

Salazar chuckled. “Ah, you’re uncomfortable being scrutinized. Most Americans are. I won’t press the matter, then.” He paused, although Nick suspected it was done solely for effect. “Pista Olvidada. It’s a coastal town in Costa Rica.”

Because Nick’s father had insisted his children be fluent in several languages, Nick relied on his knowledge of Spanish for the translation of the town’s name. “Forgotten land,” he murmured.

“Quite poetic, isn’t it?” Salazar said with another grin. “But Waverly has not been forgotten, has he, Mr. Prescott?”

“No, he hasn’t.” Nick tucked the photocopy into his pocket and scraped back his chair, then extended a hand at Salazar. “Thanks again.”

The other man rose as well, but he didn’t shake Nick’s hand. Not yet, anyway. First, he crossed the room and picked up the nylon backpack on the dirty linoleum, then unzipped the bag and pulled out a Polaroid camera.

Apprehension climbed up Nick’s throat as he eyed the camera. “You weren’t kidding about the photos, huh?”

“It must be done, my friend.” Salazar gave a little shrug. “But know that the photographs are kept in my safe, and will never see the light of day.”

“Not unless I try to stiff you, right?” Nick said drily. “In which case, you’ll be flashing my pic around just like you did Waverly’s.”

Salazar’s eyes twinkled. “Just be happy you didn’t try to negotiate, and smile for the camera, my friend.”

* * *

Rebecca spent the evening lying on the ratty couch and trying to get some sleep, but to no avail. Alone and in the silence of the isolated farmhouse, it was difficult not to fall victim to grief.

Jesse. Dave. Harry.

They were all dead because of her. And yet the messed-up thing about it? She knew that if any one of them could see her right now, they’d slap her upside the head for letting the guilt consume her. All three men had been dedicated to the quest for truth, Harry especially. And this particular truth—that someone in the government had allowed a biological weapon to be tested on innocent people? Her colleagues and mentor would have gladly laid down their lives if it meant exposing such a deplorable plot.

Her thoughts turned to Nick, who was so determined to keep her out of this investigation. He’d been gone for two hours, and she knew that when he returned, he would yet again put his foot down and declare that he didn’t need her help.

She rose from the couch and paced the dusty floor, sighing as she glanced around the barely habitable room. This farmhouse had stood empty for years and the interior showed it, as did the lack of indoor plumbing and electricity. Nick had carted two huge jugs of water from the SUV, along with some Meals-Ready-to-Eat, which Rebecca had reluctantly scarfed down out of sheer hunger. She longed for a change of clothes, but she was stuck wearing her dirty T-shirt and faded jeans, which she now noticed boasted a jagged hole in the knee. When had that even happened?

Maybe when you were wrestling a gun out of a hit man’s hands...

The reminder made her jaw clench. God, how could Nick possibly expect her to back off now? Someone had tried to kill her during that riot, and then attempted to abduct her from the hospital. The hospital where one of her closest friends had died from severe burns.

And now Harry was gone, too.

Her throat clogged as she pictured Harry’s craggy features and snow-white hair. She’d loved that man like a father. And thanks to one foolish phone call on her part, he was dead.

The sound of a car engine interrupted her moment of self-reproach. She dashed to the window, but it was difficult to see through the thick layer of dirt coating the glass. And it was pitch-black outside, so all she could make out was the silver glint of the SUV’s rims and then a blur of movement as Nick got out of the vehicle.

When he strode into the house a minute later, Rebecca swarmed him like paparazzi surrounding a celebrity. “Well?” she demanded.

His lips twitched in humor. “Hello to you, too, darling.”

Despite herself, her heart skipped a beat as the husky nickname left his mouth. Normally she hated lovey-dovey terms of endearment—she’d always found them so very demeaning—but coming from Nick, the word didn’t sound condescending. There was something sweet about the way he said it.

Snap out of it, Becks.

Yeah, she really needed to quit getting distracted by this man.

“What happened with Salazar?” she asked him.

Nick shrugged out of his bomber jacket and tossed it on the arm of the couch. A cloud of dust billowed in the air as the garment landed on the frayed upholstery.

“I got Waverly’s location,” he answered. “The bastard’s hiding out in a small beach town in Costa Rica.”

She wrinkled her forehead. “How does Salazar know where Waverly is? I thought he was supposed to hook you up with Mr. New Devil.”

Nick’s amber-colored eyes grew somber. “Is this off the record?”

“I’m insulted that you’d even ask me that,” she huffed.

“Is it off the record, Rebecca?”

“Yes!”

“Salazar
is
El Nuevo Diablo.”

Shock spiraled through her. “Are you serious?”

Nick nodded, then brushed past her and headed for the kitchen. At the counter, he untwisted the cap off one of the water jugs, lifted the heavy container and took a long swig.

“El Nuevo Diablo is a member of the presidential guard,” she mused. “Now, that’s an interesting development.”

“I thought so, too.”

“Okay, so Salazar is the one who arranged Waverly’s new ID. And he’s certain Waverly went to Costa Rica?”

“He chartered the guy’s plane himself.”

Rebecca nodded briskly. “Fine. Then we go to Costa Rica. I assume you’ve got contacts with a private airfield?”

A low laugh exited his mouth. Setting down the jug, he stalked back to her, stopping when they were nose to nose. Well, kind of. At over six feet, Nick towered over her five-foot-one frame, so it was more like they were nose to collarbone.

That was precisely why she habitually avoided dating tall men—they always made her feel utterly dwarfish—but Nick’s size was a bit of a turn-on. She could easily imagine herself being sheltered in those strong arms, or clinging to his broad shoulders as he carried her to bed....

Snap. Out. Of. It.

Jeez, what was
wrong
with her? Why couldn’t she quit fantasizing about this man and focus on the perilous situation they’d found themselves in?

“You’re not coming with me,” Nick said in a resolute tone. “I don’t know how many different ways I can say it to make you understand that it’s not happening.”

She bristled. “If you don’t take me with you, then I’ll go without you. I’ll track Waverly down myself.”

Frustration burned in his eyes. “The only place you’re going is Ecuador. My men and I have a base camp there, and you can stay with them until we determine that it’s safe for you to go back to D.C.”

“No.”

“Rebecca—”

“No,” she repeated. She was so annoyed she had to fight the urge to kick him. “I get that you’re trying to protect me, but I don’t need your protection, Nick. What I
need
is to find the person who killed my colleagues. And no matter what you think, I can be an asset to you. I have sources in dozens of countries—” her tone turned smug “—including Costa Rica. And don’t forget about D.C. I know every last player in that city,
darling.
”

“Are you always so difficult?”

“I’m not trying to be difficult. All I’m saying is, I’m already involved, okay? I was involved the moment we went out for drinks at the Liberty, and I refuse to be hidden away in Ecuador. Whether you like it or not, this is my fight, too, now.”

She could see his resolve crumbling as a resigned look settled over his face. “I don’t like this. You’re too recognizable.”