Baby, It's You (Uncharted SEALs Book 5) (12 page)

Before We Kiss

Navy SEAL, William “Wiley” Coyote, should have known his “piece of cake” assignment would go sideways in a hurry. But he’d been lured by the promise of an all-expenses-paid cruise. A nice “fluffy” assignment after the last one spent escorting freighters through pirate-infested waters in the Strait of Hormuz.

A general’s daughter, Poppy Shackleford, wasn’t some spoiled daughter of a man made famous for defeating insurgent forces. She’d endured her own tragedies—the loss of her mother when she was young and her father stationed in Afghanistan, and the loss of her fiancé after he’d sustained wounds in Iraq—not from the physical wounds that had claimed his two legs—he’d taken his own life. His death was why Poppy was involved in Soldiers’ Sanctuary, a non-profit that helped disabled soldiers adjust to their new circumstances. Her mission in life is to see that no veteran of war would ever feel so alone, so hopeless he’d choose her dead fiancé’s path. Which was why, despite the current threats against her father, she was on this cruise, assessing the ship’s ability to accommodate the soldiers rather than sending a surrogate.

However, the first threat doesn’t come from terrorists with an axe to grind. Mexican banditos stop her tour bus heading toward Mayan ruins to shake down the passengers for their money and belongings. When one snaps a picture of her, he soon figures out there’s a much bigger payday. She knows she’s going to be kidnapped, but she didn’t know someone was on that same tour bus who had her back.

Wiley’s unconventional takedown of her would-be kidnappers exposes the fact her father didn’t honor her wishes to fly under the radar. And now that the cat’s out of the bag, Wiley’s made it clear he’s moving into her suite for the rest of their time at sea to keep her out of harm’s way.

W
illiam “Wiley” Coyote
should have known the “piece of cake” assignment his team leader, Deke Warrick, had offered him would go sideways in a hurry. But he’d been lured by the promise of an all-expenses-paid cruise. A nice “fluffy” assignment after the last one spent escorting freighters through pirate-infested waters in the Strait of Hormuz. He was due a vacation and had envisioned slipping into a chaise on cruise ship’s deck while his target sunbathed nearby.

“Every time she steps out of her suite, the room attendant will buzz you. You keep on her tail, but not close enough she notices. Her daddy said she’d raise hell if she knew he’d hired security after she’d refused a special detail.” Deke had grinned. “I think he’s a little afraid of her.”

They’d barely left the port of Miami before Wiley had understood. The woman never stopped moving. Or talking. Sometimes loudly, if she didn’t like what she heard. If he could have worn earplugs, his first impressions of her would have been very different.

Poppy Shackleford was a pretty little thing. Blonde-haired, lightly tanned, curves in all the right places. And
maybe
five-foot-two in her espadrille sandals. He’d had a girlfriend charge two pairs to his credit card, so he knew darn well how what they were and how much the cork-heeled things cost. Although he could appreciate the sexy stretch they’d given her calves, he was still relieved that, so far, he’d managed to operate under the radar. He had no doubts she’d know exactly what he was there to do if she got one good look at him. Nothing escaped her attention. Not the too-steep ramps leading onto the ship when they’d embarked. Or the undercooked steak she’d been served last night in the dining room.

He’d begun to think she was deaf she talked so loudly, but then he’d realized her complaints were on behalf of her fellow passengers, and this cruise had been billed as a senior-themed cruise. Most of the thousand passengers were over seventy. The dinner conversation surrounding him last night had consisted of trading blood sugar levels, as his companions pricked their fingertips and fed droplets of blood into their readers. Afterwards, their conversation had drifted to the best fiber to promote healthy bowels and where the captain would store their bodies if they happened to pass during the night.

“No kidding?” Deke had said after Wiley had given him a status update early that morning.

Wiley’s jaw had ground shut at the snickering no hand over a receiver could muffle. “The Countess’s security seems pretty tight. There’s always someone nearby, although they’re better at blending in than I am.”

“You mean you didn’t pack any Hawaiian shirts?”

“Don’t own one,” he’d gritted out.

“How are you managing not to blow your cover?”

Wiley grunted. “I haven’t shaved, and I have my cowboy hat and boots.”

“So you’re sticking out like a sore thumb.”

“She won’t expect any security detail to stick out quite like I do.”

Deke grunted. “Just remember you have people positioned around the ship. Channel two if you need them.”

Which would be great if they were actually aboard the ship. The deeper into the jungle their tour bus drove, the deeper his concern grew. They were on an excursion into the jungle to view Mayan ruins. Anywhere along their route would be a great place for an ambush. The two security people provided by the cruise line to accompany his target were in good shape, but he could tell neither was armed. Conventional weapons were impossible to smuggle aboard the ship, and the weapons kept under lock and key aboard the ship wouldn’t have been permitted for this little jaunt.

And why were they out here? If he remembered right, the pyramids weren’t exactly wheelchair-friendly. But he knew she was thorough, that she took her job seriously. No stone would be left unturned. No tour unvetted, personally, by her.

He’d read the dossier Charter Group had put together. Poppy Shackleford, daughter of Lieutenant General Randall Shackleford, wasn’t some spoiled daughter of a famous man. She’d endured her own tragedies—the loss of her mother when she was young and her father stationed in Afghanistan, the loss of her fiancé after he’d sustained wounds in Iraq.

Not from the physical wounds that had claimed his two legs. Frank Sutton, who’d been despondent over the loss, had killed himself. His death was why Poppy was involved in Soldiers’ Sanctuary, a non-profit that helped disabled soldiers adjust to their new circumstances, whether helping with additional therapies the VA was slow or unable to provide, or seeking the latest in prosthetics and mobility devices. And they provided mentorship, one wounded soldier to another, so that no veteran of war would feel so alone, so hopeless they’d choose Frank Sutton’s path.

Wiley understood and admired her for not simply crying, and then moving on, but embracing a cause that might help others. However today, he wished she wasn’t quite so determined to make it impossible for him to protect her. Not that she had a clue he was there. If she’d glanced toward the back of the air-conditioned bus, all she might have noted was one dark head amid a sea of white, gray, and blue.

The fellow seated next to him gave him another narrow-eyed glance.

Wiley aimed a frown his way, hoping the old man would mind his own business.

The man was burly, surprisingly muscled for an old dude. He leaned sideways in his seat toward Wiley and whispered, “Name’s Joseph Olinsky, but you can call me Joe. I’m a marine.” He nodded toward the head of the bus where Poppy stood beside the tour guide, asking questions. “She someone important?”

Wiley blinked. “No, sir. I think she’s just another passenger. A noisy one.”

The old man grunted. “She has a detail. That guy with a clipboard ain’t a cruise director. I’d say he’s ex-Navy, probably a SEAL. Has a trident tattoo on his upper arm. Saw it when he was stowing her backpack in the overhead.”

Knowing there was no use convincing Joe he was just a guy on a trip to see a pyramid, Wiley gave the old guy another look. He recognized the type—his dad had been the same steady, patriotic sort.
Once a marine, always a marine.
Maybe he did need backup should shit go sideways. “You’re right,” he murmured. “The cruise line provided her security.”

“What about you?” his gray-haired companion said.

“Name’s Wiley, and I was Navy.”

“A SEAL,” he said, nodding. “Can’t hide that look. Everyone else, besides her, has been taking a nap. Not you. You’ve been watching the road ahead. Expect trouble?”

“Not expecting, but prepared.”

Joe nodded. “Don’t get along as well as I used to,” he said, patting his knee. “But I can be another set of eyes. And I do know who she is, son. She’s the daughter of that general ISIS wants taken out. Had his face plastered all over Facebook faster than Homeland and the FBI could take their pages down.”

Wiley almost smiled at how in tune the old guy was. “Nothing much gets past you, does it?”

Joe lifted his chin toward two older gentle men seated across the aisle from him.

Wiley glanced over to find the two old codgers both staring back.

“We were in the same division, the 3rd, during Viet Nam. We’re all that’s left. Try to take a trip every couple of years. Went to Nam five years back. There were eight of us then.”

Wiley nodded his understanding.

“That’s Morty,” he said pointing at the thin one with a round belly. “The other one’s Sly.”

Sly gave him a grin that displayed unnaturally white teeth.

Wiley gave both men a little wave then turned his attention back to the front of the bus.

“She know you’re tailing her?”

Wiley wondered how the old guys had figured out he was there for Poppy. He remembered how they’d jostled him, cutting him from the rest of the group. He’d thought it unintentional, but now knew they’d meant to be seated beside him. He shook his head, admiring their cunning. “She doesn’t know. Not yet, anyway.”

“Need a better cover,” Joe said, eyeing his boots and the scruff on his chin. “Could tell folks you’re my grandson.”

Wiley chuckled. Sounded like a better plan than the one he’d had. “Just don’t get in the way. If things go down…”

“You could use another set of eyes—between the three of us, we might just make one good pair.”

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 toward the road ahead.

Wiley cussed. A pickup was parked sideways in the middle of the road.

He began to rise, but then he noted the 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 chair. He’d let this play out a bit before he gave himself away. So 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 bent and 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 trying to keep an eye on his target. The guy with the clipboard was pulling her 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 boarded the bus. Their gazes swept the passengers, then one bent toward the driver. His Spanish spilled out too fast for Wiley to catch every word, but he got the gist. They were going to force the passengers onto the road and rob them.

As quietly as he could, Wiley 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 kept 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 to do was excite the armed men into doing anything stupid. When the passengers in the rows ahead of him shuffled down the aisle, he stood 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 farther down the line, 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 as 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 into the bag.

Wiley’s gaze remained on Poppy. The two banditos at the end of the row were watching her. 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.