Page 1 of Rebel Protector
CHAPTER 1
The wheels of the SUV left the tarmac and hit gravel. Ghost could hear it kicking up off the surface of the road, bouncing along and hitting the undercarriage. They must be nearly there. It had been a stifling hour-long drive from Panama City with his hands bound behind his back and a sack over his head, but he understood the need for secrecy.
Aleksandar Markov, the new kid on the block and one of the most ruthless arms dealers the region had ever seen, valued his privacy. His hacienda was situated on the Panamanian coast, in the middle of nowhere.
It had taken weeks of negotiation to reach this point. First, Ghost had used his contacts in the drug trafficking industry to get in touch with Markov’s right-hand man, Luis Ramirez. Then, after being vetted and having his position in the trafficking network verified, he was granted a meeting with Markov.
They had picked him up outside his hotel in Panama City, a squalid hostel that barely deserved its single star, and brought him here—but not before he was patted down and checked for wires and weapons. Now, feeling disoriented and a little carsick, he had arrived at his destination: Alex Markov’s secret hacienda. In a few moments, he’d meet the infamous legend himself.
Markov had arrived six months ago with a cache of illegal arms that he needed to offload. Where the weapons had come from, no one knew. Rumor had it they were from conflict zones in Eastern Europe and Central Asia, where he had a string of black-market contacts. But since the FBI was closing in on his operation, he’d packed up and relocated to Panama, where there was a lucrative trade in illegal arms to guerrilla groups, cartels, and paramilitary organizations in South America.
He had pissed off many established arms dealers in the region, but they had been swiftly dealt with in such a manner that no one was likely to challenge his position again. Markov was here to stay.
The SUV came to a halt, and Ghost heard the front passenger door open and someone get out. There were footsteps on gravel, and he braced himself for the unexpected. Always be prepared.
But nothing happened.
A moment later, his door opened, and he was hauled out of the vehicle. Once on his feet, the ties binding his wrists were cut, and the bag was ripped from his head.
Damn, it was bright.
He blinked to adjust his vision. As soon as he could see properly, he looked around, taking stock of his surroundings. They were outside a Spanish-style mansion in a stone courtyard with a fountain in the middle. The property was heavily secured. He immediately spotted two armed guards watching from a respectful but highly accurate distance, not counting the four banditos who’d brought him here, all of whom were packing.
The man who had put the bag over his head was called Carlos. He was an ugly motherfucker with a scowling face, a hawkish nose, and lips that seemed molded into a permanent sneer. Ghost didn’t like him and sure as hell didn’t trust him. He didn’t know the names of the two thugs he’d cozied up with inthe back seat, but they walked off, and the SUV drove around the back, presumably to park.
Ghost studied the lavish white Mediterranean residence with its typical, red-tiled roof. It was an impressive building, and what it lacked in height, it made up for in breadth. He suspected it stretched back a fair distance, probably all the way to the beach. He could smell the sea; it was no more than five hundred meters away. The salty tang was a welcome relief after the hot stench of Panama City.
The front door opened, and through the expansive archway walked a compact, stocky man in an expensive suit. His hands were clenched into fists, but he made this look natural. He practically sizzled with thinly concealed aggression.
“Mr. Ramirez?” Ghost inquired.
The man stretched out his hand. “Mr. Domínguez, welcome to Villa del Mar. I’m sorry for the crude method of delivery, but you know how it is…” He petered off with a non-apologetic shrug.
They shook hands. “I understand.” For this assignment, Ghost was using his real name, since they were bound to do background checks on him. His legend was an extension of his own history, it was safer that way.
“Follow me. Mr. Markov is expecting you.”
Ramirez nodded at Carlos before turning on his heel and heading back into the house. Ghost walked with him under the white arch and through a double-volume, steel-reinforced front door. No one was getting in here without an invitation.
The interior was cool and surprisingly tasteful. Marble tiles, white walls, and top-notch air conditioning all contributed to the ambiance. Luscious indoor plants were strategically placed in darker corners, and the walls were adorned with several pieces of fine modern art.
They descended a short flight of stairs to a formal living area, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Ghost caught a breathtaking view of the terrace and swimming pool. It was surrounded by natural vegetation, giving it a tropical feel. In the distance, he could see a partial view of the pearly sands of the estate’s private beach. It was quite a secret hideaway Markov had here.
Reclining on a sofa, a finger of whiskey in a glass on the coffee table in front of him, was Aleksandar Markov himself. He didn’t look anything like Ghost had imagined. After all the briefings, he had expected a monster. Instead, Markov was of average height, distinguished, and corporate-looking with a smattering of salt-and-pepper hair. He reminded him of a retired city banker.
“Mr. Dominguez, how good of you to come.” He even sounded like a banker. His accent was interesting—a mixture of an American twang over a distinctly Eastern European inflection.
Ghost stepped forward and shook his hand. It was cool and dry, but the handshake was firm and strong. “Thank you for seeing me.” It was the eyes, Ghost decided, that betrayed his ruthless nature. Pale blue and colder than the polar ice caps, they were totally devoid of emotion.
“Please, sit down. Becca will bring us some tea.” He snorted. “A little habit I picked up when I lived in London many years ago.”
Ghost glanced up and saw a stunning brunette hovering in the doorway. Glossy brown hair, soft curves, and legs that disappeared under a tight skirt that went on forever. She flashed him an efficient smile and nodded to Markov before disappearing to get the beverages.
Damn. Markov sure knew how to pick them.
Was he sleeping with her?
A stunner like that, Ghost couldn’t see how he wasn’t. Markov struck him as the kind of man who took what he wanted from life and to hell with the consequences.