Page 38 of Rebel Protector
“I won’t.” His voice was rough with emotion. “I just hope you don’t get caught in the crossfire. This deal is happening, whether you like it or not. The authorities are out for blood. We couldn’t arrest him in the U.S., but he’s going down, one way or another.”
Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her. “He’s all I’ve got, Dom.”
He didn’t correct her, but she was wrong. She had him too, she just didn’t know it yet.
CHAPTER 15
Ghost crouched beneath the dense jungle canopy, ten clicks from the Colombian border. The air was thick with humidity, and the ancient roots of the kapok tree snaked around him like veins through the earth, pressing up against his boots. He could feel their weight underfoot. His assault rifle rested in his hands—compliments of Carlos. Markov had made sure he was kitted out for the job.
Dammit, Becca.
He hated how they’d left things. She thought he’d used her, seduced her to get to Markov.
And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong.
But it hadn’t just been about sex. That was what really twisted him up inside—it had meant something, something real. How the hell could he make her see that, especially after what she'd told him?
Fuck, she was Markov’s daughter.
He sure as hell hadn’t seen that coming.
Blackthorn Security had dug into her past but had turned up nothing beyond her being born to an unmarried mother in North Carolina. No father listed on her birth certificate, no hints of aconnection to Markov. Typical. The bastard didn’t put his name on anything.
Rebecca Lyndall.
She’d lived with her father for a couple years in California after her mother passed away. But no one had linked her to Alek Markov. Hell, he’d checked her out himself before he left the hacienda—cross-referenced her DMV records and seen her old photo. Even back then, she was stunning.
His gut twisted at the thought of eighteen-year-old Becca trying to reconnect with Markov, only to discover the man’s cold indifference. No wonder they’d been estranged. What a colossal disappointment that must have been for her.
A drop of rain slapped his forehead, progressing to a steady drizzle. The rhythmic pitter-patter on the jungle’s broad leaves usually calmed him. Not today.
It didn’t matter, he needed to stay alert. The border wasn’t far away, but in dense forest such as this, it may as well have been a hundred miles.
The Darien Gap. The most dangerous stretch of jungle on the planet was rife with criminales, guerilla fighters, displaced rebels and all manner of scumbags. If he let his guard down, he’d be finished. It only took one bullet, and his body would lie here until it rotted. No one would ever find him.
Where the hell was the fisherman?
As if on cue, he heard the low chug of a motor drifting down the river. Ghost raised his rifle, scanning the surroundings with practiced eyes. The Darien Gap’s twisting waterways were ideal for smuggling everything from guns to drugs—and sometimes people.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle, its familiar weight steadying him as his boots sank deeper into the thick mud. The narrow motorboat rounded the bend, its engine emitting a faint sputterthat barely pierced the humid, stifling air. The vessel was perfect camouflage—nearly invisible to all but the most trained eyes.
Biri, the wiry fisherman, steered the boat toward the bank. His weathered face, hunched back, and wiry frame told a story of years working these waters. He used to be a simple fisherman, living off the land. Now, thanks to men like Suarez—and more recently Markov—he was ferrying drugs and weapons.
Ghost had become his best client, securing his loyalty with cold, hard cash. That money had rebuilt Biri’s house, sent his son to school.
Who said a life of crime didn’t pay?
Ghost didn’t kid himself—Biri would keep working for whoever paid, long after Markov was in prison.
It was the job of the Panamanian border enforcement authorities to keep the drugs out and guard the border, but it was a difficult, if not impossible task. The routes were varied and changeable, the load was disseminated and erratic, and mules and distributors were armed and dangerous, and often knew the slopes of the impenetrable Gap better than the crews patrolling them.
On the Colombian side, the military did border checks, but only in the navigable sections, which were few and far between.
The official border post was just a small clearing in the jungle, but all around it were endless hills, muddy rivers and swampland choked with vegetation. And that wasn’t counting the thorns, wasps, snakes and wild animals.
“Hell on earth,” his former commander at the training center had described it. He wasn’t wrong.
All this just worked in Ghost’s favor and made it harder for the authorities to catch him. He had the skillset, compliments of the Marine Corps, and he’d honed his craft working for Suarez. He gave a snort and swung his rifle over his shoulder. Now Markov was reaping the benefits.