Page 5 of Rebel Protector

She blew out a breath. Tough break. That was one thing they had in common. She too knew what it was like to lose a parent.

He’d excelled in the Marine Corps, serving his country for ten years and completing an impressive four tours in the Middle East, all while working his way up the ranks. That was intense by anyone’s standards. She could only imagine the things he’d seen.

Shortly after his last tour, he applied for the notoriously grueling MARSOC selection course. MARSOC, or Marine Forces Special Operations Command, was the Marine Corps’ specialoperations unit. They specialized in direct action, special reconnaissance, and counter-terrorism. Dom had passed the course on his first attempt and was immediately deployed overseas. The specifics of those missions weren’t clear, but that wasn’t surprising—special operations missions were often classified. Even Markov’s contacts at the Department of Defense couldn’t access that level of detail.

Then came the botched operation that got him thrown out of the regiment. Again, there were no details. Afterward, he’d been reassigned to Belize, to a training center for U.S. Marines.

She stopped reading and leaned back in her chair, thoughtful. Why did a model soldier with an impeccable record suddenly go AWOL and end up working as a hired gun for a criminal like Alek Markov?

Had he simply had enough of being a lowly-paid instructor, or were there darker forces at play? Had he liked killing too much to be stuck in a training facility? Or was it the action that he craved? She’d probably never know.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen.

Markov. It was a summons.

She got up and went to his study, where he and Ramirez had closeted themselves after the meeting with Domínguez. She knocked on the door.

“Enter.”

“You called, sir?” She never faltered in her professionalism or politeness when dealing with her boss, especially in front of his business partner and associates. It was a self-preservation tactic. Her efficiency sent the message that she was here to do her job, nothing more.

Alek Markov was an intensely private man, but the little she knew about him terrified her. It wasn’t that he was a bully or treated her badly. It was his quiet ruthlessness that scared her. She’d seen how he dealt with people who crossed him, how hemanipulated everyone around him. He’d arrived in the region six months ago and systematically annihilated the competition. Now, no one had the guts to challenge him.

He didn’t know she knew, but it was impossible not to overhear some of his conversations when she brought in tea or biscuits.

And the staff talked. Fernando in the kitchen had become a friend, as had Maria, the young woman who cleaned the house every day. Both were from the nearby village and shared the rumors with her. Her boss had a very bad reputation. Alek Markov was not a man to be crossed—he had no mercy.

“I’m leaving town for a few days,” Markov told her. “I need a flight to Colombia this evening, returning in two days. Hotel accommodation as well. That place we stayed at last time was decent enough.”

“Will it be just you, or Mr. Ramirez as well?” she asked.

“Both of us,” he confirmed.

“Yes, sir.” She left the study, closing the door quietly behind her.

Two days in Colombia. This must have something to do with Domínguez’s visit.

An uneasy feeling swept over her. That man was bad news, she could sense it.

What had they been discussing? What scheme had he been pitching to her boss?

Whatever it was, it involved the Colombians, and that was never a good sign. It usually meant one of two things: drugs or weapons.

Maybe both.

She suppressed a shiver and logged back onto her computer.

She booked the flights to Bogotá and reserved two suites at the Sheraton, where they’d stayed before. Whoever her boss was meeting, it wouldn’t be there. They’d meet somewhere off thegrid. The kinds of people Markov did business with didn’t like to be seen in public.

The file on Domínguez was still open on her computer. A photograph of him in his Marine Corps dress blues stared back at her. His shadowy eyes masked any emotion. His face was stoic, his shoulders back, head up—a proud man, back when he was still a respected member of the U.S. military. Now he was a rebel, a gun for hire, a soldier gone AWOL.

Did he still respect himself? Or didn’t he care what he’d become?

She closed the window. The mercenary wasn’t her concern, and as before, she’d probably never know.

CHAPTER 3

At four-thirty, Ghost left his roach-infested dump of a motel in Panama City and slunk into the back alley, which stank of piss and rotting garbage. The sun was still beating down, baking everything in a relentless heat that made his shirt cling to his back and sweat run into his eyes.