Page 6 of Rebel Protector

He paused, scanning the street, waiting. Markov’s crew might’ve put someone on him. His instincts, honed by years of service, were sharp. Nothing moved. No one followed. Satisfied, he stepped out of the alley and onto the cracked pavement behind the motel. This wasn’t the safest part of town, so he kept an eye out for both petty criminals and Markov’s hired guns. The Glock tucked into the back of his jeans felt like a steady companion, just out of sight but always within reach. The military knife strapped to his ankle gave him a little more reassurance. He could handle himself, no problem—but he didn’t need that kind of distraction right now. Too much was riding on this job.

He headed toward the intersection, took a right, and walked three blocks to a run-down bar that catered to the desperate and dangerous. Before stepping inside, he circled the block, checking for tails. No one was on him.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, the stale, smoky air hitting him. No one gave a damn about non-smoking laws here. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light, and he spotted his contact—a man in his forties with close-cropped hair and a lean, hard build, sitting at the back. Even in his casual jeans and loose shirt, Pat hadex-Navy SEALwritten all over him. You couldn’t scrub that kind of training off.

Ghost ignored the suffocating heat that only worsened in the bar. A ceiling fan whined and groaned as it made slow, useless rotations, and there wasn’t a whiff of air conditioning to be found. The old man hunched over the bar didn’t seem to mind as he worked his way through a bottle of Jack. Ghost’s eyes swept over the room, instinctively assessing threats. A couple making out in the corner, a group of barely-out-of-their-teens drinking cheap beer and chain-smoking, and three guys playing a drinking game, a bottle of tequila between them. None of them set off any alarm bells.

“Pat.” Ghost nodded at the man he’d met once before and slid into the chair across from him.

Pat returned the nod, tapping his beer. “Drink?”

“Yeah.” Ghost didn’t really want one, but it’d look off if he didn’t.

Pat gestured to the barman, a pock-faced Panamanian with long hair who looked like he’d stepped out of a bad Tarantino flick. No table service here. When the beer landed on the counter, Ghost got up, grabbed it, and returned to the table, giving the barman a quick nod.

“How’d it go?” Pat asked, cutting right to the chase. Small talk wasn’t in the playbook for men like them.

Ghost had first met Pat about a month ago, and it hadn’t been under the best circumstances. The former Navy SEAL had caught him off-guard—something that didn’t happen often. Ghost had been exhausted after a week in the jungle, headingback to his shabby apartment for a much-needed shower and some sleep when Pat and another guy named Blade had ambushed him. They’d been quick, well-trained, and Ghost had barely gotten in a swing before he felt the cold steel of a gun pressed into his back.

“We need to talk, Major,” Pat had hissed.

It had been a long time since anyone had called him that. They’d forced him up to his apartment, and as soon as he realized who they were, Ghost knew he’d have to move. If these guys could track him down, so could anyone else.

Pat and Blade weren’t amateurs—they were with Blackthorn Security, a private security outfit run by former SEALs that operated in the shadows.

“I’m impressed,” Ghost had commented back then, but the two hadn’t even cracked a smile.

“There are people worried about you,” Pat had growled, keeping his weapon trained on Ghost.

“There always are,” Ghost had shrugged.

“You’ve been off the grid for ten months. Your superiors want answers.”

“I’m undercover,” Ghost had growled. “They know that.”

Pat had exchanged a glance with Blade. “I don’t think they do. Your last contact was six months ago.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“There are rumors you’ve turned,” Pat had added, his steel-gray eyes boring into Ghost. “Working for Suarez.”

Ghost had scoffed. “Of course I’m working for him. That’s my assignment.”

“You can see how it looks,” Pat had said. “Undercover operator gets cozy with one of Latin America’s biggest drug traffickers, goes rogue. Why didn’t you check in?”

“Too risky. I’ve earned Suarez’s trust. Blowing that would’ve cost me the mission—and my life.”

The two men had been dangerous, no question, but Ghost could hold his own. He’d kept his voice low, calm, even as they stared him down.

“You can trust us,” Blade had said.

“No offense,” Ghost had replied, “but I don’t know you from Adam.”

“SEAL Team Six,” Blade had said, his voice clipped. “And this is Pat Burke, retired Navy SEAL commander. We run Blackthorn Security. We specialize in off-the-book ops.”

“Among other things,” Pat had added, his jaw hard enough to crack granite.

Ghost had studied them, weighing his options. “What do you want with me?”