Page 8 of Rebel Protector
Pat ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, shaking his head. "Hell of a way to make a living."
Ghost shrugged. Around these parts, it was just business. These guys made more in a week trafficking drugs and weapons than they ever did working the land. And no one knew the jungle better than they did. It wasn’t complicated—it was survival.
"When do you leave?" Pat asked.
"Tomorrow. I’ll be off the grid for about a week. No cell service where I’m headed."
Pat nodded. "Check in when you’re back. Anything else you need?"
Ghost hesitated for a beat. "Actually, there might be another potential source of intel."
Pat raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"A girl—well, a woman." Ghost corrected himself, the image of that tall, leggy brunette flashing in his mind. Her scent had clung to him, a heady mix of wildflowers and something more dangerous. "She works for Markov. I’m pretty sure she’s his personal assistant. American. Name’s Becca. Word is she used to work at the U.S. Embassy in Panama City."
Pat nodded slowly. "I’ll see what I can dig up on her."
"She might be useful. Markov told me himself he couldn’t run his life without her."
Pat shot him a warning look. "Careful. She could be his mistress. Markov’s not the type to share."
Ghost’s jaw clenched. "Yeah, I’ve thought about that. I’ll check it out before making any moves."
Their conversation wound down after that, each man knowing there was a lot left to do before Ghost would see Markov—or Becca—again. But as they parted ways, a surge of anticipation twisted in his gut. He couldn’t shake it.
He shouldn’t be this excited to seeheragain.
That kind of thinking was dangerous. He wasn’t a man who got distracted easily, especially not by a woman. But something about Becca had burrowed under his skin. Her caramel eyes haunted him, like she was hiding something—maybe something big.
Was she really just a personal assistant? Or did she know things that could help bring Markov down?
Was she loyal to him, or was there room to manipulate her into giving them what they needed?
Whatever the case, he knew one thing for sure—he was looking forward to finding out.
CHAPTER 4
Becca heard the car pull up and drifted over to the window.
It washim. He was back.
A frisson of excitement shot through her, like a live wire under her skin.
He’s a bad boy, Becca. A thug.
She stared, unable to look away. His thick, bulging arms had probably gunned down more men than she’d care to know, those broad, mountainous shoulders carrying more than just gear—maybe wounded comrades, maybe bodies. And that hard, powerful body of his? It looked like it was built for chaos. Destruction.
Stay clear!
Yet her feet stayed planted. She watched as Carlos yanked the hood off his head, revealing Dominguez’s face—hard, unyielding, and tense. He blinked in the sunlight, his eyes adjusting before he grabbed a bulging backpack from the car like it weighed nothing and tossed it over his shoulder. The way he moved, the way he carried himself—it screamedsoldier.
Again, Ramirez came out to meet him, guiding him into the house.
Preferential treatment.He must be important to Markov.
Becca peeled herself away from the window, busying herself with the vase of magnolias on her desk, though her mind was far from the task at hand. The spacious office leading to Markov’s study was where she spent most mornings, but this afternoon, she was restless.
She’d been told to prep the guest cabin down by the beach. Was Dominguez staying this time? Anticipation fizzed in her belly.