Code Name: Disavowed (Jameson Force Security 8)

One, two, three strides and Greer says, “I don’t want to have any regrets. I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow when we go after Mejia, but it’s reasonable to assume I could die. I just want you to know if I could go back and do things differently, I would. If I could talk to my younger self, I would tell her to do whatever it took to keep a man like you.”

Greer’s words are as much a physical punch as they are a warm blanket. All at once, they tear me apart and gently knit me back together.

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, other pedestrians veering around us, and pull her into my arms. My hands go to her cheeks, and I bend down to give her a soft, lingering kiss. I hope it conveys a silent message that her words have meaning.

I lift my head, locking eyes with her. “If I could go back and talk to my younger self, I would tell him to not be a dick. Listen to what you are trying to tell me and do whatever it takes to figure things out. I didn’t work hard enough for you and me. And I’m sorry.”

I kiss her again, feeling like this might be the beginning of a new life. Does she feel the same? Can this be the start of us again?

We must have this conversation, and it has to be the first thing we do when we make it back to our hotel. I need to know that if we come out of this intact—or rather when we come out of this intact—we’re going to work to have a future together. I’m not willing to lead an incomplete life anymore, and I hope Greer feels the same.

Our kiss breaks, and I reach for her hand when the screeching of brakes and tire rubber hissing jolts me straight out of romance and into full protective alert.

Taking Greer’s arm, I pull her behind me as my eyes pin on an older model van with brown paint and even browner rust covering the lower panels. It halts just two feet from where we’re standing on the sidewalk.

It happens too fast for me to react. The side door springs open, along with the passenger door, and men pour out of the van. Four dressed head to toe in tactical gear, masks covering their faces and automatic weapons in their hands pointed straight at me.

By their attire and weapons, I know they’re not Vecindario 18 but rather paramilitary—and no doubt in Mejia’s employ.

The crowd disperses amidst a cacophony of screams and shouts, and three of the men grab me. That leaves one for Greer to deal with, and I know she can handle herself.

I’m stunned when, as I struggle against the restraint, and just before a bag is pulled over my head, that the fourth man doesn’t even attempt to mess with Greer but rather stands protectively with weapon raised to prevent any person with a hero complex to attempt a rescue. My eyes connect with Greer’s for a moment, and I can see the confusion that they’re taking me and not her, and then my world goes dark as the bag fully covers my head.

I hear one of the men shout in Spanish, “Stay back! Stay back!” and several shouts from presumably people who are gawking that a kidnapping is taking place.

“Llame a la policía!” Call the police.

Then a woman screams, not Greer, and the van door slams shut as I’m shoved forcefully onto the floor, face-first and hard enough my teeth slice into my lower lip. I taste blood.

They took me and not Greer, and my relief is immeasurable. Obviously, I’m worried about my predicament, but as long as Greer is safe, that’s all that matters.

CHAPTER 18

Greer

I’m so lost to Ladd’s kiss, I’m absolutely unable to react when the van screeches to a halt and armed men pile out with AK-47s in hand.

The trafficking in weapons that Mejia conducts stems from the huge stockpiles of unaccounted-for guns after the civil wars in Guatemala, El Salvador, and Nicaragua ended. In El Salvador alone, over 360,000 military-style weapons were floating about, and that’s big bucks to someone like Mejia who has no problem pushing them off to good-paying buyers.

It’s the fact that these men are using assault rifles and not pistols that gives them away as paramilitary and not Vecindario 18, as they almost exclusively use handguns.

Regardless, they’re pushing Ladd into the van and once I snap out of the stupor of his kiss, I step forward.

Three men wrestle Ladd, and one man holds his rifle diagonally in front of him, a pointed message that he’ll use it but doesn’t want to aim it at civilians. “Permanezcan atrás. Permanezcan atrás.”

Stay back, my ass.

I take another step forward, intent on fighting him for the gun while he has it in an innocuous position, but his hand shoots out and he pushes me hard in the chest. I’m caught off guard, my ankle twists, and I fall to the sidewalk, landing hard on my butt.