# Navy SEAL Newlywed

Elle James

Here comes the bride…gun at her sideNavy SEAL “Rip” Cord Schafer is officially missing and presumed dead. It’s the perfect cover until he can catch the traitors supplying Honduras terrorists with American arms. It’s not a one man operation, but never in his wildest dreams did he imagine teaming up with a woman: Covert Cowboy operative Tracie Kosart.Posing as wealthy newlyweds, Rip soon discovers Tracie is as skilled at playing his sensual ‘bride’ as she is at covering his six. Despite their jungle-hot attraction, Rip senses Tracie’s reluctance to trust him. But when her cover is blown, Rip knows her life depends on his SEAL instincts and her love depends his unwavering commitment as her «husband.»

## About the Author

ELLE JAMES spent twenty years in South Texas, ranching horses, cattle, goats, ostriches and emus. A former IT professional, Elle now writes full-time, penning intrigues and paranormal adventures that keep her readers on the edge of their seats. Now living in northwest Arkansas, she isn’t wrangling cattle, she’s wrangling her malti-poo and yorkie. When she’s not at her computer, she’s snow-skiing, travelling or riding her ATV, dreaming up new stories.

## Navy SEAL Newlywed

Elle James


www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-00526-5

NAVY SEAL NEWLYWED

2015 Mary Jernigan

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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## Note to Readers

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## Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Publisher

This book is dedicated to all the families of military personnel who have kept the home fires burning and welcomed their loved ones home with open arms.

## Chapter One

Hunkered low in the underbrush, Navy SEAL Chief Petty Officer “Rip” Cord Schafer gripped the M4A1 rifle with the SOPMOD upgrade and inched forward, carefully placing every step to avoid tripping, snapping branches or making any other loud noises. Loaded with sixty pounds of equipment specially selected for this mission, he was ready for anything.

Gunny took point, leading the team into the Honduran camp, keeping to the darkness of the jungle. Moonlight shimmered through the occasional break in the dense overhead canopy, barely making it down to the jungle floor.

Rip had his headset in one ear and listened for sounds of the camp with his other.

Montana eased up behind Gunny, followed by Sawyer, then the newest SEAL, Gosling, with Rip bringing up the rear.

Their mission: extract one undercover DEA agent from a terrorist training camp deep in the jungle of Honduras.

No matter where he looked, Rip could detect no sentries standing guard or patrolling the compound. Strange. The DEA agent had been adamant about being pulled out. He’d feared for his life and had been concerned the information he needed to pass on might be lost.

In his brief plea to be extracted, he’d given specific GPS coordinates. When Gunny reached the position, he held up his fist.

The team stopped in place and hugged the earth, waiting.

He pointed to Montana and Sawyer and gave them the follow-me sign.

The three surrounded the door of the building. Gunny nudged it open and disappeared inside. Montana and Sawyer followed. Gosling and Rip remained outside, providing cover.

Seconds later, they hustled out a man wearing rumpled clothing, his shoulder-length hair straggly and unkempt. He ducked low and moved quickly between them, hurrying toward the path leading out of the camp.

Gunny motioned for Gosling and Rip to fall in with the team. They had their man, and it appeared as though they were going to make a clean getaway with none of the terrorists aware of the agent’s departure.

The hair on the back of Rip’s neck stood straight up. The entire mission had been too easy. If there was any real danger, wouldn’t there have been sentries on alert, wielding machine guns and willing to cut down anyone who stepped into range?

They cleared the edge of the camp, heading back to the river and the waiting boat.

Gunny was in the lead again, followed by Sawyer. Montana was in front of their extracted DEA agent and Gosling behind him.

The agent stumbled for a moment.

Gosling didn’t adjust his stride in time. He caught up with the man then gave him a hand to right himself.

The sharp report of gunfire ripped through the night, shattering the silence.

Gosling collapsed where he stood.

Another shot rang out and the DEA agent grunted and crumpled to the ground.

Instinct made the remaining members of the SEAL team drop to their bellies.

His heart slamming into his ribs, adrenaline racing through his veins, Rip low crawled to the two men who’d been hit. He shone his red penlight over Gosling. The man had taken the bullet in the throat. By the dark stain spreading in a wide blob on the ground around him, Rip suspected the bullet had cut a hole in the young SEAL’s jugular vein. He lay sprawled on his side, his body completely still. Rip covered the wound with his hand, but nothing he did could slow the flow of blood.

“Roll call,” Gunny spoke into Rip’s headset. One by one the other team members reported in.

“Montana.”

“Sawyer.”

“Schafer,” Rip said. His heart in his throat, he reported, “Gosling took a hit.”

Sawyer spun around and low crawled with his weapon in front of him to where Gosling lay unmoving. He jerked Rip’s hand off the wound. “Damn.”

Gunny muttered a curse, “Status.”

For a moment Rip closed his eyes, thinking of his last conversation with the young petty officer. Gosling’s wife was expecting their first child. He’d been so proud, scared and excited all at once.

Sawyer answered, “Gosling’s dead.”

Though Rip knew it, hearing Sawyer’s confirmation made it all the more real and heartbreaking. Overwhelmed with grief but knowing they still had to get the agent out, he moved toward the other downed man a yard away. The agent had been hit in the chest. Without the armor plate the SEALs wore in their vests, he hadn’t been protected.

“Our guest?” Gunny demanded.

Rip felt for a pulse. As he pressed his fingers to the base of the man’s throat, a hand snaked out and grabbed his wrist with surprising strength.

In the darkness of the night, Rip could see the whites of the man’s eyes staring up at him.

“Set up,” the agent said, his voice nothing more than a guttural whisper. He reached up to the medallion around his neck, yanked it free and pressed it into Rip’s hand. “Find out who.”

“Who what?” Rip asked.

“Status on our extraction?” Gunny’s voice sounded loud in Rip’s ear.

“Conscious, but not good,” Rip replied, stuffing the medallion into his pocket.

Shouts could be heard in the village behind them as the occupants raised the alarm. Lights blinked on and headlights lit the night. The tap, tap, tap of gunfire broke through the night’s silence.

“Let’s get out of here.” Gunny raced back to where Sawyer and Rip were leaning over the wounded men. “I’ll take the agent.”

The agent gripped Rip’s arm and refused to let go.

Rip straightened, bringing the man up and throwing him over his shoulder. “I’ve got the agent. Get Gosling. He deserves a proper burial.”

Cursing, Gunny hesitated only a moment before pitching Gosling over his shoulder, muttering, “This wasn’t the way this was supposed to go down, damn it.”

Rip didn’t wait. With the deadweight of the wounded agent bearing down on him, he took off at an awkward lope racing through the trees and vines toward the boat they’d left in the nearby river. Silence wasn’t necessary. Speed was.

Montana ran ahead to get the boat engines started. Sawyer brought up the rear, covering their sixes as Rip and Gunny carried their burdens over the uneven floor of the jungle.

Shots rang out behind them. A vehicle full of angry terrorists raced toward them. Sawyer held them at bay, firing short bursts of rounds into the night. He ejected his clip and without missing a beat slammed another home while running backward to keep up with the other SEALs.

When Rip reached the boat, he jumped on board and laid his charge on the deck. He manned his position behind a grenade launcher, waiting for Sawyer to emerge from the tree line.

Gunny jumped on board, dropped Gosling on deck and took a position behind a machine gun.

As soon as Sawyer cleared the trees, Gunny opened fire on the oncoming sets of headlights.

Rip launched a grenade, aiming at the line of vehicles barreling through the underbrush.

As Sawyer leaped aboard, Montana hit the throttle, spun the craft around on the water and gunned it, sending it speeding downriver, bullets plinking off the hull and hitting the water around them.

Not until they were a good mile downstream did Rip glance down at Sawyer working over the body of the DEA agent.

Rip shook his head. The mission had gone like clockwork. They’d been out of the village, on their way back. What the hell had happened? Rip glanced at his teammate’s lifeless body on the deck of the boat. Gosling was dead. Two shots were fired and then none until the terrorists had loaded up in their trucks and given chase.

Whoever had fired the first two shots could have taken out more, if not all, of the SEAL team. Why hadn’t he?

When the boat reached the helicopter landing zone, Sawyer rocked back on his heels, his shoulders slumped.

Gunny shot a glance back at him. “Well?”

Sawyer shook his head. “He’s dead.”


“HEY, SWEETIE, WOULD you like a drink?”

Rip blinked up at the waitress standing beside him with a tray in her hands. For a full thirty seconds he couldn’t remember where he was. He’d done it again. The shrinks he’d seen in the past had said part of post-traumatic stress disorder was flashbacks to events that had an indelible impact on him.

“Excuse me?” he said, buying time for his mind to reconnect with his surroundings.

“Would you like a drink?” the waitress repeated.

He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

The woman moved away to the next customer in the casino.

Rip stared around at row after row of brightly lit slot machines, pinging, ringing or plinking in the darkness. For a long moment he wondered how the hell he’d gone from a hot, humid, bug-and snake-infested jungle to an upscale casino in Mississippi.

Then he remembered all the events that had led up to this meeting. All that had happened since getting back from Honduras.

He stared around the dimly lit room.

What’s keeping him?

The past six weeks since their failed mission had been a blur. Rip had been back on duty with his team, while covertly researching the odd medallion the DEA agent had shoved into his hand.

The medallion had been a clever disguise for an electronic storage device on which were stored hundreds of photos of the terrorist training camp and crates of American-made weapons and ammunition disguised as World Health Organization donations.

And based on the botched mission in Honduras, someone higher up didn’t want the agent or anyone else exposing who was providing the weapons from the States. How else could a sniper have known exactly when and where they would be unless someone had tipped them off?

Rip had pilfered a copy of the after-action report, developed the pictures and was in the process of piecing things together when an assassin started stalking him. He’d found out that details of their mission had been leaked. Not only after its failure, but before it had even been launched.

Someone, possibly in a high-ranking political position, wanted that agent dead and had sent the SEALs in to get him out of the village and into the open so a sniper could take him out. It was the only answer he could come up with given the limited information he had.

Rip was in hiding, officially missing and presumed dead. The Navy still thought he’d been swallowed by the Pearl River after being shot during a live-fire training mission with Navy SEALs Special Boat Team 22. If not for the help of former SEAL James “Cowboy” Monahan and Rip’s old friend FBI Agent Melissa Bradley, Rip might not still be alive. The two had persevered, and searched the river until they found him holed up in a shack in the Mississippi bayou.

Lucky me. Rip snorted.

Now, after spending the past three weeks recovering from his gunshot wound, Rip was finally able to pursue his self-appointed mission.

He’d gotten his commander and the few members of his team who’d been involved in his rescue to keep his survival on the down low until he could find the persons responsible for the death of the undercover DEA agent.

He couldn’t engage his team in this mission without disclosing to the world and to whoever was responsible for the assassination of the agent that the Navy’s Chief Petty Officer Cord Schafer was alive and well. In order to keep from becoming a target again, it was best if he remained “dead” until he resolved the situation.

Only, he knew he couldn’t do it on his own. He needed a partner, a cover and fake passports to get him down to Honduras without raising red flags to the terrorist organization or the traitorous Americans supplying them with weapons.

Sitting in a crowded casino in Biloxi, Mississippi, with a baseball cap pulled low over his brow, he waited for his contact, not knowing who he was or what he looked like, only that Cowboy’s new boss, billionaire Hank Derringer, was sending one of his operatives from Covert Cowboys, Inc.

Rip glanced up every time a man slowed near the slot machine he was only halfheartedly playing. He looked for a man in a cowboy hat and boots, but most of the men in the place were hatless, gray-haired and wearing comfortable loafers.

Glancing at his watch once again, he started getting nervous. He hadn’t been out in public since the mercenary had shot him. Feeling exposed, he sat at the designated position in the selected casino, at the exact time he was supposed to meet his contact.

Where the hell was his cowboy?

Shoving another token into the machine, he punched the spin button without caring what pictures he’d land on. He was surprised when three cherries lined up on the screen and tokens plinked into the tray below.

Soft, slender hands slid over his shoulders and down the front of his chest, and a sultry voice whispered in his ear, “Getting lucky, sweetheart?”

Nerves stretched to the breaking point, Rip fought the urge to grab the arm, spin around and slam the person to the floor. Instead, he spun on the stool in such a way he had the woman sitting across his lap before she knew his intentions.

Her eyes widened briefly and then narrowed. “Wanna take your winnings and buy me a drink?” She had long dark brown hair, green eyes and a lean, athletic figure dressed in a red cotton sundress that screamed tourist.

Though he gave the appearance of being happy to see her, his hand on her wrist was tight. She wouldn’t get away easily or without raising a ruckus. He smiled at her and, through his teeth, he demanded, “Who the hell are you?”

She smiled back at him, cupped his face with her other hand and patted his cheek, not so gently. “I’m your contact, so play nice and pretend you’re happy to see me.”

For a brief moment he frowned.

She laughed out loud. “If that’s happy, you’re a terrible actor. Make like we’re a couple.”

“Since I didn’t get the memo, I’m a little slow on the uptake. Let me set the stage.” Getting past the shock of his contact’s gender, Rip had to admit she was a lot prettier than any cowboy he might have expected. He wrapped his arm around her waist, then slid his hand up into her dark brown hair and pressed the back of her neck, angling her face toward his.

“What are you doing?” she said, her eyes widening.

“I would think it was obvious. I’m showing you how happy I am to see you.” Then he captured her mouth in a deep, lip-crushing kiss.

Apparently she was so shocked that her mouth opened. Rip slid his tongue in and caressed the length of hers.

At first her hands, trapped between them, pressed against his chest. But after a moment or two, her fingers curled into his shirt and she kissed him back.

When he finally came up for air, it took him a second or two to come back to his senses and remember where he was, yet again.

He stood so quickly, he had to steady her on her feet before he let go of her. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What about your winnings?” she said.

He scooped up enough tokens for two full cups, carried them over to a gray-haired senior citizen and dumped them into her slot machine tray. “Congratulations, you’re a winner.” He kissed the woman’s cheek, grabbed his contact’s hand and headed for the door.

The woman whose hand he held hurried to keep up with him in her bright red cowboy boots. “You were playing the dollar slots.”

“So?” he countered.

“That was probably a couple hundred dollars.”

“Then that woman will go home happy.”

He tipped his baseball cap lower over his forehead, slid his arm around her waist and smiled down at her as he stepped out into the sauna-like Mississippi late afternoon sunshine. “Where’s your car?”

“This way.” She guided him to the parking lot and stopped beside a large black 4x4 truck with twenty-inch rims and tinted windows.

“Seriously?” Rip shook his head. “This is yours?”

“One of the perks of working for Hank Derringer. That and an arsenal of every weapon you could possibly need.” When she hit the key fob, the engine started and the doors unlocked. She opened the driver’s side door and nodded to the passenger seat. “Hop in.”

“How do I know you really work for Hank?”

“You don’t. But has anyone else shown up and told you he’s your contact?”

“No.”

“You have that.” She raised her eyebrows, the saucy expression doing funny things to his insides. “So, do you trust me, or not?”

His lips curled upward on the ends. “I’ll go with not.”

“Oh, come on, sweetheart.” She batted her pretty green eyes and gave him a sexy smile. “What’s not to trust?”

His gaze scraped over her form. “I expected a cowboy, not a…”

“Cowgirl?” Her smile sank and she slipped into the driver’s seat. “I grew up on a ranch, I’ve worked with cattle and horses and I know the value of a hard day’s work. I spent eight years with the FBI. I also know right from wrong and tend to be loyal to a fault, until the person or organization I believe in breaks my trust.” Her lips firmed into a straight line. “Are you coming or not? If you’re dead set on a cowboy, I’ll contact Hank and tell him to send a male replacement. But then he’d have to come up with another plan.”

Rip considered her words and then acknowledged he didn’t have a lot of choices with only a couple of week’s reprieve before he had to turn up alive or be buried by the government. He rounded the front of the truck and climbed into the passenger seat. “I’ll go along for the ride and maybe you can convince me you’re up for the challenge.”

“Please. I don’t normally have to justify my existence to the people I work with. I’m a trained operative. I don’t need this assignment. However, from what Hank told me, you need all the help you can get.”

“I’m interested in how you and Hank plan to provide that help. Frankly, I’d rather my SEAL team had my six.”

“Yeah, but you’re deceased. Using your SEAL team would only alert your assassin that you aren’t as dead as the Navy claims you are. How long do you think you’ll last once that bit of news leaks out?”

His lips pressed together. “I’d survive.”

“By going undercover? Then you still won’t have the backing of your team, and we’re back to the original plan.” She grinned. “Me.”

Rip sighed. “Fine. I want to head back to Honduras and trace the weapons back to where they’re coming from. What’s Hank’s plan?”

“For me to work with you.” She pulled a large envelope from between her seat and the console and handed it across to him. “Everything we need is in that packet. Passports, cash, credit cards and new identities. We also have at our disposal Hank’s jet, a Citation X, capable of cruising at Mach 0.9, almost the speed of sound. Say the word and we can be in the sky within twenty minutes. It’s waiting at the airport.”

Monahan had only good things to say about Hank and all he could do for the operation, otherwise Rip would have been more hesitant getting the billionaire involved. With a DEA agent and one of his SEAL teammates dead, and himself almost killed, he was determined to find the one responsible. But after losing one of his SEAL brothers, he was hesitant about getting anyone else caught in the crosshairs. “Hank sure pulled all of this together fast.”

The woman’s lips tilted up briefly as she drove out onto the street. “Hank has resources most people don’t. Not even the government.”

Rip riffled through the contents of the packet, glancing at a passport with his picture on it as well as a name he’d never seen. “Chuck Gideon?”

“Better get used to it.”

“Speaking of names…we’ve already kissed and you haven’t told me who you are.” Rip glanced her way briefly.

Her eyes narrowed and her lips firmed. “No, I haven’t.”

“Is it a secret? Do you have a shady past or are you related to someone important.”

“For this mission, I’m related to someone important.” She twisted her lips and sent a crooked grin his way. “You. For the purpose of this operation, you can call me Phyllis. Phyllis Gideon. I’ll be your wife.”

## Chapter Two

Tracie Kosart had recognized the man in the casino immediately from the photo Hank Derringer had given her and realized that could be a problem. Even with his shaggy long hair, the breadth of his shoulders, the stubborn set of his chin and the steely look in his gray-blue eyes set him apart from the other gamblers there hoping to score a big win.

Though he’d been slouching on the stool, he looked as if he could spring into action at a moment’s notice. Now as he sat opposite her in the interior of her truck, he filled the space, his shoulders seeming to block her entire view.

“Phyllis, huh?” He stared at her, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t look like a Phyllis.”

“It doesn’t matter.” When he looked at her so intently, it made her body heat and her belly tighten.

“Missy?”

“What?”

“Jasmine, Lois, Penelope? I could list names all day.” He pinned her with his stare, a sassy smirk on his face. “You might as well tell me.”

“Penelope?” She shot a glance at him, her mouth twitching as she fought a smile. “You think I look like a Penelope?”

“Some parents have a sense of humor.” He raised his brows. “Well?”

She sighed. “Tracie. My name’s Tracie Kosart.”

“That’s better.” He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Tracie. And by the way, the name fits you better than Phyllis.”

She took one hand off the steering wheel to shake his, an electrical surge racing up her arm from their joined fingers. Tracie yanked her hand back and wrapped it tightly around the steering wheel, willing the surge of fiery heat to fade.

“You and Derringer seem to have this all worked out.” Rip leaned back in his set. “Where to first?”

“We’ve looked over all the photos the dead agent left you, along with the after-action report from the extraction operation and we really don’t have much to go on. Yes, they prove the terrorists are receiving American-made weapons in World Health Organization boxes. But we don’t know for certain who is sending them or at what point they are packaged to ship via WHO.” Tracie shifted the big truck into Drive and pulled out of the parking lot.

Rip nodded. “I’m betting the World Health Organization didn’t send those boxes.”

“What we need is one of those guns so that we can trace the serial number on it back to the manufacturer. Short of going to Honduras to get one, we should exhaust all other stateside options first.”

“Okay, what options?” The SEAL beside her crossed his arms, which made his biceps appear bigger than they already did.

Tracie had to focus on the road to keep from openly drooling. The man had testosterone oozing from every pore. For a moment she forgot Rip’s question—then it came back to her. “I was hoping you had some ideas. We think the DEA agent’s boss had to have been receiving data from him. He might have other operatives inside the terrorist group or in nearby towns.”

“And how do we find Dan Greer’s boss?”

Tracie snorted softly. “Hank already has. He was able to tap into the DEA database and extract that information.” Hank had the connections, the computer power and a technical guru who could tap into any system.

“I’m surprised Hank hasn’t already contacted the agent’s boss.”

A muffled beep sounded in the console between them. Tracie lifted a cell phone out of a cup holder and glanced down at a text. Her lips formed a broad smile. “As a matter of fact, he has. We have a meeting with Morris Franks in Atlanta in three hours.”

Rip gave her a doubtful smile. “Honey, it takes a lot longer than three hours to drive to Atlanta.”

She turned onto a highway and jerked her head toward a green sign with an airplane depicted in white. “What did I say about having Hank’s Citation X available?” Tracie softened. As a former FBI agent, she remembered how unbelievable Hank’s assets were when she’d first been exposed to them. “Prepare to be impressed.”

Instead of driving through the terminal area of the Biloxi airport, she drove on to the private businesses’ hangars along the runway and parked outside one of them.

As they climbed out of the truck, the door to the structure opened and a man stepped out. “Right this way, Mr. & Mrs. Gideon. I’m Tom Callahan. We’ve topped off the fuel, your pilot has performed the preflight checklist and he’s filed the flight plan. The jet is ready for takeoff whenever you two say the word.” Tom smiled. “And congratulations on your recent marriage.”

Tracie almost did a double take until she remembered that was their cover story. “Th-thank you.”

A hand settled at the small of her back. “It all happened so quickly, we’re still getting used to it, aren’t we, dear?” Rip guided her through the doorway into a reception area.

Tom led the way past a desk to another door that opened into the hangar where a shiny new Citation X airplane sat on the tarmac. The huge hangar door slid open, sunlight cutting a wide swath into the dim interior.

“Shall we?” Tracie asked.

Rip waved a hand. “Ladies first.” Tracie climbed the short set of stairs into the cabin and took the first seat on the far side.

Ducking to keep from bumping his head, Rip entered the cabin and dropped into the seat beside her.

As soon as they were aboard, a flight attendant pulled the door closed, and the engines ignited.

Soon the small jet, with seating for twelve, taxied down the runway and lifted smoothly into the air.

“Okay, now I’m impressed,” Rip whispered. “How long will it take to get to Atlanta?”

Tracie glanced at her watch. “We should be there in less than an hour. In the meantime, we should go over what data the DEA agent was able to pass off before he died and the after-action report, one more time to see if we missed anything.”


RIP STARED ACROSS the narrow aisle at Tracie.

With her long, slender legs crossed at the knees and one of her red high heels bouncing with barely leashed energy, she still didn’t look like a trained operative. He was less than thrilled at the idea of Hank sending a woman to help him. He’d rather have had a man to work with. Women tended to complicate things. His natural urge to protect women and children might get in the way of a successful operation. This operation has been dangerous thus far and will only get worse. I’m not entirely sold on the idea of working with a woman.

“If it makes you feel any better, I used to work for the FBI. I received my training at Quantico and I’ve been a field agent for more than five years. I worked undercover along the Mexican border to help stop several drug-and human-trafficking rings. I know how to handle a gun, and I’m not afraid to use one.”

Rip nodded in deference to her risky and dangerous duty assignments. “Have you ever been in the jungles of Honduras?”

“No, but I’ve been held hostage in a cave in Mexico and survived. I know what hard work, prior planning and enemy engagement is all about. Don’t let the dress fool you.” She raised her hand, holding the cell phone up. “But, if you’re still worried about working with a woman, I can contact Hank now and have him send another agent to replace me.”

He liked her spunk and the fact she wasn’t taking any crap from him. Rip sat back in his seat. “What I don’t understand is why Hank sent you. I thought he was all about cowboys.”

She shrugged, making that movement look entirely too sexy, her creamy white shoulders in stark contrast with the bright red dress. “As I already mentioned. I grew up on a ranch. Hank likes his cowboys—or girls—to have that ranch-life work ethic and sense of morals and values.”

“I don’t know Hank Derringer. All I have to go on is my buddy Jim Monahan’s word.”

Tracie’s lips quirked upward and she stared out the window. “Hank and his team saved my life. I have nothing but respect for the work they do.”

“Just what is it he does?” Rip asked.

“He champions the truth and justice when other organizations can’t seem to get it right or have corruption in their ranks.” As she spoke, her jaw hardened and her mouth pulled into a tight line.

“Why did you give up on the FBI?” Rip asked.

“You know that part about corruption in the ranks?” She snorted. “Well, let’s just say, I wouldn’t be alive if I had relied only on the organization I had sworn into.”

“Surely not all of the FBI is rotten.” Rip studied her.

Tracie glanced his way. “No, not all of the agents are. But Hank made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. After two of the agents I worked with went bad, I was ready for a fresh start.”

Rip turned away and stared out the window. He knew how she felt. As a member of the Navy SEALs, Rip had been trained to rely on his brothers in arms. When one went bad, as one had on the mission in Honduras, it shook his entire foundation of trust. Especially since the bad apple had been the leader of the mission, the now deceased Gunnery Sergeant Frank Petit. Rip’s friend, James Monahan, a man he’d put his complete faith in, had helped to expose Gunny for the traitor he was.

What worried him even more was that they still had no idea who had paid Gunny to leak the information about their mission. He suspected it was someone higher up. Someone in Washington.

For a long moment, he sat in silence, reliving the past few weeks. He was only just recovered from the assassin’s gunshot wound. If not for his best friend and a former SEAL teammate, he wouldn’t have made it. That fact alone gave him hope for humanity. There were good people out there. His glance shifted to Tracie. She might be one of them. Only time would tell.

After what seemed like only a handful of minutes, the jet began its descent into Atlanta.

The plane’s tires kissed the runway with barely a bounce and, after rolling it into an open hangar, the pilot brought the aircraft to a complete stop.

The flight attendant lowered the stairs and stood to the side.

Rip stepped down first into the dim interior of the hangar and held out his hand to Tracie.

For a moment, she refused his proffered hand, her brow puckering. Then she laid her fingers in his.

The last time he and Tracie touched, he’d felt an electric jolt. This time was no different and the fire raced all the way through Rip’s body. What was it about the woman that had his body on high sexual alert? To get his mind off her, he leaned close and asked, “If the DEA agent was terminated for what he knew, how has his boss managed to stay alive?”

Tracie nodded. “Perhaps he doesn’t know anything.”

Rip ground to a halt. “In that case, we’re wasting our time.”

“We won’t know that until we meet with him.” Without slowing, Tracie strode across the hangar lengthening the distance between them.

A man appeared at a doorway. “This way Mr. and Mrs. Gideon. Your car is waiting.”

Rather than be left in the hangar, Rip ran to catch up, falling in step beside Tracie.

A sleek black limousine waited at the curb, the chauffeur holding the door. He didn’t speak a word as he held the door open while Tracie and Rip slid inside.

Once the door was closed, Tracie turned to Rip. “Have you considered the fact that Morris Franks’s willingness to talk to us might be an indication he knew more than he let on to others in his own department?”

Rip’s eyes narrowed and he stared out the windshield as if trying to see into the future. “Or, he could be looking for more information himself.”

“I suppose we’ll know soon enough. The hotel isn’t far from the airport.”

Tracie sat across the limo from Rip, not any single part of her body or limbs so much as touching him. Rip found himself wanting to reach across the short distance and pull her into his arms. The scent of her hair was doing strange things to him. Funny that even with her incredible legs and the classy way the red dress fit her body, the smell of her shampoo was what got to him most. It set every one of his nerves on edge and his groin tightened.

As a SEAL assigned to Special Boat Team 22—conducting missions and training their own team for missions as well as other SEAL teams—he hadn’t had the time nor the inclination to pursue a lasting romantic relationship. Not that there were many women to go around when he was stuck in the backwater swamps of the Mississippi bayous at Stennis where SBT-22 was headquartered.

If he were to pursue a woman, Tracie wouldn’t be the one. She was some kind of special agent for Hank Derringer. She didn’t have any more time than he had to get involved. Not that they would even be compatible. She was too…

Rip struggled to find the right word.

The tightness of her jaw and the slightly narrowed, beautiful green eyes said it all. Intense.

He’d bet she was just as intense in bed. Again his groin strained against the denim of his jeans. Now was not the time to think about getting naked with a woman. He had a job to do.

As a dead man, he needed to resolve the case so that he could resurface alive before the Navy processed him out of a job.

“We’re here,” Tracie said as the limo slid up beside the curb in front of what appeared to be a three-star hotel only a few blocks from the airport. “The driver will remain nearby in case we need him on short notice.”

Rip nodded and glanced at the hotel. “Once inside, who do we ask for?”

“We don’t. We check in as newlyweds.” Tracie glanced his way. “You’ll need your driver’s license and credit card. Our guy is in room 627. We’ll make our way up to his room after we check in.”

Rip pulled out the wallet Hank had provided and familiarized himself with the contents and his new name. Chuck Gideon. “Who came up with the name?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” Rip got out, rounded the vehicle and beat the chauffeur to opening Tracie’s door. “Mrs. Gideon, shall we get a room?” He winked and smiled.

Tracie’s eyes narrowed slightly and she placed her hand in his, allowing him to pull her to her feet on the pavement.

His fingers tingled where they touched hers, but Rip schooled his expression, determined to give no indication that Tracie had any effect on him.

As soon as she was on her feet, she let go of his hand.

Not to be deterred, and using their married status as an excuse, he rested his hand at the small of her back. A slight tremor shook her body. Inside the lobby of the hotel, Rip adopted his role. “We’d like a room for the night.”

“Just a moment, sir.” The hotel manager’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “We have one suite left on the seventh floor.”

“Perfect,” Tracie smiled. “We’ll take it.”

Rip grinned at the manager. “She can’t wait to get me alone.” He held up her left hand, displaying the diamond ring and wedding band on her finger. Then he held up his left hand, displaying a matching wedding band. “Newlyweds.”

The manager smiled and handed them two key cards. “Congratulations.”

“Let’s wait to get the luggage until we’ve seen the room,” Tracie said, with a flirty bat of her eyelashes.

Though Rip knew it was all part of the act, it didn’t stop his pulse from leaping and his blood from thrumming hot through his veins. They stepped into the elevator. Before the door closed, Rip pulled Tracie into his arms and kissed her soundly.

The elevator doors slid shut and Tracie pushed him away, straightening her dress unnecessarily, her hands shaking. “We don’t want to look overeager.”

“Don’t you think newlyweds are anxious to get to their hotel room?”

Tracie shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, never having been a newlywed.” Her words were tight and it was as if a shutter descended over her green eyes.

“Well, I guess that answers one question.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

He smiled, liking that he’d shaken her with his kiss. “You’ve never been married. So you’re not married now.”

Turning her back to him, she said, “What does it matter?”

“I would think it would matter a little since we just kissed.”

“All part of our cover. It didn’t mean anything.”

“If you were married, wouldn’t you hope that your husband would be a little jealous of the man kissing his wife?”

“I would hope he’d understand it’s part of the job. Not that I’m getting married anytime soon.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not convinced marriage is all that great.”

Having been a SEAL for seven years, Rip had much the same perspective, though he’d never voiced his opinion on the institution. Tracie made him reconsider his own stand on matrimony. “I think marriage is okay for some.”

Tracie’s lips twisted as she glanced up at him. “But not you?”

He countered with raised brows. “Or you?”

“Marriage is hard enough when the two parties involved live under the same roof all year long. My jobs in the FBI and now on Hank’s team have kept me moving. I don’t have the time or the inclination to set down roots.”

The door opened on the seventh floor. Rip took the lead, turning toward the stairwell instead of the room the hotel manager had assigned them. Tracie was right behind him.

He hurried down the stairs checking for security cameras. He’d seen one in the hallway on the seventh floor, but not in the stairwell. One floor down, he opened the door.

Movement captured his attention. Two men were entering the stairwell at the opposite end of the long corridor. The last one through looked over his shoulder at Rip and Tracie before shoving the guy in front of him the rest of the way through the door and crowding in behind him.

“Damn.” Tracie ducked past Rip and ran for room 627. The doorjamb was splintered and the door stood ajar. Tracie pulled a pistol from her purse and shouldered her way inside, gun pointed.

Rip dragged the HK .40 from the holster beneath his shirt and rushed in after Tracie.

“Franks is dead.” Tracie turned toward him. “Whoever did it got away.”

“The two in the stairwell.” Rip ran back to the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, jumping over the railing as the staircase made a turn. He landed and repeated the process until he hit the ground floor where he burst through the doorway. As dark sedan rushed by, one of its windows lowered and the barrel of a pistol jutted out.

Rip threw himself to the ground as the sharp report of gunfire blasted the air. He rolled beneath a truck and out the other side, jumping to his feet. Another shot shattered the truck’s passenger window.

Hunkered low with the body of the truck between him and the fleeing vehicle, Rip sucked in a breath and dared to poke his head over the top of the hood, praying he’d have enough time to get a fix on the license plate of the sedan. Already, it was too far away and getting farther.

Rip ran across the grass, cut through a stand of trees and made it to the street as the getaway vehicle turned onto the main road.

He hammered his pistol’s grip into the driver’s side window, cracking the glass.

The driver cursed, and the vehicle slowed for a second. Tires squealing, it leaped across the crowded roadway, and three other vehicles crashed into each other as the drivers slammed on their brakes.

With the pileup blocking Rip, the killers got away.

Farther away from Tracie and the scene of the crime than he felt comfortable with, Rip jogged back to the hotel, and raced up the six flights of stairs.

Tracie was still in room 627 with the dead DEA supervisor.

Rip nudged the door open with his foot, breathing hard, his shirt torn and dirty.

“What happened?” Tracie asked.

“They got away.” Rip kicked the door closed behind him, careful not to touch anything. “Have you called the police?”

She shook her head and held up gloved hands. “No. And I’ve been careful not to leave prints on anything. We can’t blow our cover. There’s still a lot of work to do.”

“What about the surveillance video for this floor?”

“I’ll get Hank to work on that. Right now, we need to find any information that Greer might have left for us.” She slapped a pair of latex gloves in his hands.

Rip pulled on the gloves and glanced around the hotel room. Drawers littered the floor, a small suitcase lay upside down beside the drawers, clothes were strewn around the room as if someone had gone through them in a hurry. Pillows had been tossed off the bed and the mattress lay at an awkward angle, the sheets in a rumpled heap beside the dead man.

“The room’s been tossed. If there was anything to be found, don’t you think the killers would have gotten to it first?” Rip asked.

He glanced at the door. Not only had the killers splintered the frame, the chain lock had been ripped out of the door itself.

“The chain on the door was torn off. The agent knew someone might try to get to him.” Tracie checked the closet, the empty room safe and behind the dresser. “Nothing.”

Rip found a set of keys beneath the corner of the bed. “Think he might have left something in his vehicle?”

“We can check, but we better make it quick. It won’t be long before someone sees the broken door and discovers the body. We don’t want to be around when the police get here.”

Rip nodded. They couldn’t afford to be tied up answering questions for the police. Their fake documents would only hold up until authorities tracked down their real identities. “Did Hank have the access to erase our fingerprints from the FBI and military databases?”

“As far as I know, he removed us from all grids.”

A sense of loss washed over Rip. His identity had been erased from the military system. He’d always been proud of his connection with the SEALs. Having been removed from the system made him feel even more disconnected than his fake death.

Rip squared his shoulders. He didn’t have time to grieve his own death. Palming the car keys, he jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

## Chapter Three

Leading the way, Rip took the staircase down to the ground level.

Tracie followed more slowly in her high heels, listening for others entering the stairwell or raising the alarm about a killing in the hotel.

So far, nothing had gone according to plan, which was right on par for the life of an FBI agent, or a Covert Cowboys, Inc. operative for that matter. Rarely did she have complete control over what happened, but she’d rather be in the position of giving the orders than taking them. She frowned at Rip’s back.

The massive breadth of Rip’s shoulders gave her a modicum of confidence. At least he was capable of defending himself and possibly her, if hand-to-hand combat became necessary.

Outside in the parking lot, Rip hit the unlock button on the key fob. A nondescript gray economy car’s lights blinked and the vehicle let out a mechanical beep.

Thankfully, the car was parked at the side of the building, not in clear view of the lobby or the hotel manager, and hopefully out of range of security cameras.

Without wasting time, Rip dove into the car and thoroughly searched the interior before he gave up and popped the lock on the trunk. It was empty.

“Check under the mat where the spare tire and tools are located,” Tracie suggested.

His hand already skimming over the edges of the trunk lining, Rip found the tab to pull it upward. Beneath the felt-covered liner was a large envelope tucked next to the spare.

A siren sounded in the distance. Tracie’s pulse leaped. “Grab it and let’s get out of here. We don’t know if that siren is headed this way.”

Rip grabbed the packet, dropped the car keys on the ground nearby and peeled off the gloves, tucking them into his pocket.

Rip put his arm around Tracie, tucking the package between them as they made their way toward the limousine the driver had parked in the far corner of the hotel parking lot.

With Rip so close, Tracie had a hard time concentrating and she stumbled.

Rip’s hand on her arm steadied her. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Which is more than I can say for Franks.” Before Rip could reach for the back door, the driver hopped out and opened the door for Tracie. Rip helped her into her seat, leaning across to slide the package onto the seat beside her. In the process, he stole a kiss.

Startled by the feel of his lips on hers, Tracie froze, her mouth tingling, her hands pressed to her chest to still her furiously beating heart.

When Rip rounded to the other side of the vehicle and slid in beside her, his jaw tight.

“Was the kiss necessary?” she whispered.

“It was part of our cover,” he said, his lips twitching in the corners.

“Well, warn me next time,” Tracie muttered.

“Sorry, I thought you’d want me to act like the lovesick bridegroom.”

He had a point. He also had her trembling, and that just wouldn’t do.

He winked at her and glanced at the driver. “For now, just get us away from the hotel.”

The driver nodded and shifted gears, setting the limo into motion.

Rip pressed a button and the privacy window between the driver and the passengers slid upward.

As soon as they were back on the main road and Tracie was certain they weren’t being followed, she opened the packet and peered inside.

“What’s in it?” Rip cast a quick glance her way.

“Photos and some printouts from the internet.” Tracie thumbed through the contents.

“Photos of?” Rip queried.

“People. They appear to be Latino.” She handed one to him. The image was at an odd angle, as if whoever had taken it hadn’t been focusing on the subject. “This is marked as Juan Villarreal.”

Rip’s eyes narrowed and a muscle ticked in his jaw. “Villarreal was the leader of the terrorist camp we raided in order to free the DEA agent. He’s the one in charge of the group using the US-supplied weapons. The photos are probably more of those taken by Greer while he was embedded. I’m surprised they made it all the way to his boss in the States. I had the feeling the flash drive he gave me before he died was all the evidence he managed to get out. Find anything else?”

“More photos and a hand-drawn map.” Tracie pulled the map out of the packet and unfolded it in her lap.

Rip leaned over the map. “Looks like the layout of the camp before we raided. I don’t think it will do much good now.”

“Maybe not, but the photos might help.” Tracie gathered the information and slid it back into the packet. “We need to get this information to Hank and let him run it through his computers.”

“And how will we do that?” Rip asked.

“Back at the airport. Everything we need is on the airplane.”

Rip studied the controls on the armrest and hit the one marked mic. “Driver, take us back to the airport.”

“Yes, Mr. Gideon,” the chauffeur responded.

Tracie shot a brief text message to Hank telling him what had happened and to clear the hotel’s video feeds of their images.

They arrived at the hangar within minutes and entered the big space where the airplane sat waiting for them.

An attendant hurried over to them, “We’ve topped off the fuel and checked all fluid levels. As soon as the chauffeur indicated you were on your way back to the airport, the pilot conducted all preflight inspections and is ready to file a flight plan.”

As they approached the aircraft, the steps were lowered. Tracie climbed aboard first, followed by Rip. The flight attendant secured the door behind them. Tracie led the way to the middle of the plane where she flipped one of the tabletops open, revealing a computer screen. She tapped several keys, and in moments she had Hank’s face up on the screen. “Hank, we’re back on board the Freedom Flight.”

“Glad you’re safely aboard. Brandon wiped the security video of any images including you and Schafer.”

“Good. I’m not certain how soon the body will be discovered. Your help with the security footage should give us some time to get out of Atlanta. We found some data in the DEA boss’s vehicle. I’m scanning it now.”

She raised another part of the table, revealing a computer scanner, and fed the documents they’d found in the DEA agent’s vehicle into the machine.

Hank’s attention shifted to something beside his monitor. “Got them. I’ll have Brandon double check the identities of the men in the photos. But I can’t move on nailing the suppliers of the weapons until we have some serial numbers.”

Rip frowned and leaned close to Tracie so that he could see and be seen by Hank. “The only way to get serial numbers is to go back to Honduras and get them off the guns.”

Hank nodded. “Afraid so.”

Rip’s gaze captured Tracie’s and then returned to Hank. “She can’t come with me. It’s too dangerous.”

Hank’s brows rose. “Miss Kosart’s a trained professional. She knows the risks.”

“Look, frogman, I can speak for myself.” Tracie shoved him aside. “I’m on board. So we’re headed to Honduras as planned?”

Hank smiled. “You can opt out, if you feel it’s too dangerous for your liking?”

“I’ve been in worse situations,” she said, her lips thinning.

“Exactly. You might not want to go to that extreme again. The men in that terrorist camp are pure evil and have little regard for women.”

“Hank’s right,” Rip confirmed. “It’s not a good place for a woman.”

“Or a man.” Tracie crossed her arms. “If we don’t go in for the additional information, how will we stop whoever it is selling American weapons to terrorists?”

Rip opened his mouth to say something, but the stubborn set of Tracie’s chin made him realize he wouldn’t get her to change her mind. Instead, he turned to Hank. “I won’t be able to focus on the mission if I’m worried my partner can’t keep up or will be captured and tortured.”

“She’s your partner. We can’t activate your SEAL unit and send them in again. They’ve been in once and that got one of your men killed. Someone is dirty on the Fed side. Until we find that person, we can’t count on the secrecy of the operation if we involve your unit or any other government agency.”

“I trust my brothers.”

“So did Gosling.” Hank stared straight into Rip’s eyes. “Tracie can handle it.”

“Yeah,” Tracie said, her ire up. “I don’t need you or any other man telling me what is too dangerous for me. We go in together or, if you think it’s too dangerous, I’ll go alone.”

Tracie stared at Rip, holding his gaze, daring him to try to override her decision.

Finally, Rip shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

“That plan is not in my books.” Tracie aimed for confident, when inside she wasn’t quite as certain. The kidnapping in Mexico had shaken her more than she cared to admit.

“Then you’re deluding yourself. You’re headed right into trouble.”

Her chin tilted upward. “That’s my choice.”

The flight attendant appeared. “If you would fasten your seat belts, we can get underway.”

Rip frowned into the screen. “How do you propose the two of us sneak into the terrorist camp?”

“I’ve got that covered. You will be the guests of a friend of mine.” Hank grinned. “You’re honeymooners, I’m sure they have tourists wander off the beaten path on occasion. And Rip you will be especially prone to wandering off. Your cover is a wealthy entrepreneur looking for potential investment property.”

“On my honeymoon?”

“My contact has the story spreading already. You’re notorious for your arrogance and disregard for anyone but yourself.”

Rip snorted. “I’m an entrepreneur in a violent, nearly lawless country?”

Tracie’s brows rose. “Are you afraid?”

He met her stare with his own, his lips firmly set into a straight line. “Not for me. If you recall, I’ve been there. I know what the terrorists are capable of.”

“Then you’ll be the best guide to get us back in there.” Tracie nodded at Hank. “We’re good to go.”

Hank tipped his head. “Glad to see you two agreeing. Your flight plan has been filed. Brandon tells me you’re number three in line to take off. My contact, Hector DeVita, will greet you on his private landing strip. I’m sending two of my best bodyguards from CCI to provide some backup. They should arrive soon after you.”

“Only two?” Rip’s lips thinned. “Honduras is overrun with rebels, terrorists and guerillas, and you’re sending only two of your best bodyguards for us?”

Hank smile. “DeVita will augment with several men of his own. He’s in the security business, providing bodyguards and human shields to the wealthier members of Honduras’s population. The plane you’re on is fully equipped with an arsenal of weapons you might familiarize yourself with.”

Tracie harrumphed. “Some honeymoon.”

“Nothing but the best for my baby,” Rip winked at her.

“Good luck, you two. Make use of the satellite phone if things get tough. I’ll answer at any hour.”

When the call ended, Rip stared across at Tracie. “I felt better going in under the cover of dark with my SEAL team.”

“What? You’re not up for a frontal assault in full daylight with only a girl as your sidekick?” She leaned back in her chair. “No guts, no glory.”

The giant hangar door opened to let in the afternoon glare. The plane taxied out into the sunshine. Within minutes, they were in the air, winging their way to Honduras.

Tracie closed her eyes. “You might as well get some rest. Once we hit the ground in Honduras, we’ll need all our faculties to pull off this information-gathering honeymoon.”

Once they had serial numbers or even a manifest, they might have a chance of tracing the weapons back to those in the United States who had sold them. Nothing like barreling into a potentially hostile situation pretending to be a newlywed couple to get your adrenaline pumping.

Knowing they were headed into a hotbed of danger in the steamy Central American jungles of Honduras didn’t stop a chill from slipping across Tracie’s skin.

Whatever happened, she refused to be taken captive ever again. If the terrorists wanted her, they’d have to kill her before she’d surrender.


RIP REMAINED AWAKE, studying all the information they had on the case. He reviewed every photograph to glean as much insight as possible from the details in the images they’d obtained from Franks…everything from the faces to the crates of weapons.

After the botched retrieval of the DEA agent by SBT-22, the terrorist camp had probably moved to another location, taking advantage of the jungle’s canopy for concealment from satellite photography. Finding them would be a challenge.

Beside him, Tracie had leaned back in the contoured seat with her eyes closed, the steady rise and fall of her chest letting Rip know she’d fallen asleep.

His attention shifted from the computer to the sleeping woman beside him.

Her long, soft brown hair fanned out around her shoulders, and her dark brown lashes made shadowy crescents against her cheeks. Apparently, she was caught in a not-so-pleasant dream. She shivered again and whimpered.

Her eyelids twitched, her eyes beneath them darting back and forth. Her fingers clenched the armrests and a tremor shook her body. Rip motioned to the flight attendant to bring a blanket. He took it from her and laid it across Tracie his hand finding hers.

She let go of the armrest, fingers curling around his, squeezing so tightly she nearly cut off his circulation.

“Tracie,” Rip whispered. “Wake up.”

Her head turned from side to side and she whimpered again.

“Tracie, wake up.” Rip made his entreaty more forceful. He didn’t like seeing her in such distress. What kind of dream was it to make her so upset?

When she still didn’t wake, he leaned forward and captured her face between his palms. “Tracie, it’s okay. You’re just dreaming.”

The CCI agent’s eyes blinked open, the startling green of them piercing Rip through the heart with the anguish reflected in them. She stared around at the interior of the plane. “What…where?” She shook her head and her gaze locked with Rip’s.

He stroked his thumbs across her cheek. “Remember me? I’m your husband.” He winked and pressed a kiss to her forehead, liking the sound of the word on his lips. What would it be like to be Tracie’s husband? “You were having a bad dream.” He leaned back, letting go of her face.

Tracie touched her fingers to the place he’d kissed and frowned. “Oh, it’s you.” Dragging in a shaky breath, she let it go slowly and sat up. “I’m sorry. For a moment I forgot where I was.”

“I take it you weren’t in such a good place in your dream.” He tucked the blanket in around her sides.

Sitting up, Tracie adjusted her seat to an upright position and pulled the blanket up to her chin, her body trembling. “It was only a dream. How long have we been flying?”

“Two and a half hours.”

“That long?” She pushed her hair back from her face and slipped an elastic band around the thick hank, securing it in a ponytail at her nape. “I must have needed the sleep. What about you? Did you rest?”

“I can rest when we solve this case, and I can return to the land of the living.”

Tracie’s lips twisted. “I know this must be difficult for you to play dead and alive at the same time. Hopefully, we’ll get in, get out and the terrorists will be none the wiser.”

Rip snorted. “That’s what we planned when we went in to get Greer out.” He glanced out the window into the clear blue sky. “That’s not quite how it worked.” Gosling’s wife had been devastated when she’d gotten the news of his death. She’d almost lost the baby.

Tracie laid her hand on his arm. “We’ll do the best we can. You should get some rest.”

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “What were you dreaming about when I woke you?”

A long moment of silence stretched between them.

Rip opened one eye.

Tracie stared straight ahead, her face pale and drawn. Finally, she spoke. “I was dreaming about Mexico.”

Closing his eye again, he allowed his lips to quirk upward in a wry grin. “I take it you weren’t dreaming about a vacation to Cozumel?”

“Not hardly.”

Rip opened his eyes.

Tracie had turned her head away and stared out the window. Her back stiff.

“Dreaming about being held hostage by members of a drug cartel?”

She nodded.

Rip slid his hand over hers and gently squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry.”

Tracie turned to stare at where their hands touched. “It happens.”

“Yeah, but it’s not something you get over that easy. I’d bet you have PTSD.”

She shrugged. “What do you do? Give up?” She shook her head. “Not my style.” Her hand slipped from beneath his.

Rip’s grip tightened before she got away. “Sometimes it helps to talk about it.”

“Thanks, but I did enough talking to the FBI shrink.” She tugged again and he let go of her hand. “I want to get on with my life, not dwell in the past.”

“I get it.”

“Perhaps we should look at the weapons Hank sent for our use,” Tracie suggested.

The flight attendant cleared her throat. “Mr. Derringer also provided additional clothing, if you’d like to change.” She opened a small closet with an arrangement of clothing hung on hangers that included several nice dresses in light colors typical of warm climates, a man’s light gray suit and a white linen suit next to it.

“Oh, please,” Tracie said. “Wear the white one. It reeks of spoiled, rich playboy.”

“I thought I was going for wealthy entrepreneur.”

“True, but that white, with your dark hair, will make more of a first impression. Very sexy.”

Rip’s brows rose and his lips curved upward. “You noticed?”

Tracie shrugged. “I’m an agent. It’s my job to notice things.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fine.” Tracie frowned. “Wear the gray one. I don’t care.” She disappeared around a curtain at the rear of the plane with one of the dresses.

Though he tried not to, he couldn’t help watching Tracie’s bare feet beneath the curtain. The red dress pooled on the floor and she stepped out of it, then light yellow filmy fabric puddled on the floor of the plane and Tracie’s feet stepped into the middle of it.

Something about her bare feet had Rip’s blood singing through his veins at Mach 5. He had the urge to yank the curtain back and feast his eyes on her naked body.

A slow chuckle built in his chest and he nearly laughed out loud at what he expected her reaction would be if he followed his urge. He rubbed his cheek where he guessed she’d slap it. But, damn, it would be worth it. The woman had his insides tied in knots.

Tracie emerged, wearing a beautiful dress that hugged her breasts, emphasizing the ripe, rounded fullness while drawing attention to the narrowness of her tiny waist. The skirt flared out and fell to midthigh. Long legs stretched from what seemed like her chin to her slender feet encased in nude, strappy stilettos. She was pulling her hair up into a sleek French twist, her arms raised, head tucked low.

For a moment, Rip could only stand and stare. When she finally glanced up, she caught him gawking.

Snapping his mouth shut, he took the white suit off the hanger and stepped behind the curtain, coming out when he had the white trousers on, a black button-up shirt, open halfway down his chest and the jacket hooked on his finger and slung over one shoulder.

Tracie stood beside the closet, arms crossed over her chest, a cocky look on her face. When she caught sight of him, her mouth opened as if to say something and closed again without uttering a word. She swallowed hard, the muscles in her throat working. “I—” Her voice came out in a tight squeak. After clearing her throat, she finally managed, “I was right. Damned sexy.” Then she turned on her stilettos and marched back into the cabin.

Rip chuckled. If he wasn’t mistaken, the woman had been tongue-tied by him in a white suit. Who’d have thought a man in a white suit would have that much of an effect on a woman. He’d have to ask Hank where he’d gotten this one. It would be worth it to invest in something that inspiring. Especially if Tracie thought it made him look sexy.

He returned to the cabin with a wide, satisfied grin on his face.


FOR THE NEXT thirty minutes, Rip and Tracie poured over the racks of rifles, grenade launchers, pistols and explosives with which Hank had seen fit to equip the small armory on the airplane.

Rip tucked a HK .40 caliber pistol in his boot, then he grabbed a nine-millimeter Glock in a shoulder holster and slung it over his shoulders.

The flight attendant stepped up behind him and offered to hold the white linen jacket that went with the tailored white trousers, while he slipped his arms into the sleeves.

Though the sleeves were long, the entire outfit was surprisingly comfortable and cool. Used to heavy battle-dress uniforms, bullet-proof vests and helmets, Rip felt somewhat naked and exposed in the suit.

“Smile. You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon without a care in the world.” Tracie adjusted the collar of his shirt beneath the jacket and patted his chest. “You look more like a kid in his itchy, Sunday best.”

Rip fidgeted. “I’d rather go in with my M4 on automatic.”

“Well, we can’t. We’re honeymooners and guests of Hector, so act like you’re in love.” Tracie’s eyes widened and a smile curled her lips. “Unless you’ve never been in love.” Her brows climbed up her forehead. “You haven’t, have you?”

He shook his head. “Haven’t had the time. I was a little preoccupied with SEAL training straight out of Navy basic and saving the world one bad guy at a time for the past seven years.”

She smiled at him. “Let me guess…it’s a tough job, but—”

“—someone has to do it.” With one arm, he captured her around the waist and clamped her body against his, his other hand reaching up to cup her face in his palm. “Is this better, mi amore?” He bent to claim her lips with his. At first he did it to prove a point, but when her body pressed to his, it triggered a response he wasn’t prepared for.

Her arms slid around his neck and her breasts pressed against his chest, he couldn’t break the kiss to save his life.

Not until a discreet cough sounded nearby.

Her cheeks flushed, the flight attendant gave him a weak smile. “Sorry, but Hank’s on the satellite phone. He wants to talk to you two before we land.”

Tracie stepped away and wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. “Tell him we’ll bring him up on the computer.” She took a seat at the monitor and clicked the keyboard, bringing up a video feed of Hank.

“Tracie, Rip.” Hank nodded. “We have a little information on the man called Carmelo Delgado we thought you should know. He’s a coffee plantation owner. Though they don’t have photos to back it up, the Feds think Delgado is a key player with the rebels. His plantation has never been targeted and he keeps a heavy contingent of gunmen employed to protect his interests. Locals say that he is well-known in Honduras for his ruthless disregard for the law and life and for the way he treats women. Or should I say beats women?”

“Sounds like a nice guy,” Tracie said, her voice flat.

“Be careful around him,” Hank said. “He’s dangerous and he could be one of the rebel leaders.”

“We’ll keep that in mind. Did you find anything else?”

“I don’t know if it means anything, but there is a photo of Senator Craine in San Pedro Sula this year. He’s been in several of the Central American countries negotiating trade agreements between the different countries and the US.”

“So?” Rip stared at the screen, studying Hank Derringer’s face. He didn’t look like a billionaire. He looked like a rancher with his weathered skin, shock of white hair and a blue chambray shirt he might wear out to the barn to muck stalls.

“Brandon found a photo of Craine and Delgado at a trade meeting, shaking hands.”

“Flight attendant, prepare for landing,” the captain said over the intercom.

“We’re about to land,” Tracie told Hank.

“We’re still searching for more clues. If we find anything else, I’ll call you on the satellite phone.” Hank rang off.

Rip took his seat across the aisle and buckled his seat belt, his mind not on the information Hank had imparted but on the kiss that had left his head spinning and his pulse hammering. She was such a distraction, he was afraid he’d lose focus when he needed it most.

Turning his back on Tracie, Rip leaned toward the window, staring down at what appeared to be a jungle rushing up at them, when in fact they were plummeting toward the treetops.

The adrenaline coursing through his veins spiked at the speed of their descent. He peered closer as the Citation X circled, dropping toward the canopy, slowing as it approached the ground.

A wide slash opened up in the green carpet below, revealing an expansive field with a magnificent hacienda sprawled across a hilltop, its stucco walls painted a pale terracotta and accented with creamy white trim. The place had a dark terra-cotta tiled roof and richly dark wooden doors. A sparkling pool provided a splash of blue with palm trees lining the tiled deck.

To the north of the house stretched a long, level green field of grass with several wind socks along its length. It appeared to be more of a fancy playing field than a beautifully manicured and level landing field.

The Citation kissed the turf, the pilot reversing the thrust to come to a swift stop on the grass-covered landing strip. From all appearances they’d landed in a tropical paradise.

The peace and tranquility of the lush setting was short-lived. As they taxied to a halt, several topless Jeeps, with machine guns mounted on them, exploded out of the tree line headed straight for the Citation.

The pilot’s voice sounded over the plane’s intercom, “Relax, our host assures us the approaching vehicles are his men coming to greet us and ensure our safety.”

Rip frowned, patting the Glock in his shoulder holster. “They don’t look like the welcoming committee.”

Tracie bit her bottom lip. “I hope they’re on our side. I’d hate to take live fire from one of those guns.” She peered out her window, her brows furrowed.

Even if they’d wanted to, they couldn’t take off again and leave. Not with Hector’s men surrounding their plane with weapons pointed at them. Now that they were in Honduras, they were Hector’s guests, like it or not.

Perhaps a little danger was just what Rip needed to wipe away the aftereffects of that kiss. One thing was certain, it had left an indelible impression on his lips and his libido. Pretending to be a lusty, loving honeymooner wouldn’t be such a burden to bear. Turning off the act at the end of this charade would be an entirely different story.