Acres, Natalie - Cowboy Boots and Unsettled Debts [Cowboy Boots 3] (Siren Publishing LoveXtreme Forever)

Cowboy Boots 3

NATALIE ACRES

Copyright © 2011

Chapter One

“Some say debts left unpaid are comparable to a bad disease that keeps festering, worsening as the years pass. Depending on the magnitude of what’s owed, what hasn’t been paid, the infection can reach a point where it burns and blisters, scabs and bleeds, until eventually the painful scars left behind become an irritating, unavoidable reminder. Eliminating the reason for the cause becomes crucial then, quite necessary.”

Brock Donovan’s eyes shifted from one agent to the next. “Based on the massive loss this unit endured, collecting what’s owed is imperative. This mission is about retribution, an eye for an eye, one life for another.”

Brock wasn’t one for small talk. He rarely stumbled over his words, but as he searched the weary faces of those staring back at him, he took a moment. Gathering his thoughts, he imagined what must’ve been going through the heads of every operative there.

These agents were tough, real hard-asses. They were trained for any and all situations, but the recent attack hit too close to home. Their enemy had approached from the blind side. By the time the operatives realized what had happened, the devastating blow had already been delivered. The gavel fell, and damning repercussions would soon follow.

The battle was over, but the war was only beginning. The days ahead promised to produce a bloodbath none of them would forget.

Brock paced the small area in front of his attentive audience. “My brothers and I understand what you’ve suffered. We realize what’s at stake. In order to deal with your enemies appropriately, you must have the tools you’re accustomed to using, and right now, you have nothing.

“Since you’ve lost your headquarters and a trusted friend—your leader—we’d like to invite you to our compound in
Virginia
. While we’re away in
Europe
, our home is your home. You’ll find it comfortable and well stocked with weaponry and ammunition. Before we vacate the premises, we’ll make sure to leave behind everything you need for maximum protection. Best of all, your target will come to you.

“While the enemy is in
Chicago
, you still know where to find him. However, you’re at a slight disadvantage here. He’s watching for you and keeps his eyes wide open, even those in the back of his head. Our sources tell us he’s awaiting retaliation. He’s expecting hell’s fury to pale in comparison to your wrath. The advantage you have is found in the fact that he has no idea what any of you look like.”

“How do you know this?” Porter Grills asked, looking away from his phone.

Brock was already irritated. Porter’s cell rang out with a disruptive “ding” each time a new text arrived. Now he had the audacity to question data?

“A recent wiretap revealed a conversation between Juraz and a man we believe may be his second-in-command. He’s willing to pay informants a large sum of money for your identities,” Brock replied, thinking it would’ve been a fine time to tell them that Juraz was only looking for a few individuals, apparently under the impression the opposing team was comprised of three or four mercenaries. Sharing what he’d recently discovered was risky. He wasn’t sure how much Conrad McDaniels revealed to his subordinates prior to his death.

“Intel suggests your rival recently aligned himself with arms dealers from around the world. He’s beefed up his personal security and hired some of the best hit men in the country. True assassins are on his payroll now instead of redneck thugs slinging guns. He employs former SEALs and other special ops.

“Still, you have one other ace in the hole Juraz Mendete isn’t aware of. There’s nothing to indicate he possesses knowledge of the other Underground divisions. The big bad wolf won’t know what hit him once he enters the southern forests of Southwest Virginia.”

Brock turned to a large screen behind him. Fiddling with the projector and remote control, he clicked through several images. Finding the depiction he wanted, he used the laser pointer and said, “Mendete returned to
Chicago
last night. Current data suggests he will divide his time between small-town America and the big city.”

The first picture portrayed a man of stark confidence, pride, and obvious wealth. In the snapshot, he wore a lot of gold. A thick rope chain held a large, rough nugget perfectly matched with a glimmering ring on his right third finger. A Rolex watch adorned with multiple diamonds encircled his left wrist.

His Bugatti Veyron was parked in front of the latest of many new upscale boutique hotels located along Chicago’s Magnificent Mile near Lakeshore Drive. There was no question. This crook liked to rub shoulders with the wealthy. The man knew how to make himself stand out in a crowd, an attribute that could help with his eventual demise.

“Juraz Mendete, your target, is opening an underground club about seven miles from our base. In fact, designs for the new facility were approved by the local planning commission last night. His remodeling project begins tomorrow. With crews lined up to work around the clock, updates shouldn’t take more than a few weeks.

“Two natural masses separate his property from ours. A thatch of greenery thick with sweeping tree branches and barbed wire fencing and the beautiful waters of South Holston Lake prevent the two parcels from adjoining.” Brock paused. “Apparently Juraz was in such a rush to leave Chicago, he failed to notice how much his luck had worsened.

“Juraz recently told an informant he plans to eventually move his
Chicago
holdings to Southern cities. Little does he know, but first time out of the gate, he ran straight into our arms.

“Sources say Juraz didn’t take the time to check out the neighboring properties prior to his purchase, not that he would’ve noticed anything peculiar about our farm. Our front is a large livestock operation complete with beef and dairy cattle, horses, pigs, and goats.”

Brock stared at the next frame centered on the wide screen. A picturesque image of an abandoned camp showcased identical cabins along the water’s edge set against an array of fall colors melded into the solid white background. Apparently taken during fall foliage, the camp photo highlighted the season’s low waters and the bright orange shades of autumn.

“Juraz purchased the largest spread on South Holston Lake. He paid over ten million dollars for the estate. This guy believes he can turn the place into a five-star, world-renowned lifestyle club and spa.

“The property was once owned by a mining company. The camp operated as a summer haven for privileged kids. Now, Juraz Mendete wants to see how much adults will pay to play here.

“With wooded areas, numerous buildings, and true seclusion, the new resort encompasses three hundred acres with over fifteen huts, a large riding stable, tennis courts, and a private residence adjacent to a huge open-air gym. Additionally, guests will find a ten-thousand-square-foot recreational lodge, bar, and restaurant. On the lakefront, there are three docks, and that number probably won’t increase due to the limited availability of permits.

“Juraz’s resort is situated on a point and completely surrounded by water. Lakefront access will be limitless. By vehicle, there’s one way in and one way out.”

After giving the other operatives ample time to view the independent camp photographs, Brock added, “Our place has several underground tunnels. A few lead straight to the water. Access to Mendete’s lakefront playground isn’t an issue. That said, I don’t have to tell you about the complex security we’re expecting. Juraz’s budget for alarms, video surveillance, and guards is estimated at around a million dollars. And that’s just for starters.”

All eyes were on Brock. Questions weren’t asked. Notes weren’t taken. Grim expressions around the room alerted Brock to the obvious. These operatives had killing on their brains. They had a job to do, and their own orders to follow.

This mission is as personal as it gets.
There wasn’t a doubt in his mind.

Brock’s gaze shifted to the back of the room where he spotted the little blonde spitfire. These men worked alongside one of the most sought-after female agents in the world. From what Brock learned prior to his arrival in Chicago, these guys protected little Goldilocks with their lives.

He’d heard all the rumors, but he didn’t give much credit to gossip. From what he’d judged for himself, the Northern Underground Unit—comprised of seven men, five of whom were in attendance, and one woman—was a true conglomerate of professionals.

Originally based in New York, the Northern Underground Unit floated between Chicago and New York City, primarily because of their familiarity with gang-related activity. In recent months, they’d been assigned to various cartels. Their goal was to slow down the endless drug trafficking by cutting off their resources.

One of only a few super-teams, this unit was a platoon of elite forces. They typically went on the most dangerous missions in the world. Often dubbed suicide agents, each member possessed military training, had several kills under their belts, and maintained a rigorous training schedule year-round.

By looking at their past assignments, these men and this woman could walk through fire. The larger teams generally had more weaponry training, and for this particular mission, the Northern Underground Unit would certainly have their skills tested in the coming weeks.

A lot was at stake. This operation was the exception and far from the norm. Each individual there had an intimate understanding of what was required and what they stood to lose.

Their well-respected leader, Conrad McDaniels, was murdered in cold blood along with his wife and four children. Gruesome deaths claimed their friend and superior. From what Brock discovered, every agent present formed a personal relationship with the McDaniels family.

Tears welled in several of the operatives’ eyes at various times during Brock’s presentation. Those weren’t tears of sadness. These fellows were angry. And the lady invented a new definition for rage. Her pale skin had remained bloodred since she’d arrived there.

Brock could relate. Another Underground Unit, the Midwestern division, recently lost one of their operatives, and the fallout had been horrific. The team went on a killing spree, eliminating anyone connected to their agent’s death. It was personal then, too. The Midwestern group was a pack of brothers, and when they lost one of their own, the payback was like nothing Brock had ever witnessed.

Returning to the overhead, Brock said, “I’m here today for several reasons. I’ve been asked to deliver intelligence on your upcoming operation. This isn’t just another classified mission that will bring you face-to-face with an enemy. The man who took away your leader, bombed your headquarters, and set fire to houses and flats believed to be owned by your unit plans to make his second home in Southwest Virginia.

“When the target isn’t in Chicago overseeing Club Sex, he’s in my neck of the woods, and that bothers me. My brothers and I want him eliminated before he makes Abingdon, Virginia, another war zone. We fully expect him to become our problem just as he’s been yours.

“I don’t have to tell you what to expect. You already know. You’ve seen what this man is capable of, and you have the scent of his blood.

“You have a disease on your hands, an outbreak that should’ve been contained years ago. Since those who’ve gone before you failed to handle the problem, you now have an epidemic. The time has come to settle old scores.

“This will be the most important detail of your lives. If you fail to settle unresolved debts, you will die. In this situation, on this particular operation, winners leave with the wind in their lungs. Losers take their last breath.

“Juraz Mendete, your target, doesn’t mess around. No one gets close to him. The only outsiders he’s allowed into his home have ultimately ended up in his bed. Three women have done so in the last ten years. Two of them are dead.”

“Where do we find his significant other now?” Ace Bristol asked.

Brock stood next to the wide screen and clicked the remote a few times. Locating the image of Juraz’s companion, he said, “Meet Mendete’s submissive.”

“She’s not much to look at,” Ace remarked.

Brock shrugged, noting the woman’s cold, glassy eyes. “Thanks to recent information received from an insider frequenting Mendete’s club, we’ve learned Juraz has grown tired of his current sex kitten. Some believe he’s looking for a replacement.” Brock studied the only woman in the room. “Abby Rose?”

“Yep, that’s me,” she answered.

To some, her reply might have come across as a saucy response laden with irresistible flavor, but Brock had studied her like a science. Her retort was anything but flirtatious and friendly.

Brock probably understood Abby better than the men working alongside her. According to military intelligence, Abby was deadly when provoked, and apparently since her boss and his family lost their lives, she’d been in rare form.

He’d spent sleepless nights wondering if Abby had a more personal relationship with Conrad McDaniels, perhaps an undocumented intimate connection no one publicly acknowledged. If so, he needed to know.