Covertly Strong (The Strong Series Book 1) (10 page)

She pulls her unfocused eyes back to the present as her brown gaze takes in the letter, scanning over the masculine handwriting.
“My Meli.”
The sentimental nickname spurs so many memories from deep inside her soul. She can still picture the tattoo. His tattoo.

She stands in front of her bedroom mirror, lifting up her T-shirt and gazing at the ink on her rib cage. Her tattoo—the permanent reminder of
him
. Her brown eyes stare at the reflection, her fingers tracing the black ink as she remembers the day she got that tattoo—one month after her parents died. She still doesn’t quite understand why she did it. Maybe it was because it was supposed to be a happy reminder of a time in her life when everything was right. Maybe it was supposed to bring her some sort of closure.

But it never did.

The tattoo merely serves as a painful reminder of her past—a permanent scar of what could have been. The black ink signifies that, at one point in her life, Nixon West was her world, her entire reason for living, for breathing, for waking up every single day. And now, it only seems to make her feel angry that their love was wasted. A love that was so undeniable, so tragically beautiful, was just thrown away.

As ridiculous as it sounds, she’s never really gotten over him. And she’s never moved on—never opened her heart up to the possibility of anyone else. Her love for Nix seared her, claimed her, and left an imprint on her heart forever, and the fact that, over fourteen years later, she still finds her chest aching over thoughts of him is evidence of this.

Just reading through his letter has Sloan feeling like the young girl she used to be—a girl who she has tried so hard to forget.
God, just forget about him. He is just a memory now,
she strives to tell herself. She slides the material of her T-shirt back down and focuses her thoughts on her parents, desperately trying to put Nix where he belongs—in the past.

She remembers her loving mother and father.

She remembers the time they spent together after her dad retired. She lived in their San Diego home for two years before she moved across the country to finish undergraduate school at Georgetown University. Her parents loved her with everything they had, and she’ll never forget the last words her father spoke to her.

“Sloan, your mother and I are so proud of you, baby girl. So goddamn proud. I love you, sweetheart, and I can’t wait to come out and visit you for Thanksgiving.”

They died two days later.

Tears prick her eyes again. The liquid emotion slowly seeps past her lids and spills down her cheeks. She hates that she’s allowing her mind to dwell on the past—to think about Nix and her parents. It’s uncommon for her to reminisce, but lately, the past has been on her mind. Sometimes she wonders if she’s missing out on living life to the fullest by constantly hiding behind a façade…

The telltale ringtone of her Blackberry buzzes on the coffee table, pulling her focus away from her long walk down Memory Lane. It’s
the call.
The call she’s on standby for every second of every day.

“Yes,” she answers immediately.

“2555 Seaport Drive. Meet time is thirteen thirty-five. Black Range Rover will be waiting for you at the south entrance.”

Instantly, the line goes dead.

This is the standard protocol. Only one person knows the number to
the
phone—Chief Dubois. This is the man who hired her, the man who saw her potential and trained her to be one of the CIA’s most valuable agents within the Clandestine Affairs Division—a division whose sole focus is to fortify the United States security by collecting human intelligence through covert action and espionage.

She checks the clock that sits beside the small flat-screen TV that rests on a scuffed-up wooden stand. Thirteen hundred hours. Only thirty-five minutes to get to the location. This is the norm, and it’s honestly surprising that she’s been given more than fifteen minutes.

She quickly changes into a pair of black yoga pants and a loose, white track jacket and slides running shoes on. Her long, brunette locks are brushed into a ponytail and a USC ball cap placed over her head. Her attire always serves one purpose—to blend in.
Never stand out.

She’s permanently flying under the radar and her location in San Diego makes it easy to appear as a typical jogger enjoying a nice day in the sun. Nothing about her clothing or choice in foot transportation will appear suspicious.

Sloan slips her CIA-issued Glock 23 into the discreet holster that rests underneath her right arm and heads for the door. She knows every road, every street, every building in the area. It’s her job to have an ironclad grasp on her whereabouts. Seaport Drive is a long, rarely traveled road that’s filled with several vacant buildings. Therefore, it’s the perfect location to receive information for her next assignment.

That’s what
the call
always means. She will be shipping out soon.

Sloan leisurely strides out of the main lobby of her apartment building and stretches in the parking lot. As an agent who is constantly being put in high-risk areas, her physical conditioning must always be top notch. Ninety percent of the job is mental, but the other ten percent can be very physical. Sometimes, she needs to rely on her physical stamina and strength to give her the edge over the enemy.
Needless to say, sometimes shit gets real
.

THE RUN TAKES HER NO time at all. Her eyes glance at the watch secured to her right wrist.
Three minutes and thirty seconds to spare.
She’s certain that no one followed her. See, that’s also part of the job—to always be aware of her surroundings. Always know who’s around, what’s around, and calculate all possible jeopardies she could face in a matter of seconds.

The black Range Rover is nondescript and unmarked. Tinted-black windows, standard license plates that are not registered in the name of anyone here. The vehicle is parked in the south lot behind a vacant building. There are several large trees and a fair amount of overgrown weeds that protect them from being spotted by tourists enjoying a day at sea. Her eyes wander towards the brush as she discreetly walks closer to the SUV. The sound of the engine is drowned out by cruise ships preparing to dock.

The passenger’s side door opens.

A baritone voice welcomes her as she gets comfortable in the backseat. “Agent 55.” The man sitting beside her pushes a button next to his door so the partition—soundproof, black glass—keeps their conversation private from the driver.

“Chief.” Her response is terse as she pulls off the USC ball cap, using the sleeve of her track jacket to wipe off the sweat that lingers on her brow.

“I hope you enjoyed your previous time in Guadalajara, because I’m sending you back. The information you provided us with has proved that we’ve got unfinished business.” Chief Dubois slides a few pictures from a manila folder onto her lap.

Her eyes peer down at the shots of various men she’s become very familiar with.
La Familia Arturo.
A name that’s become synonymous with international drug trafficking.

“Since your departure, we’ve had several reports of gang- and drug-related activity just outside of Guadalajara, Mexico. This isn’t the norm for this city. As you know, Chapala is only thirty minutes away from Guadalajara, and the US government has already issued warnings for tourists to avoid this area at all costs,” he updates accordingly.

Chapala has become a very popular retirement and vacation spot for Americans and Canadians. This was once considered one of the calmest, most nonviolent areas within the Mexican border, but that all went to shit once La Familia Arturo set up residence in a small compound just outside the city of Guadalajara. This
‘familia’
has become notorious for the violence it’s bestowed upon the Mexican people. They have recently gained a reputation in targeting innocent tourists—kidnappings for ransoms have begun to pick up in the area.

Agent L-55 was in Guadalajara over six months ago to gain intel on this Mexican drug cartel. She found leads that provided the CIA with key information and proof that La Familia Arturo was beginning to delve deep into drug trafficking—gaining connections with other cartels throughout the world. Colombia, Costa Rica, The Philippines, and Russia seem to be their primary sources. The Arturos have been moving heroin, cocaine, marijuana, and methamphetamine into southeastern and southwestern United States for the past three years and only seem to be getting stronger, bigger, and more precise.

Chief Dubois pulls a picture from the pile that rests on her lap, placing it front and center. “Hector Arturo—he’s taken the reins since his brother Juan died. There is high suspicion that Hector actually killed off his own brother just so he could take control of the Arturo Family. We’ve linked him with the Al-Asaad-Amad, a known terrorist group that currently resides in Pakistan. We need to know what his relationship is with them. That’s where you come in.”

“What do you
think
his relationship is with Al-Asaad-Amad?” She pulls her focus away from the photograph and gives him sharp eye contact.

“Drug trafficking, sex trafficking, and we’re concerned that Hector Arturo seems to share the same ideals—in relation to the destruction of America—as this terrorist organization. Since he’s taken reign of La Familia Arturo, he’s expanded their compound. We have intel that shows him voicing fanatical religious beliefs,” Chief informs as he slides his phone out of his pocket and accesses a video for her viewing.

The screen shows Hector from a distance, surrounded by at least one hundred people, standing inside of the Arturo compound. The place has expanded since she was there six months ago. It’s downright shocking how large they’ve grown in such short time.

Everyone within the compound follows him inside, chanting and praising Hector.

“Lode Hector! Lode Hector!”
The sound echoes inside the SUV.

Hector begins to speak and Sloan’s jaw drops at the fanatic and radical words that are coming out of his mouth. He urges his people to follow him into The New World Order—
“Il Nuovo Ordine Mondiale.”
He continues to shout and scream untruths regarding the American people and demands that his
familia
follow his commands—to stand with him and fight for the destruction of the United States. He even goes on to exclaim in Spanish, "Our family doesn’t kill for drugs or money. We don’t kill innocent people. We will only kill those who deserve to die. This is our divine justice, our purpose, our undertaking.”

The video ends as loud screaming, cheering, and applause take over the room.

“What kind of fanatical religious beliefs does Hector Arturo have?” Sloan questions as she shakes her head in incredulity.

“He has his own beliefs. He’s a loose fucking cannon. The man seems to think he’s the next Messiah and has somehow managed to brainwash these people into following his lead.” Chief Dubois rubs his hand across his shaved head before sliding a pair of aviators over his eyes. Frustration exudes from his entire demeanor.

“Is Al-Asaad-Amad the same terrorist organization that was linked with the Taliban at one point?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m guessing Al-Asaad-Amad is supporting this asshole because he’s so anti-America,” she responds with a stern edge to her voice. Having heard the words Hector spoke with such animosity, such distain, has her more than worked up. That appalling human being could make anyone’s skin crawl.

He nods his head yes and a wrinkle creases his middle-aged brow. No one knows Chief Dubois’s real age. He looks to be in his late forties, if not early fifties. He started shaving his head three years ago when he started to bald and gray. His face is hardened with wrinkles and gray stubble. The CIA has not been kind to him over the years.

Sloan taps her fingers along the passenger’s side door as she takes in all of the information. “When am I shipping out?”

“A little over a week. You’ll report to Gillespie Field next Monday at twenty-three hundred hours. Contact your surgical assist and make the necessary plans to bring him along. Arrangements for all of your medical equipment have already been made. You will be performing surgeries for Project Smiles at Hospital San Salvador—a small hospital located fifteen miles from Guadalajara. We will have another agent there working indirectly with you to gain additional intel on this piece of shit,” he informs her confidently.