Hot as Hell (3 page)

shopping for the mission; she could buy whatever else she needed in Cartagena.

Ignoring the crowd that had moved to surround Ron and the little tourist who patted Dawn on

the arm, she looked around and spied a taxi dropping off a man at an office building across the square.

She turned and smiled at the nice woman. “Thanks, doll, but I’ve got to run.”

Dawn whistled, waved a hand, and shouted, “Taxi.”

The cab made a U-turn and pulled up next to the crowd. She got in the back. “Airport, please.”

Chapter 3

March 1st, MacLean’s private island, off the coast of Brazil

“What the fuck happened in Belize?” Syd MacLean addressed Armando Rossi, one of his

enforcers. While Armando, a Peruvian, was not as much of a hulking brute as his older brother Alberto

a.k.a The Albatross, he was still an intimidating presence with his prominent Cro-Magnon brow, swarthy

skin, and shoulders so wide that he’d had to angle his way through the observation room’s doorway.

Syd turned his back on Rossi and stared through the one-way mirror at the action in the training

room. One of his men was disciplining a sex slave who’d made the grievous error of biting her trainer

during fellatio training. Syd should probably stop the man from damaging the merchandise, but he

was pissed and had far more important things to worry about. Besides, there were hundreds more

homeless young girls on the streets of Rio; he could easily replace one or two.

“I am not exactly sure,” Rossi replied, his voice rough from damage done to his larynx during a

short sojourn in a Peruvian prison.

Syd turned away from the discipline session and glared at the man. “You’re not exactly sure?”

he murmured. He raised his hand to rub his face, a nervous habit from his youth, and stopped just

in time. He was still healing after major plastic surgery and rubbing the still tender tissue was not a

smart idea. The last bandages had been removed less than a month ago. He still had light bruising and

swelling.The surgeon had done a remarkable job. Syd’s own mother wouldn’t recognize him. Hell, most

days he didn’t even recognize himself. His cheekbones were higher and sharper. His jaw wider. He now

had a cleft on his chin. His eyes were more open, and brown contact lenses covered the light blue-

gray of his eyes. He kept his dark hair, but had it styled differently. His genetics had given his skin olive

undertones and lots of sun had bronzed him to perfection.

Reining in the need to kill the messenger, he took a few deep breaths. None of the clusterfuck

in Belize, however it happened, was Rossi’s fault. He needed Rossi. The man was one of the few left

in his inner circle who knew Syd’s history, from his days in the Defense Intelligence Agency to his role

as respectable Brazilian businessman Sergio Manuel Lazaro and as the trafficker Oraio. “What
can
you

tell me?”

Whatever had happened, had to be bad news. Syd hadn’t heard a word from his right-hand-

man O’Riley since February 25th. O’Riley’s mission had not only been to choose a new chief hacker

for Syd’s illicit businesses, but also to have expedited a shipment of cocaine to their Mexican cartel

contacts. Those same contacts had called him earlier today and were very displeased at not receiving

their drugs. They had clients waiting for the product; a lot of money and loss of face weighed in

the balance. Syd had had to arrange for a replacement load of cocaine from one of his contacts in

Colombia, at a loss for him.

“There was no sign of O’Riley. My brother and Salazar are dead.” Rossi’s face darkened and

anger flashed in his dark brown eyes. “Your resort has been taken over by the Belizean Defense Forces.”

Rossi’s anger was understandable—the man had lost a brother, the last of his family— but he

had it under control… for now.

Syd was furious and perplexed; he’d lost valuable men during what should’ve been a low risk,

in-and-out operation.

“
Jefe
,” Rossi continued, “there were armed guards all over your resort. The Belizean government

has posted signs. They’ve seized the hotel and the land as spoils of the drug trade.”

“Fuck.” Syd fisted his hands and turned away from Rossi. He picked up a chair and threw it

at the wall beside the one-way mirror. The resounding crash had the man wielding the whip halting

and looking back at the one-way mirror, then he shrugged and resumed whipping the young girl. Her

piercing screams exacerbated Syd’s already raw nerves, so he turned down the sound.

“Where’s my cocaine?” he gritted out, a muscle along his jaw pulsing.

“Interpol has it.” Rossi swallowed hard. “There was an Interpol team in the village, assisting the

Belizeans with the investigation and inventorying the cocaine.”

“Fuck!” Syd kicked the chair he’d thrown. Rossi winced, but to his credit, didn’t move away.

Losing a large shipment of quality cocaine, three of his top men, and a complete fucking resort were

problems of epic proportions. “Fucking Interpol. They’ve been fucking with my businesses for far too

long. But how in the hell did they single out that resort to investigate at that particular time?”

Rossi shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Of course, he didn’t.

Had his former employer, the Defense Intelligence Agency, gotten a line on him?

When Syd had run from D.C. months ago, he’d lost his NSA contacts. He’d been relying on the

labyrinth of shell companies to cover the true ownership and nature of his illegal business activities as Oraio. That was why he’d had O’Riley set up the hacking competition at his Belizean resort property. A

man couldn’t play in the shadow world of illegal trafficking without good intelligence. And for that, Syd

had needed a top notch hacker.

“What happened to the hackers there for the competition?” Syd asked.

“They were gone.”

“Gone where? Did Interpol detain them?”

Rossi shrugged.

Syd shook his head. The man was clueless. While Rossi was a loyal employee, he was muscle

just like his brother. Muscle was easy to replace, but, damn, replacing the intelligent, IRA-hardened

O’Riley and the wily negotiator Salazar would be more difficult.

He eyed Rossi, who swallowed hard. “Did Interpol take O’Riley into custody? What about the

rest of the security team your brother had with him? And my hotel security guards—what have they

told the authorities?”

Not that the hotel security personnel knew anything other than their employer was a rich

Brazilian businessman, but they might’ve seen or heard something that would make it necessary to

eliminate them as witnesses.

“The rest of my brother’s team were also dead.” Rossi looked even more grim, if that were

possible. “O’Riley hasn’t been seen since the night of the 25th when the hacking competition was held.”

“Hell.” Syd leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the one-way mirror and worked on

centering himself. No one in the Belizean government—or Interpol—had yet contacted the agent for

the shell company which, on paper, owned the resort. The ownership trail was purposely Byzantine

and would take weeks to unravel.

But eventually someone would.

Normally, Salazar would’ve handled dealing with the questions and issuing statements denying

all knowledge of illicit activities.

Whatever had happened to cause the debacle in Belize, the timing sucked. Syd would have to

handle the fallout now. It was fucking inconvenient, but what could he do?

But the Belize situation, the missing O’Riley, and Interpol’s nuisance investigations would have

to wait until he could devote his full attention to them. Right now, he had other business, highly

profitable business, that couldn’t wait. He was due to leave in two days to meet and complete a

transaction with Sheikh Benrabi, an important tribal leader from Yemen, who was buying a shipment

of sex slaves.

Besides having sex with very young women, Benrabi liked to gamble. Since Brazil had no casinos,

he and Benrabi had agreed to meet in Aruba to finalize the sale and make the exchange. This worked

out well for both men since Aruba had banking laws which would allow the money to be transferred

to Syd without the scrutiny his Brazilian accounts had drawn from Interpol.

Syd had looked forward to the trip. He deserved a little R&R after all the surgeries and

excruciating recovery time. He wanted to fuck women who were attracted to him as a man and not

merely to please him in order to escape punishment.

And, like Benrabi, he also liked gambling. For years, Aruba had been one of his favorite places

to visit when he wanted to relax, put aside all his deceptions, and just be himself. He’d enjoyed Aruba

so much he’d even bought a huge estate there under his Lazaro identity, complete with a yacht and

private dock.

“Are you still going to Aruba?” Rossi asked. “Salazar was supposed to go with you.”

“Yes. I can’t have another business deal go south on top of the Belize fiasco.” Bad news spread

fast in the shadow world, and until Belize, Oraio’s reputation as a reliable provider of drugs, weapons,

and slaves had been platinum. “The container ship with the merchandise is already en route to Aruba.

Benrabi will want his slaves. He has promised them to his men.”

“
Jefe
… Interpol also seized the computer server O’Riley took with him.” Rossi frowned. “This

could lead to very bad things, yes?”

Well, well, the muscle wasn’t as dumb as Syd thought.

“As soon as O’Riley didn’t report in on the 25th, I had the techs shut down all connections to

that server and had them start to cover our tracks,” Syd said.

Even if Interpol, or worse, the NSA, tracked the data back to his legitimate businesses in Brazil,

his response would be the same. Rogue employees. No one could prove Sergio Manuel Lazaro had

explicit knowledge of what O’Riley and the others had been doing in Belize.

Until he was assured his ass was covered on the computer end, he’d conduct business the old-

fashioned way: meeting face-to-face when possible and using untraceable burner phones when not.

“Rossi, you’re now my chief enforcer. I want you with me in Aruba. Tell Montero”—Javier

Montero, also a member of his inner circle, was normally in charge on the island if Syd, O’Riley, or

Salazar weren’t around—“he’s in charge while I’m gone.”

“
Si, jefe
.” Rossi inclined his head.

“Good.” Syd angled his head toward the training room where the man cut down the girl’s limp,

bloody body. “Get rid of the damaged merchandise, but make sure the other slaves-in-training see

what happens when they don’t apply their lessons properly.”

“
Si, jefe
.” Rossi left the room.

Syd exited the observation room and entered another training room. Waiting for his pleasure

was his bound, blindfolded, and gagged mistress suspended from the ceiling in a leather swing.

After taking his clothes off, Syd picked up a quirt from a side table and then walked toward the

woman. He really needed to release some of his anger over what had happened in Belize.

“Hello, my dove,” he said in Brazilian Portuguese, “time to play.”

Chapter 4

March 2nd, SSI Safe House, Cartagena, Colombia

Conn’s right-hand-man Berto strode into the kitchen of the mansion which acted as SSI’s base

for South and Central America. It also served as a safe house for various allies’ intelligence operatives

acting in the region.

“Jaime called from the front gate. Ren’s here.” Berto shot a smirky smile at Sam. “When Ren

heard you were here, he started cursing. His Spanish is very fluent.”

“Shit. I think I fucked up, buddy.” Conn turned to look at Sam. “I didn’t tell him you were here.

Figured it might be better as a surprise. Guess I was wrong.”

Sam waved Conn off. “I don’t need you to make this easier on me. We all knew Maddox and

Petriv have issues with me.” He stood and forcibly relaxed suddenly tense muscles. “I’ll meet him

outside in the forecourt so if things go to shit, I’ll have room to maneuver.”

Conn stood. “I’ll go with you and make sure things don’t get out of hand. We have an op to

plan—and the enemy’s already on the move. SSI sources in Rio reported that Oraio… fuck, let’s just call

him who he is… that MacLean and Armando Rossi, the brother of the guy DJ killed in Belize, flew out of

a private airport three hours ago. The flight plan filed indicated Aruba as their destination.”

He and Conn moved into the main hallway that bisected the house from the front to the back

where the kitchen and hearth room were located. “Does NSA still have eyes on the container ship that

left MacLean’s island?”

Satellite photos had showed that as many as one hundred girls had been placed on the ship.

Word in the Dark Net was they were to be sold as sex slaves to someone from the Middle East.

“Yeah. It’s on a course that would take it just off the coast of Venezuela, so Aruba makes sense.”

Conn blew out a disgusted breath. “We have to stop MacLean. Selling women, no, not even women…

selling young girls is almost as bad as treason.”

“I’d say it’s worse,” Sam muttered.

Sam eyed the front door and took another deep breath, oxygenating his blood for a fight. He’d

let Maddox take some swipes. The man had a legitimate beef—his wife had been threatened.

But Sam refused to let it get to the point of any real damage to either one of them. After all,