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A navy SEAL’s mission is to protect a vulnerable target, not give in to temptation...
Saving Gina De Santos from attempted kidnappings is one thing. But navy SEAL sniper Josh Elliott’s assignment requires getting close to the ravishing widow to ascertain what she knows. And that feels more dangerous than combat. In her presence, Josh has to remind himself she’s not to be trusted.
Gina’s drug-kingpin father had been negotiating with terrorists when a CIA raid killed him and Gina’s husband. Now someone is after the vulnerable single mom and her little boy. While traveling to the Caribbean in search of clues, Josh and Gina find their sizzling desire overpowering. But when they’re attacked again, they must overcome their mutual mistrust to survive at the hands of an unknown enemy.
“I’m going with you, Josh.”
“You’re going to stay in the room with the door locked. I don’t want you anywhere near this situation.”
“You just said it wasn’t going to be dangerous,” Gina insisted.
“I didn’t say that.” He cupped her face with one hand. “Let me face the danger. You’ve faced enough—all your life.”
She blinked her eyes to dispel the tears gathering there. Nobody, not her mother, not Ricky, not the DEA, CIA or the FBI, had ever once acknowledged the fear and danger she’d lived with her whole life.
She thought it had come to an end that day at her father’s compound, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. Only now she had Josh Elliott to protect her, and if he thought she needed to stay in the room for this encounter, she’d do it.
She nodded and sniffed. “All right. I’ll wait in the room, but you’d better be careful.”
“This is what I do.”
Was it? Then what had he been doing at her father’s compound the day the men in her life had been killed?
Bullseye: SEAL
Carol Ericson
CAROL ERICSON is a bestselling, award-winning author of more than forty books. She has an eerie fascination for true-crime stories, a love of film noir and a weakness for reality TV, all of which fuel her imagination to create her own tales of murder, mayhem and mystery. To find out more about Carol and her current projects, please visit her website at www.carolericson.com, “where romance flirts with danger.”
To Jeff B., my favorite marine and consultant
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Extract
Copyright
Prologue
The boy tottered close to the edge of the shimmering pool, and Josh Elliott held his breath. A woman, her long, dark hair falling over one shoulder, swooped in and plucked up the toddler, lifting him over her head. The boy’s face broke into a smile, his little body wriggling with joy in his mother’s grasp.
Safe in his mother’s arms—or he would be once she got the hell out of there.
Josh puffed out of the side of his mouth to dislodge a bug crawling on his face. He’d become part of the dense foliage on the hillside in this southeast corner of Colombia, not far from the Amazon. If this mission took any longer, the plants would grow right over and through him.
The woman dipped next to a chaise longue to grab a towel and tucked it around her child’s body. She gave a curt nod to the men gathered at the other end of the pool, and then headed for the house via the sliding glass doors. Josh released a long breath.
A voice crackled in his ear seconds later. “Go time, boys.”
Josh swept his M91 away from the retreating figure of the mother and her child and zeroed in on his intended target—her husband.
Ricky Rojas folded his arms, his expensive jacket tightening across his shoulders, as he cocked his head in the direction of the three men seated at the table. What Josh wouldn’t give to hear their conversation right now—their plots, their plans—but his SEAL team’s assignment didn’t include capture and interrogation.
It only included death.
These men had already killed and would kill again. In the crack of two seconds, his team would be responsible for bringing down a high-ranking member of a vicious terrorist cell and the mastermind of a brutal drug cartel...and a few of his associates.
And the father of that child.
Josh swallowed. The kid would get over it, especially after he learned what a scumbag his old man had been. The wife? That might be another story.
A muscle ticked in Josh’s jaw. They’d been told to keep the woman out of the range of fire. More senior people than he had made the determination that Gina Rojas had nothing to do with the Los Santos drug cartel.
If they believed the daughter of Hector De Santos, the kingpin of Los Santos, and the wife of Ricky Rojas was an innocent bystander while her father and husband traded arms and passage to the United States for terrorists in exchange for drugs, who was he to question their common sense?
A pretty face could still buy wiggle room out of anything—and Gina Rojas had a pretty face and a body that could bring a grown man to his knees.
Once the kills were accomplished, the CIA would be descending on the De Santos compound to search for leads and evidence, but he and his teammates would be long gone, swallowed up into the Amazon.
A maid scurried from the palatial house to deliver a tray of drinks to the men on the patio. When she disappeared inside, the crackling in his ear resumed.
“All clear. And five, four, three, two...”
At the conclusion of the countdown, Josh dropped his target, and all the other men fell with him courtesy of the other navy SEAL snipers positioned in trees and dug into the hillsides ringing the compound.
The maid rushed from the house and threw her hands in the air. She must’ve been screaming because several other servants joined her on the patio.
Josh shifted his scope to encompass Gina Rojas emerging from the house, without her son, thank God. While the domestic staff flailed and scurried about or dashed off for parts unknown, Gina stood still like a statue amid a battering sea. She put her arm around the hysterical maid and surveyed the carnage, her head held high, her gaze sweeping the hillside.
“Josh. Josh, you on the move?”
“Copy that.”
He lowered his sniper rifle from the intriguing sight of Gina Rojas’s unflinching demeanor and began to break down his weapon.
Either this hit was no surprise to Gina...or she didn’t give a damn.
Chapter One
Thirteen months later.
RJ raised a chubby hand before spinning around and grabbing his new friend by the arm to drag him to the slide.
Gina sniffed as she waved to her son’s back.
“It’s better than having him cling to your leg, isn’t it?” Denise Reynolds, the owner of Sunny Days Daycare, winked.
Gina rubbed the back of her hand across her nose. “Much better, but did he have to get over that stage so quickly?”
“RJ’s an outgoing boy. He makes friends quickly, very adaptable.”
“He’s had to be.” Gina hoisted her purse onto her shoulder and shrugged. “There’s been a lot of upheaval in his young life.”
“I saw from your application that you’re relatively new to Miami.” Denise bit her lip. “And I’m sorry about his father, your husband. That he’s deceased, I mean.”
“Yes, just over a year ago.” Gina sniffed again for good measure. “We’re still...adjusting.”
“Well, I think Sunny Days is just the place for him to adjust. One month and he already has a best friend, who started just a few days after he did.”
“He already talks about Diego nonstop. His mother introduced herself to me right away. The boys already had one playdate and we’ll be arranging another for them in the next few days.” Gina’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket, and her heart skipped a beat.
“Everything okay?” Denise tilted her head to one side, her perky blond ponytail swinging behind her.
“Just a pesky client.” Gina patted the pocket of her light jacket. “Thanks for everything, Denise.”
Gina whipped out her phone as she walked back to her car. She couldn’t go into cardiac arrest every time someone sent her a text. Wedging her hip against the cinder block barrier between the daycare’s parking lot and the walkway to the center, she swiped her fingertip across her phone’s display.
Then her heart skipped two beats as she read the familiar words. Where are the drugs? Where are the weapons, paloma?
The same two questions, along with the endearment, texted to her every day for almost a week now, from the same unknown number. She’d responded to the text in several different ways already.
Wrong number.
Wrong person.
I’m calling the police.
It didn’t seem to matter what she texted back. The same two questions came back at her each day as if on autopilot—with the same endearment. Only Ricky had called her paloma...when things were good, but that was impossible. Wasn’t it?
She could call the police. She snorted and dropped her cell phone in her pocket as she opened her car door. Then she’d have to go through the whole process of explaining who she was and watch the officers’ faces change from expressions of concern to scowls of suspicion. They might even call in her old pals at the Drug Enforcement Administration, and they could start grilling her again.
She’d take a pass. In the meantime, she’d continue to ignore the texts. The person texting her wouldn’t try to make contact...would he? And that person couldn’t be Ricky. Ricky was dead...wasn’t he?
Glancing over her shoulder, she pulled out of the daycare’s parking lot and checked her rearview mirror as she joined the stream of traffic. She had nothing to tell anyone who made contact with her, at least not about any drugs or weapons.
On her way to the realty office, she turned up the music to drown out her own thoughts and the memories of that day at her father’s compound in Colombia. The CIA agents who’d swarmed the place after the carnage had interrogated everyone on the property, including her, for several hours.
They’d tossed the place, looking for money, drugs, arms—and they didn’t find one single thing. As far as she knew, not even her father’s computers had revealed any information about his thriving drug business.
The US and Colombian governments had seized all her father’s assets—but they hadn’t found everything. Then the CIA turned her over to the DEA and the fun started all over again. She had no desire to repeat that experience.
She wheeled into the parking lot of the realty office and dragged her bag from the passenger seat as she exited the car. She’d just passed her licensing exam but didn’t have any listings of her own yet. She had to start from the bottom and work her way up, but she’d never been afraid of hard work.
The real estate business may not be her calling, but she’d had to find some gainful employment after she’d lost her business—the restaurant-bar she’d developed and run with Ricky before...before.
She slammed the car door. She’d tried bartending since that’s what she knew, but that hadn’t been her calling either, not if she couldn’t run the place, and she didn’t like leaving RJ with her mother so many nights of the week.
Gina yanked open the door of the office and waved to Lori, who was on the phone. Lori wiggled her fingers in the air in response.
A stack of binders piled on her desk greeted Gina and she plopped down in front of them with a sigh. Faith, the Realtor she was shadowing, had left a yellow sticky note on the binder at the top of the pile asking her to remove the old listings.
Gina flipped open the binder and perused each page, checking the house against a roster for those listings no longer on the market. For each lucky house that had sold, she slid the flyer from beneath the plastic sheath, making a neat pile on the corner of the desk.
Lori ended her call and slumped in her chair. “Clients from hell right there, but they’re looking high-end, art deco in South Beach, and I’m going to do my best to find the perfect place for them. Can you do me a favor?”
“If it involves white binders, I’ll pass.” Gina heaved the first completed binder off the desk and dropped it to the floor.
“It involves meeting a client at a town house. It’s empty. Owners already moved out, and it’s an easy show. I’ll cut you in on a portion of the commission if this person buys it.”
“Is this buyer one of your clients?”
“No. The sellers are my clients. This person is a walk-in. Just called this morning.” Lori jiggled a set of keys over her desk. “Easy show.”
Gina wrinkled her nose at the rest of the binders. “Sure. Give me the details.”
Fifteen minutes later, Gina was sitting behind the wheel of her car with a file folder on the seat beside her, cruising to South Beach. She enjoyed this aspect of the job more than sitting at a desk reviewing Florida property laws and regulations.
As she flew past the strip malls and heavily residential areas, she could understand why Lori wanted to spend her time selling in South Beach instead of this area, but Gina found the relative serenity of the southern end of Dade County preferable to the hubbub in South Beach where she and RJ had landed with Mom after the debacle in Colombia.
Debacle—was that what you called the deaths of your father and husband at the hands of some unknown snipers?
The Spanish-style building came into view on her right, the beige stucco, arched entrances and red-tiled roof a copy of several other residences on the street. This was a town house, not a condo, so it had a door open to the outside and two palm trees graced either side of the entrance.
Her heels clicked on the tiled walkway to the front door, and a palm frond tickled her cheek as she inserted the key into the lockbox. Pushing the door open, she left it wide, surveying the small foyer before taking a small step down to the living room.
She glanced at the flyers in her hand and left a stack on the kitchen counter. She should probably familiarize herself with the place before the potential buyer showed up, starting with the kitchen.
All the appliances cooperated as she flipped switches and turned handles. The kitchen didn’t boast the most high-tech gadgetry she’d ever seen, but everything worked and had a neat functionality. She could get used to a place like this.
She had to get out of Mom’s condo—and all it represented.
She poked her head into the laundry room off the kitchen, noting the side door to a small patio, and then backtracked to the living room. The gas fireplace checked out, as did the blinds shuttering the arched front window. The sun filtered into the room, as she pulled them back. A set of sliding glass doors to the right led to a small patio, a stucco wall enclosing it.
Finishing up with the half bathroom, she headed up the staircase to investigate the two bedrooms and two bathrooms. The master had a nice walk-in closet, and she mentally filled the racks with her shoes and layered the baskets with her sweaters.
She closed the closet door behind her with a firm click. She was here for the buyer, not herself, even if that buyer was late.
She glided into the second room, trying not to imagine RJ’s toys stacked in colorful bins against the wall.
A sound from downstairs had her pausing at the window that looked out onto a small patio in the back. She cocked her head, and then heard the shuffling noise again.
She walked to the bedroom door and called out, “Hello? I’m upstairs. I’ll be right down. Take a flyer.”
Facing herself in the mirrored closet door, she straightened her jacket and smoothed her hands over her dark pencil skirt. For good measure, she rolled open the closet door and peered at the empty rods and shelves. The place looked mint.
As she slid the door back into place, a bang had her jerking and literally clutching the pearls at her neck. What was the buyer doing down there?
She raised her eyes to her reflection and swallowed as the hair on the back of her neck quivered. Why hadn’t the client answered her?
She’d taken a safety class as part of getting her Realtor’s license and knew the dangers of women flying solo while showing open houses. But this was no open house. Lori had made an appointment with this person, had gotten identifying information from him over the phone.
Sweeping her tongue across her lips, she backed away from the mirror. She strode to the bedroom door, calling out, “Hello? Are you still here?”
She jogged down the stairs, her muscles tense, her senses on high alert. When she reached the bottom step, she tripped to a stop.
The blinds across the window that she’d just opened now shuttered out the sunlight. Her gaze darted to the front door, now closed.
A clicking noise from the laundry room acted like a cattle prod and she lunged for the purse she’d foolishly left on the kitchen counter. Strapping the purse across her body, she ripped open the side pocket and grabbed her .22, the cool metal of the gun in her hand giving her courage.
She flicked off the safety and rounded the corner of the counter into the kitchen, holding her weapon in front of her. Not a great start to her career as a Realtor, but she’d do what had to be done to protect herself. That much she’d learned from Hector De Santos.
The door from the laundry room to the back of the building stood ajar and Gina crept toward it, locked and loaded.
Her heart pounded as the laundry room door suddenly swung open and a large man filled the frame of the doorway.
She raised her gun and took aim at his head. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”
Chapter Two
Josh didn’t trust Gina Rojas as far as he could toss her, but even he didn’t expect her to hold him at gunpoint this early in their relationship.
“Whoa, there.” He raised his hands, his own weapon heavy in the pocket of his jacket. “I’m just here to look at the town house.”
She narrowed her dark eyes, her nostrils flaring as if sniffing out his lie. “Why are you sneaking around?”
“Sneaking?” He spread his hands in front of him. “Just thought I’d check out the laundry room and this back door.”
“And the blinds?” She didn’t seem to be buying any of this since her deadly little .22 was still pointing at his face.
Blinds? “Yeah, the blinds.”
“Why’d you close them?”
His pulse ticked up even higher and it had nothing to do with Gina’s weapon leveled at him. Someone had been here before he’d arrived, had closed the blinds and the front door—and then escaped out the back when he showed up.
“Testing them out.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m sorry I gave you a scare. I’m really just here to look at the town house if you want to show it to me.”
“What’s your name?”
Wasn’t her arm getting tired hoisting that gun?
She would be expecting the name of the person who’d made the appointment to see the place—and he couldn’t give her that.
“I’m Josh Edwards. Is this an open house? I’ve been looking in this area for a while, saw the for-sale sign, saw the car in the driveway and the open door. I figured I could take a peek.” He lifted his shoulders and twisted his lips into what he hoped was a passable grin. “I guess that wasn’t such a good idea.”
Gina’s grip on her gun relaxed. “I’m expecting someone else at any minute.”
“Understood. Can you show me around until they get here...without pointing the gun at me?”
Gina lowered her weapon and it dangled at her side, but she shook her cell phone at him in its place. “That other buyer is going to be here soon, and my office knows where I am and when to expect me.”
“Good.” He dropped his hands. “You can never be too careful.”
Especially if you were involved with drug dealers and terrorists. Was that why Gina was so jumpy? And was this buyer she was expecting the one who closed the blinds and hightailed it out the back door when he heard him at the front door? Why would anyone do that, unless the intruder planned to steal Gina’s purse, which she’d left out on the counter?
Or unless that buyer had a different motive altogether.
“Let’s start over.” He edged away from the laundry room and into the kitchen just in case she changed her mind and decided to take a shot at him. About a foot away from her, he extended his hand. “Josh Edwards, and I’m interested in the town house.”
She tucked her gun into the purse hanging sideways across her body and took his hand. “Gina De Santos, Four Points Realty, and I’ll be happy to show it to you.”
De Santos? She’d ditched Ricky’s name already?
She strode ahead of him into the living room. “Let’s open up those blinds again and get some light in here, since it really is a good feature of the place.”
While she tugged on the cords of the blinds, his gaze lingered on her backside, round and full beneath her slim skirt. She hadn’t lost anything in the looks department in the past year.
He turned toward the sliding door to the patio. “This is nice. Should get lots of sun.”
She joined him, smelling like some tropical hothouse flower. “Yes, but there’s enough room out here for a table, a few chairs and an umbrella in case the sun gets too hot. The wall is tall enough to restrict a small dog...or children. Do you and your wife have children?”
“Me? No.”
She raised her dark, sculpted brows at him.
Had he come off too strong? He’d decided long ago never to bring kids into this world. Look at her own son.
They returned to the kitchen where she pointed out a few features that held no interest for him at all.
“The laundry room—” she jerked a thumb over her shoulder “—you’ve already explored. Do you want to go out that back door, or did you see enough?”
He hadn’t seen enough. He hadn’t seen the person who’d been in the house closing the blinds.
“I’m good.”
“You’ll love the upstairs. For a single guy like you? Roomy master suite with a second room for an office or gym.” Her gaze traveled up and down his body as she brushed past him.
The look she gave him made him hard in all the right places but he’d better rein in his galloping lust or she might pull that gun out on him again. Why’d she think he was a single guy? He’d said no to the kids, but he hadn’t denied the wife. Probably had something to do with the look in his own eyes when she waltzed past him.
He followed her up the stairs, pinning his gaze to her swaying hair instead of her swaying derriere. If he could remember that she was most likely complicit in her father’s deeds that would be enough to splash cold water on him. How could she not have known what was going on in that compound?
“Here’s the master.” She stepped aside and gestured him into the room.
He wandered around and poked his head in the closet, which he couldn’t imagine filling in a million years. “Impressive.”
While she was still talking about east-facing windows and views, he blew past her into the next room, anxious to make his initial report, anxious to get away from Gina De Santos and the way she stirred his blood.
“This room is smaller, has the mirrored closet doors. Could work as a gym.” Again, that appraising inventory of his body that made him want to flex every muscle he had. “Or an office. What is it you do?”
“Software development. I work at home.”
“This would be perfect for you.”
They completed the tour of the town house and returned to the kitchen where she shoved a flyer at him. “What do you think?”
“I like...everything about it.” He tore his gaze away from her liquid brown eyes and squinted at the flyer. “Might be out of my price range, though. Do you have a card?”
“Of course.” She flattened her purse against her body as she unzipped the top, and he could see the outline of her gun in the outside pocket.
That purse was specifically designed for a weapon. The lady was serious about her self-defense. But why?
“Here you go.” She snapped a gold-embossed card on top of the flyer. “Office number and cell.”
He skimmed a finger across the glossy flyer. “This isn’t your listing? It says Lori Villanueva is the listing agent.”
“I’m helping her out. She was busy today.”
Did that mean the intruder hadn’t expected Gina to be here? Maybe it was just a thief looking for a quick prize, but then he’d missed the purse on the counter.
“Your original client never showed up.”
She gave a little jerk to her shoulders. “Happens all the time.”
“Then I’m glad I stopped by, so you didn’t have to waste your time.”
“I am, too, and I apologize for drawing down on you.”
“Perfectly understandable and advisable...for a woman in your position.”
She lifted her chin. “My position?”
“A Realtor working on your own. Can’t be too careful these days.”
“My feelings exactly.” She scooped up the rest of the flyers and tapped their edges on the granite. “Call me...if you’re interested in the town house.”
“Will do.” He left her to lock up the place and slid into the front seat of his rental.
He was interested all right—just not in the town house.
Josh pulled out his phone and texted a message to Ariel, his contact person on this assignment. He knew better than to question why he was reporting to a nameless, faceless woman instead of his superiors in the navy.
He’d been pulled off a deployment in Afghanistan and sent to Colombia with a short stop in the United States. His commander had briefed him there and the assignment dictated he return to the United States and make contact with Gina Rojas—De Santos. Done.
Ariel’s response instructed him to compile a report on his first meeting...and to pursue the relationship to find out what Ricky Rojas’s widow knew.
Easier said than done. He didn’t have the savvy of that smooth SOB Slade Gallagher or the aw-shucks cowboy twang of his other teammate Austin Foley.
But he’d definitely seen a spark of interest in Gina’s dark eyes when she’d assessed him. He’d had to capitalize on that, since he wasn’t ready to tell her he’d been the navy SEAL sniper who’d killed her husband, even if he had been sent to Miami to protect her.
He looked up as Gina exited the town house and swiveled her head in his direction.
Lifting a hand, he pulled away from the curb. He didn’t want her to think he was waiting for her or stalking her. She was jumpy enough. He’d have to put that in his report, too.
He made his way back to his hotel in the much more crowded area of South Beach. Whichever government agency was sponsoring this little reconnaissance mission had some deep pockets. Or maybe they’d just put him up in this swanky hotel because of its proximity to Gina’s mother’s place, who must still be living high on the hog courtesy of her former husband’s drug money—not that the DEA could prove it or find it.
Back in his hotel room, Josh flipped open his laptop and wrote up a report on his initial meeting with Gina De Santos. He left out the part about the sparks that had flown between them, although Ariel would probably tell him to use that to his advantage.
He hit Send on the email with its attachment and pushed away from the desk. He wandered to the window with its view of several pastel art deco buildings. At least that’s something he’d gotten out of his previous relationship—a little culture thrown in with all the cheating.
Snorting, he turned his back on the art deco and flipped on the TV. He’d already figured out the hotel carried the channel with the UFC fight. He’d take the UFC over art deco any day—maybe that’s why his ex cheated on him.
He reclined on the bed, placing his laptop beside him. Wouldn’t want to miss an urgent message from Ariel.
He had no idea why the navy was sending a navy SEAL stateside to keep tabs on a dead drug dealer’s daughter, but he’d figured it was the same reason why they’d sent two of his sniper unit team members on similar assignments in the past few months—Vlad.
Had their old nemesis really been the man behind the drugs-for-arms deal involving De Santos’s cartel, Los Santos?
If that were the case, Josh would be only too happy to thwart Vlad’s plans.
The fight proved to be too one-sided to hold his interest, and he clicked through the remote to find something else. As he settled back against the stack of pillows to watch an old comedy, his laptop dinged, indicating a new message.
He dragged the computer onto his lap and double-clicked the email.
Ariel’s message left nothing unclear. Get close to the subject to exploit or protect.
It didn’t sound like Ariel and her bunch, whoever that was, believed Gina was as innocent as the CIA agents did a year ago. Exploit? If Gina had intel about her father’s old operation, he’d be expected to get that from her. Protect? If she did have that intel she could be in danger from her father’s old associates...or others.
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