Greer finally asks, “What are you doing here? We’re out of immediate danger, and I think I deserve an explanation.”
I ignore her as a sudden rush of anger sweeps through me. I’m torn between the relief I got her out safely—just minutes before she was going to be raped—and a fury that’s been buried deep for the past twelve years, one I thought was permanently put to rest. Apparently, seeing her again has ripped all the scars wide open.
“Ladd,” she snaps, and I turn my attention from the road briefly to look at her. “Why in the hell are you here? You’re not with the Company anymore.”
I’m surprised she even knows that. I never would’ve thought she’d keep tabs on me. “You’ve been disavowed,” I tell her.
She knew that had to be a possibility, especially if her identity had been compromised, but a flash of hurt still crosses her face that she’d been abandoned after what she’d risked for our government.
I look again in the rearview mirror—still no one behind us. Greer stares blankly out the windshield. “They hired the outfit I work for to come get you.”
“And you came alone?” she asks dully.
Another rush of anger toward her, born of the hurt she inflicted on me all those years ago. “This wasn’t a mission I felt worth risking my teammates’ lives on and I figured I could handle it on my own. Besides, I owed you.”
That was a shitty thing to say, and it strikes her deep.
“You didn’t owe me anything, asshole,” she snarls.
And that offends me. That she can’t just be grateful, despite the fact I just said her life wasn’t worth enough for me to bring in help.
“So, you would rather me leave you there, to be raped, tortured, and eventually killed?” I demand.
Greer lifts her chin defiantly, because her pride is in danger of being demolished. “If it meant not having to deal with you again, I think that would’ve been the better option.”
CHAPTER 6
Greer
It’s fairly easy to retrieve the USB drive, considering I chucked it as hard as I could during a high-speed chase in a place I wasn’t familiar with. But I’m trained to be observant and to remember things. As I was flying around a corner, I spotted a cluster of white sapotes, which are fruit trees, and the only reason I knew that was because Mejia had them in his courtyard garden at his El Salvador home. I threw the USB in that direction and hoped I would be back later to get it.
It takes about fifteen minutes of searching once we find the copse, and then we race to the airport. It’s tense, not because of our awkward reunion—that can wait—but because at any moment, we expect Mejia’s forces to find and cut us off.
But they don’t, and at the airport, Ladd flashes credentials that earn us passage to a private hangar where a jet sits gassed up and ready to go. After boarding, it takes no more than twenty minutes to get us in the takeoff queue, and then we leave El Salvador behind.
It’s not until we reach cruising altitude that my adrenaline fizzles and I feel like I’ve been hit by a freight train. I feel disgustingly filthy, not just from sweat and dirt but from what could have been done to me. I feel vulnerable in my T-shirt and too-big sweatpants borrowed from Ladd. I’m on edge having him back in my life after twelve years, and I’m confused as to why he’d bother.
It’s a maelstrom of emotions, and despite my exhaustion, I sit up straight in the seat. The jet is clearly owned by the CIA—I’m sure it’s one of a few kept at Camp Peary for just such uses. It accommodates ten, and Ladd and I sit opposite each other in facing seats with a table between us. He’s currently surfing his phone, probably doing his best to avoid interaction, and I’m staring out the window at a darkening sky, also doing my best not to have to interact with him.
The flight to Langley, Virginia, is a little over four hours. We’re going straight to the CIA headquarters to be debriefed and turn over the intelligence I almost lost my life to obtain. I’m hoping shortly thereafter, I’ll have my status changed from disavowed to active, and they can point me to my next mission.
Which I know won’t be right away. After what I went through, there will be mandatory time off, psychological evaluation, and possibly some desk duty, but I’m anxious to get back to work in whatever capacity. It’s not only the foul memories of being captured that I want to leave behind by focusing on something new. I’d like to put to rest the shock of Ladd McDermott strolling back into my life. The sooner I get back into the clutch of things, the sooner he’ll become a distant memory again.
Because we’re even now.
I rescued him twelve years ago, and now he’s rescued me.
We sit in uncomfortable silence, whereas twelve years ago, our slates were clean and there was so much promise and possibility.
We were practically giddy from our daring escape from Colombian drug lords without any harm. Well, there was a little harm. Ladd had a bullet graze his ass cheek, but it didn’t prevent him from running like hell with me until we could meet up with my partner, waiting in a rented, armored Toyota Highlander we picked up in Bogota. I’d like to say the CIA had come through with an excellent vehicle, but truth is, we rented it ourselves after I got pulled off another mission to handle Ladd’s ex-fil with an agent stationed in the capital. It’s amazing that in countries rife with violence, you can actually rent armored vehicles. Some even come equipped with mounted AK-47s.
At any rate, as the other agent drove us safely out of there, I got to see Ladd’s ass for the first time as I dressed his wound. I teased him that he should get a medal for his injury, and he teased me back that it should be for having a great ass.
We traveled for nearly two hours back into Bogota where Ladd and I were dropped off at the hotel where he’d been staying prior to his foray. I got a room down the hall from his, and the goal was to rest before our flight out the next day. I’d head back to Ecuador where I’d been gathering intel on a corrupt US ambassador, and Ladd would go to Langley for debriefing on whatever mission he’d been on, to which I was not privy, nor did I ask.
We went to our separate rooms and showered. On a whim, I knocked on his door to see if he wanted to grab dinner and trade war stories.
He looked strangely different—in a good way—without the aura of danger surrounding him. He had on a pair of khakis and a white button-down shirt, looking every bit the handsome tourist. As a well-trained CIA operative, my go bag was stocked with essentials to blend in as well. I wore an outfit that could pass in any Central or South American country—a loose, flowing skirt with a slit up one side to mid-thigh and a white blouse unbuttoned low and tied in a knot just above my navel. Because the skirt sat low on my hips, a good chunk of my abdomen was bare, and I capped the casually sexy look off with sparkly sandals.
Before I could get my dinner invitation out, Ladd swept those mesmerizing blue eyes down the length of me, and he did not hold back his interest in me as a woman. Because I am no wallflower, I offered my own appreciative stare.
He accepted my dinner invitation, and we found ourselves at an outdoor table in a local restaurant. Lanterns were strung above us, and the table glowed with candles. It sat on the edge of a cobbled street, full of foot traffic and young people sampling the Bogota nightlife.