Turbo, Columbia, South America

Heading into the world’s most dangerous jungle hadn’t been on Dana Sorensen’s radar until months ago when she’d gotten an email from her dying mother asking Dana to do something for her. Tell these peoples’ stories. Let the public know what was happening. It had been the last correspondence Dana had received before her mom, her brave, beautiful, accomplished mom had lost her fight with cancer.

As a surgeon involved with Doctors Without Borders, her mom had met and married Dana’s dad, who was a nurse also serving with them. She often wondered if she could even live up to her mom’s ability to be so selfless.

Even as the tears moistened her eyes, Dana tried to tell herself that she had no way of knowing her mom was going to go so fast, before Dana could get home. And, with guilt pressing in from all sides, eating at her, the grief still fresh, Dana was going to fulfill her mom’s dying wish. Come hell or high water.

She’d pitched her mom’s story to the editor for Trek Magazine about migrants traveling through the Darién Gap to make it from Colombia to Panama, then up through the Central American peninsula with the final destination the US. It had all stemmed out of her mom’s last trip to Asia where she’d found out that a lot of migrants were heading through South America to bypass the routes that had dried up due to stronger restrictions. And it wasn’t just Asia, but a slew of foreigners looking for a better life free from war and persecution.

But here she was standing on a dock in Turbo, Colombia, a disreputable port town rife with violence on the coast of Colombia and in the horseshoe of the Gulf of Urabá to fulfill her mom’s wish. It was just before dawn, the sun nothing but a glimmer on the horizon. She waited for a boat that would take her and her crew into the Darién Gap, a place that was teeming with dense jungle, dangerous wildlife, impenetrable swamps, wary guerrillas, intense paramilitary, deadly drug traffickers, disreputable guides and no marked trails.

The Darién might be a ten-thousand-mile swath of inhospitable land, but Dana was a correspondent who, due to her mom and dad’s noble example, had given up reporting about the war in exchange for pieces on the human condition. She was now a writer, photographer, filmmaker and contributing editor to International Humanitarian Journal. From her war correspondent experience, she could handle stressful encounters and dangerous people as situations that were all in a day’s work. She’d had some harrowing experiences in her life, but had gotten the story every time. This piece was timely, a hot button and would allow her to showcase what people would do for freedom and a better life along with keeping her promise to her mom. But going into the Gap was risky. She was well aware of the dangers, but had never let that stop her before. These stories needed to be told.

She needed to tell them.

There were several people with her from her film company, along with porters heading to Domingodo to meet up with a representative from the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia or FARC, Cuba-backed guerrillas who had been at war with Colombia since 1964. They controlled the most direct route through the Gap, and it would be her best chance of meeting and talking to migrants attempting the crossing. Permission had been obtained from an official in Havana to pave the way for her and her crew to do this timely story.

The soft drone of an outboard motor broke the predawn quiet. James Quinn, a freelance videographer she’d hired to document the trip leaned over and said, “Are you ready for this?”

She smiled. “I was born ready.” He and her South African producer and naturalized American, Liam Nelson were the two crew members accompanying her on the trip. Her cell chimed and she pulled it out of her cargo pants and read the screen. Jeffrey. He had been calling ever since she’d left San Diego and her office to make this trip. She hit the accept button and said, “Hi, there.”

“Dana, geez woman, you’ve been a hard one to get a hold of. I really needed to talk to you before you left. It was important.”

“I know, but the okays came through for this trip and I had to go. You understand.”

He sighed heavily. “I do. I know how much your mom meant to you.” At his words, her eyes filled, and she worked at not losing it. “Look I’d be the first one to say what you do is great. You have more courage than some men I know. I would never stand in the way of that, but—”

“I know, and I promise to make time when I get home.” She wiped her slick palm on her pants. Why was this simple conversation with Jeff making her palms sweat? She swallowed and kept her voice nonchalant. Because she had been sure that he was going to pop the question. That’s what he wanted to talk to her about—getting married. She wasn’t sure she was ready for that. If she would ever be ready for that.

She squeezed her eyes closed on that thought, the unnamed emotion clogging her chest. Every time she thought about marriage it would crop up like some kind of plague. She’d been in some pretty scary situations, so why did marriage make her want to run for the hills like a scared little girl?

“Promise?” he said.

“Promise,” she replied. The motor boat pulled up beside the dock along with another boat whose engine had been drowned out by their transportation. It was a ferry to Sapzurro and Capurganá where migrants could then traverse overland to La Miel, Panama. These migrants weren’t forced to go through the Gap as they had documentation that would allow them to pass without a problem. That wasn’t the route of her story.

People without documentation were forced to hire coyotes, part of the Clan Los Piratas who would charge between five hundred to seven hundred dollars, and transport them in poorly maintained boats, often leaking. But were also notorious for conscripting migrants as mules, then disposing of them.

That was her story.

The most dangerous clan in the area, Clan Los Piratas was a neo-paramilitary group with upwards of twenty thousand members. Dana had read that they had murdered several Americans, many DEA agents in the area and were on the US government’s list. They had a stronghold in the Darién Gap, but she was confident they wouldn’t bother them with their FARC approval and their sanctioned story about the migrants.

Even as the sun rose and the misty jungle lay like a dense, dark giant across the river, she shivered in the steamy air.

As her crew loaded up their gear into the motor boat, Dana disconnected the call. She’d worry about Jeff when she got home. She didn’t need distractions on this trip.

After meeting their contact, Captain Enrique Escobar, a middle-aged, dark-haired man with gray at the temples and in his close-cropped beard, his sharp eyes and features telling Dana he had seen plenty in the Gap. During the dire week, with the constant threat of robbery, kidnapping, and death, he and his men hiked the route, while she and her crew recorded one of the world’s most dangerous journeys. She and her crew had hacked through spider-infested mangrove swamps, walking for days in muggy, ninety degree temperatures, the migrants surviving on crackers and gulping river water. Each of these people—a man from Jafar, Bangladesh trying to escape its cutthroat political gangs and miserable working conditions; another Bangladesh woman, not much more than a girl—a rural laborer who’d gone to the jam-packed cities for work and found herself locked in the bowels of unlicensed garment factories working for twenty cents an hour; and countless others, Syrians, West Africans, and Cubans. She’d interviewed many of them who told their heartbreaking stories. She and her crew documented everything on memory cards and they were carefully kept in a waterproof bag in her pack. By accident, she found some old footage of her and her mom when she’d met up with her overseas and interviewed her for a piece that had never been aired. Stupidly, she’d forgotten about it and realized this was her only copy. She’d edit this and get it aired when she got home. She’d contact someone she knew at 60 Minutes or National Geographic who would jump at the chance.

Once they reached their destination, they were stopped by Senafront, Panamanian soldiers who guarded the border, the travelers’ hopes of freedom and respite were dashed. The migrants were denied entry into Panama, everything they had suffered and endured had been in vain. Fighting her sense of justice, she tried to tell the Panamanian patrol what kind of journey they had made, how courageous they had been. The officer was sympathetic, but he had no choice, he had to follow orders.

There was nothing she could do. All that was left for her was to tell their story, document their journey so that their efforts meant something. A painful discomfort under her sternum along with a healthy dose of guilt suffused her as she boarded a piragua to take them to Panama City and the airport for their trip out of the Gap. Home to San Diego to civilization, concrete and glass, teeming with urbanites. But her uneasiness wouldn’t go away. She tried to think about processing this film and documenting the trip. Her heart was heavy, real sorrow for the plight of the people she’d gotten to know so well in the week of traveling with them through the dangerous and deadly Gap, an emptiness deep inside she couldn’t name for fear of…what?

As a storm came up quickly and violently out of the south, they were forced to pull to the bank to wait it out.

Dana pitched her waterproof tent and settled inside, lying down on her side. As the leaded sky darkened, she fell into a fitful sleep.

She woke to the crack of gunfire, screaming and running feet. Before she could move, a gun was shoved into her back. She looked over her shoulder at the merciless dark eyes of the man holding the weapon. “Hello, Dana Sorenson. I’ve got a job for you.”

Before she could gasp a response, he had her out of the tent.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”

“Oh, before too long you will know who I am and what I want.”

A black hood descended cutting off light and hope. When she fought, someone clipped her on the back of the head and she fell to the ground.

She’d been taken.

Kidnapped.

* * *

Somewhere over Mexico

Lieutenant Bowie “Ruckus” Cooper leaned his head against the side of the chopper. He could sleep anywhere and often had in his twenty years in the SEALs. They had just lifted up from Mexico in support of the DEA and their operations. With a high-value target or HVT secured, they were headed back to Coronado and some R&R.

Seven other SEALs were in the chopper with him. Part of his deployment team, his family, his brothers. They were all cut from the same cloth and there was comfort in that, a unity among them that was unique and recognized between them. Normally, SEALs deployed in either eight-man squads or four-man teams.

The men he trained and fought with built close personal bonds between them. Probably the most important part of a team was the utmost trust they have for each other. It saved Ruckus when the inconsistency and heartache of his family situation left him alone at seventeen.

Each SEAL’s control over his thinking was what separated them from everyone else.

Right across from him was Ruckus’s point man and lead sniper, Petty Officer Ashe “Kid Chaos” Wilder. A man who lived up to his name. Never reckless, often a smart-ass, but always courageous, Kid was the youngest member of their team and one of the best shots in the navy.

Next to him was Chief Petty Officer Wes “Cowboy” McGraw, an honest to God cowboy from Texas who had lived and manned a working ranch, from the kind of stock that tamed the Old West and were recruited as Texas Rangers. He attained his rank in record time and wore his anchor, the symbol of his rank and that of the navy with the kind of honor it embodied. Navy chiefs kept tradition, ceremony and honor alive—a true anchor of the navy. He was Ruckus’s valued go-to second when things got hairy and his main planning buddy.

To his right was Petty Officer Thorn “Tank” Hunt, their K9 handler who could juggle combat, a weapon with ease and his dog Echo, a Belgian Malinois who reclined right next to him, quiet and alert. He was an exacting guy not only with everyone he met, but with himself, a tough taskmaster who took “control freak” to a new level. The man could commandeer, drive, pilot, navigate or ride anything with wheels or runners.

To Cowboy’s left was Petty Officer Ocean “Blue” Beckett, a fair-haired California surfer dude that could out swim anyone in Team Seven. He was their sniper and expert corpsman, so skilled the guy could become a doctor if he hadn’t decided on the SEALs as his career. He was a boy-next-door type on steroids, loved that touchy/feely crap but could balance it with his fierce warrior instincts and a Yoda/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi master/sage philosopher attitude who would often stun them with his insights.

Their communication expert and air controller, Petty Officer Arlo “Scarecrow” Porter, a Southern badass from bayou country who knew how to charm everyone, but excelled specifically with the fairer sex. He was affable until you put him in a firefight and watched him go to town. He was adept at bringing attack aircraft to the exact coordinates when they needed them for egress or cover, a true orator with Tom Sawyer skills of manipulation.

Petty Officer Orion “Wicked” Cross, a tall, quiet gourmet cook, a master at detail sat next to Scarecrow. Wicked was limitless, an Olympic-level rower before BUD/S and the team’s breacher, sniper and lead assaulter. Typical of the men here, he didn’t like being told what to do, but then these men were dedicated to the team and getting the job done. It was all about giving Wicked as much rope as possible to do his thing while staying on point both in the military and in combat.

Finally, Petty Officer Jude “Hollywood” Lock, their heavy weapons expert. He had to be the most positive guy Ruckus had ever met and knew all about entertainment, in any context—board games, cards, sports, movies and even Broadway, the guy was a master. He smiled no matter the climate or condition, a definite boost in any group. Ruckus was sure the guy would explode if he couldn’t help someone, somewhere, at any time. Sometimes Ruckus thought his actual nickname should have been Boy Scout. He would definitely drop everything to usher an old lady across the street. He was also the team’s most notorious lothario.

Just as he was drifting off, his headset came alive.

“Lieutenant Cooper?”

“Cooper here,” Ruckus said keying his mic, his head coming off the glass, instantly alert.

“Change of plans.” It was the voice of his mentor and task unit commander, Major Todd McRae.

Ruckus smiled. That’s what this job was all about.

The next thing he knew they were landing on the USS Annenberg, out of Naval Base Coronado, an aircraft supercarrier named after Admiral Jake “Tugboat” Annenberg. The carrier floated just off the coast of Panama, a warship that served as an airbase with a flight deck and home to thirty-two hundred sailors and marines and twenty-four hundred aviators. All eight of them and Echo exited the aircraft, still looking worse for wear. Fresh from battle, they crossed the flight deck to a waiting figure.

“Lieutenant Cooper,” Major Todd McRae said, and he nodded to Ruckus and the men behind him. He shook Ruckus’s hand. “We’re aware you guys have been in the field, but we’ve got a HVT we need you to go after. We just got the intel and you were the closest and best match. First, let’s get you some chow.” Tall, his dark hair going to salt and pepper, Todd had been with Ruckus through his formative years with the navy, directed him into officer training and been the father Ruckus had needed.

“Aye, sir,” Ruckus said as they headed to the mess and ate their fill, cleaned up as much as they could, and restocked both their ammo and field kits for a three-day long-range reconnaissance patrol or LRRP.

Once that was complete, they headed up to a ready room complete with comfortable chairs.

When McRae walked in, Ruckus said, “Attention on deck!”

Everyone rose until McRae said, “As you were, gentlemen.”

Returning to their seats, the major turned off the lights and an illuminated map of the Darién Gap appeared. He walked to the head of the room and said, “For those of you who haven’t ever had the pleasure of being deployed into the Darién Gap, you’re in for a treat. It’s a thick jungle with mostly crude villages, para-military, FARC and clans fighting over freedom, drugs and routes. Be aware there are civilians in this area, some hikers, missionaries and, of course, the peaceful indigenous population, so use caution when engaging. It’s a mishmash of a mess. Deep in the jungle here…” He pointed to an area outlined in red in the heart of the greenery. “…is your target.” A picture flashed up on the screen. “This is Hector Salazar, the leader of Clan Los Piratas or the CLP as they’re widely known. He is an American by birth, but with a Colombian mother, he had ties to this area. Now he’s worked his way up the criminal drug runner’s ladder and is the new kingpin. He’s taken disenfranchised former para-military members from splinter groups and built an empire that is now warring with anyone in the Gap for control. The competition for massive drug profits is fierce and with the recent peace accords, it’s left a vacuum to fill.”

“His mom must be so proud,” Kid said and the guys laughed.

Ruckus studied the picture of Salazar. He looked more like a billionaire playboy than a drug runner in an open collar shirt and white jacket, tanned, of medium height with a honed body and a face that would turn female heads, but the light in his eyes would definitely turn off many of the savvier women. He had a full head of black hair he wore swept back in a style that suggested vanity.

“He is responsible for the deaths of six DEA agents and several American missionaries. The attorney general wants him in the States to stand trial for his crimes. We want him extracted alive.”

“If it’s not possible,” Kid piped up, “we take him out?”

“Affirmative,” McRae said.

Either way justice will be served,” Cowboy said in his deep voice.

“This is Angel Nunez, his second-in-command.” A second picture flashed onto the screen. Nunez was a different animal altogether and Angel was definitely a misnomer. His head was ruthlessly shaved, glittering black eyes and a vicious look around his mouth warned of the kind of violence that showed no mercy. The man had some hard-packed muscle and was probably about six two. He was dressed in camo and Ruckus suspected, out of the two of them, Nunez was more dangerous.

“Intel says that he’s not at the compound,” McRae continued. “But in Mexico with their business associates, so he shouldn’t be a factor.” He turned from the screen and said, “You’ll HALO over Yaviza and glide to the drop zone just south of the town. You will consider the situation on the ground as hostile. Make your way to the stronghold and obtain the package. You will be extracted to the west at LZ Foxtrot. Any questions?”

“We’re under the radar on this one, sir?” Blue asked.

“Copy that, it’s black. Avoid any direct action with the natives if possible, but if someone fires on you, defend yourselves. I’m sure Panama won’t be too upset to get rid of Salazar, but they’ll be pissed to find unsanctioned SEALs on their soil.”

The debrief over, they headed to the waiting plane that would take them over the DZ. Thirty minutes later, Ruckus looked around at the camo faces, the paint thick to hide the brightness of their skin. If they were spotted dropping into the jungle, they could easily be shot out of the sky before they landed.

“How you guys holding up?” Ruckus asked.

“Good to go, LT,” was the murmured response. Ruckus expected nothing less from his SEALs. Didn’t matter that they’d had about four hours sleep in twenty-four. Echo gave him a quick look that said he was ready, too. He was in a harness, belted to Tank’s chest, ready to get airborne like the rest of them.

“I’d say pretty boy Blue needs his beauty rest, though,” Kid said.

“Kiss my ass,” Blue responded in his no-nonsense voice.

“I would if you’d shave it.” Kid hooked on his oxygen mask and snapped it in place. His green eyes dancing in the dim light of the cargo bay.

“Hey, stop picking on Blue. That hair on his ass matches his back,” Hollywood quipped, his voice muffled in the mask.

There was laughter all around and Blue gave them both a double finger salute.

“Approaching DZ. Load up.”

They all stood up and approached the bay doors as they lowered in a grinding hydraulic grind, the burst of air pushing them back slightly.

The flight master yelled, “Go.”

Kid was the best navigator and he went out the door first, followed closely by the rest of the team. Using a compass, he would be sight point.

Thirty K up, the temperature was frigid, but warmed as they fell, the ground rushing toward them at one hundred and twenty miles per hour before he saw the first chute open. At the right time, Ruckus deployed his, abruptly slowing his silent descent into a mass of steaming green.

And into hostile territory.

This was the most vulnerable time for a spec ops guy free-floating to a target.

As he dropped lower into the deep valley, the wind yanked at his tight-fitting black jumpsuit, the hot air warming him and slowing his descent. Through his night-vision visor, he saw lights from Yaviza near the winding river. Below him was nothing but a black maw, accelerating toward his face. It was a personal high. He didn’t get excited about many things, but jumping out of a speeding aircraft topped the list. That and sex.

He aimed for the sweet spot, a small clearing that would be tough to hit without getting snagged in the dense trees. Kid, Cowboy, Hollywood, and Blue were already down. With Ruckus’s boots brushing the treetops, he pulled the suspension lines of the parachute close, rapidly driving him toward the ground.

Touching down with a thump, he tucked and rolled, pulling the black chute with him. He released the oxygen mask, then unhooked his helmet, on one knee, weapon aimed as the remaining SEALs landed in a billow of black nylon.

Being prepared was the best course of action. Switching the visor to thermal, he surveyed his surroundings, sweating inside the suit and his uniform. It showed him nothing but dense forest and a family of monkeys.

Easy in, he thought. Entering the country under the radar kept them invisible for now. In the dark, Ruckus stripped. All of them were removing their suits, wrapping their jump gear in the chute, then burying it.

The team assembled as Ruckus positioned foliage over the pile and dusted his hands. Tank had his GPS out and was marking their route to the stronghold.

They were about ten klicks or kilometers out—approximately six miles and would have to hump it to the target area. He didn’t expect military checkpoints or patrols, but there could be plenty of Las Piratas stalking their territory and protecting their routes. Echo would alert them to anyone in the vicinity.

He adjusted his tech vest filled with gear and ammo, in addition to the rucksack he swung to his back. Tank was checking Echo’s harness, a high-tech vest, and proceeded to the head of the line. Behind him, the guys broke their defensive perimeter position to line up behind Tank, all of them careful to maintain their spacing discipline.

Though the monkeys were already screaming warnings to each other, he wanted to get in, do the job, obtain the package, and get out with everyone still breathing.

There was no doubt in his mind that was the outcome. Positive thinking was the road to success. He’d memorized the terrain, but he’d been in enough jungles to know his way around dense undergrowth. Yet, in the dark, he would rely on Tank and his glowing GPS. The moon was just cresting and the rain forest was wet, hot and dark.

Echo took the lead, his black snout moving between the ground and the air, loping along. He would alert them to any hidden tangos.

They hacked through the undergrowth, listening for movement and hearing only the squawk of macaws and seeing white-faced monkeys hovering overhead as he worked his way toward the target. Giant kapok and rubber trees shadowed the valley, the ground spread with a gray-white mist that wrapped the giant palms and curled toward the sky, where it hovered, ghost-like in the jungle canopy. The roots smothered the ground so much that his boots rarely touched the soil.

Ruckus ignored the sounds around him, the movement of creatures, the fall of nuts, the scurrying of a green iguana hightailing it into the thicket. He watched as Cowboy checked the compass on his watch. As they neared the stronghold, his gaze moved over the land, searching for any signs of human life.

Nothing.

He gripped his weapon and they all crouched as they came to the edge of a clearing, the stronghold below them. Concrete walls and a huge house sat in the center. There were roving patrols moving silently below them.

“Spread out,” Ruckus said and the SEALs complied. “Tank,” he said and the big SEAL rose, gave Echo a command and the dog took off with Tank close to him. He would be checking for any explosives.”

After a tense few minutes, Tank’s voice came over the comm. “Clear, LT. There are two guards at the gate, a barracks to the left, but only three roving patrols. Two guys at the front door.”

“Copy,” Ruckus said. He turned to the team. “We’re going in.” He checked his M4. “Kid, neutralize the group to the left. Cowboy, take the right. Hollywood and Wicked stay here to cover our backs. The rest of you are with me. Keep the noise to a minimum.”

“That’s five guys,” Kid said. “Easy peasy.”

“Sure, small potatoes. Didn’t you once take out fifteen?” Scarecrow said.

“No,” Kid said on a huff of laughter. “I might be bat shit crazy, but I’m not suicidal. It was only fourteen.” As the guys laughed, he pushed his weapon onto his back, pulled out his tactical knife, crouched low and disappeared. Cowboy did the same, the six foot five SEAL melting into the night like liquid darkness.

They slipped down the incline and approached the gates. Kid and Cowboy had already cleared the guards, they were nothing but lumps on the ground. Tank and Echo joined them.

Once inside the walls, Ruckus headed straight for the front door, up the garden path paved with flagstones, flowering bushes and plants along the border. Was this guy for real?

“Hey, Cowboy,” Kid whispered. “You think this is some kind of garden party?”

“Shoot, boy. Don’t look like it. I don’t smell no tea or ladies perfume,” he murmured.

Even Ruckus smirked. Cowboy would never live down the garden party incident and it would forever be a source of ribbing from the guys.

Tank released Echo and he kept the two guards at the front door busy until Blue took them out with suppressed head shots. The four of them waited until Kid and Cowboy materialized out of the gloom. Blue was already crouched and within seconds had the door open. It swung wide with no noise. Kid’s M4 bucked and the two men who were standing in the hall went down.

“Tank watch our sixes. Blue, Cowboy, downstairs. Scarecrow, take this floor. Kid you’re with me.”

“Copy,” came the soft replies.

Ruckus headed up the stairs. The thermal scope telling him that there were two tangos on the top floor and five in the basement. When he stealthed up the stairs, he took out the guards and saw the heat signature registering from one of the bedrooms, not the master. He frowned. Where was Salazar?

“Kid.”

Without needing any more communication than that, he crouched and picked the lock.

They burst through, but both of them stopped dead. Instead of a hostile, a woman gasped, looked at them, her hand clutched to her throat, startled into a frozen statue. All five feet five of her in practically nothing with tanned legs, dangerous curves and slick dark hair.

“Damn, LT. She’s wearing a towel.”

“What was that?” Male voices filled the comm.

“Clear the channel and focus on what you’re doing.” God help him. All knuckleheads.

Sure enough, the woman was in nothing but baby blue terry cloth in a hot tropical jungle, in a hot tropical night, mean tropical bad guys surrounding the house. Drug thugs were so plentiful you could hit one with a rock and this honey was smack dab in the middle of it all. If the human filth didn’t get her, the wildlife would.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the gorgeous brunette, and it had nothing to do with monitoring her for any type of threat. He swallowed. She had weapons aplenty, the strained terry leaving nothing to the imagination and almost a tad too small for her lithe curves. The law of physics guaranteed that something was going to fall out of that towel, and so help him God, he didn’t want to miss anything when it happened.

Her long, thick hair was wet, water still dripping from the dark mass, tendrils stuck to her upper chest and one tantalizing shoulder.

“Who are you?” she said, her voice more firm than breathless.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“You’re American?” Those almond shaped, sultry brown eyes widened, then she blinked in relief.

“Navy SEALs, ma’am,” Kid said. Ruckus wasn’t the only one to notice her. Kid was young and randy. His eyes caressed her from head to toe.

He nudged the younger SEAL with his shoulder, and Kid gave him an innocent look.

She breathed a sigh. “Thank God. Dana Sorenson. I’m a reporter—”

“Don’t move,” Ruckus said all his muscles clenching when she started forward. Saving damsels in distress was in his mission statement and in his job description. If she turned out to be telling the truth, his priority had just changed. Saving anyone, especially an American was most definitely listed somewhere, but she wasn’t the package he was looking for, and he had no idea if she was telling the truth. He wasn’t putting himself or his men in jeopardy for this cupcake just yet.

“What? Why? My crew members are being held in the basement. You’ve got to help them.”

“I’m not going to take anything you say at face value, lady. Just stay where you are.” Ruckus never took chances until he was one hundred percent sure. They were in a hostile environment and women weren’t to be trusted even if they seemed to be exactly what they said they were. This was an unexpected complication.

“Where do you think she has her weapon stashed?” Kid whispered, giving Ruckus a quick, amused glance.

“Go downstairs and help Scarecrow.”

“But, LT,” Kid whined.

“Go.”

“Yes…uh, sir.” With a last look at Dana, he turned and slipped down the hall, disappearing down the stairs.

“LT,” Cowboy’s voice came through his earpiece. “Three tangos down. But there are two guys down here, two American citizens. Worse for wear. One of them is unconscious, the other one says they’re journalists.”

“Standby,” Ruckus murmured. Her safety and the safety of her crew was utmost in his mind. They were surrounded by killers and it was apparent her colleagues had been treated poorly and held against their will. That pissed him off and made him doubly determined to get Salazar. Getting them medical attention was imperative, especially for the man that was unconscious.

“We have ID downstairs in Salazar’s safe along with my memory cards. What about my crew? Are you going to help them? Are they all right?”

“Get dressed,” he ordered not even lowering the M-4 an inch.

Her brows rose at his order. She set her hands on her hips. “Make up your mind. Do you want me to stay put or get dressed?”

“Move and get dressed,” he said through clenched teeth. This woman was going to be a handful of trouble. He immediately got his mind off his hands and her person. She huffed out a breath and bent over—sweet hell—and reached for her clothes on the bed.

She paused and looked up at him. “If you could give me some privacy….”

He didn’t answer. His response was clear on his face and in his eyes.

“At least turn around.”

“Nope.”

“Close your eyes?”

“Just get dressed. Now.”

She picked up a pair of black lace panties. Ruckus worked to keep his mind on watching her, not thinking about where that black lace would cover her. She slipped them up her legs and under the towel. She snatched up the pants, muttering under her breath, pulled them on and fastened them. Then she reached for her bra, this time a silky white. She turned around and dropped the towel, revealing the creamy expanse of her back. He felt his body stir as she moved all that long dark hair and fastened the hooks, then she turned around and picked up her shirt. With angry jerks, she was finally fully clothed. He wasn’t sure if he was happy about that.

“Can I use my comb or will you consider that a deadly weapon?”