Page 1 of Wicked Suspicion

Chapter 1

Trujillo, Puerto Jardin

South America

Special Forces Sergeant Case “Lurch” Lundquist was hunting.

He could live with the rebels after his ass, but he wouldn’t allow them to target some innocent woman who had the misfortune of eating lunch at his table yesterday. Every other seat was taken, and his glower didn’t scare her off. Bad luck for her that one of the assholes had seen her with him.

Maybe he was reading too much into it. Maybe they wouldn’t go after her. Maybe, but he wasn’t betting her safety on it.

Case tried to put thoughts of her aside. He couldn’t do anything about his attraction, not while he was working. One day. That’s all he was allowing himself. He’d find a rebel, one not in a group, and ask a few questions.

Easier said than done.

Trujillo was the largest city in the southern half of Puerto Jardin, and it sprawled. It was challenging to locate anyone, especially if they didn’t want to be found.

His team had rescued him from a hut in the rainforest, but he didn’t see any point in driving out and hiking to the area. The insurgents would have bugged out ASAP after the raid. Then there was Captain Nguyen. The Big Dog would want to know what the hell Case thought he was doing. He didn’t want to explain. As soon as he mentioned the brunette, the lecture would begin.

Maybe he needed one.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Long, dark hair in a sassy ponytail, velvet brown eyes snapping with intelligence, nearly flawless features, and a body that inspired fantasies. But sexy as she was, it was her no-bullshit personality that made her damn near unforgettable. Sparring with her had been the most fun he’d had in longer than he could remember.

Realizing he’d drifted to a stop, Case shook his head again and resumed moving. He was stalking the area near El Taller, the mercenary hangout, and it was a sketchy part of town. It became riskier if someone—him, for instance—didn’t pay attention.

The streets consisted of cracked asphalt broken up by sections of packed-down dirt. A three-story apartment building loomed ahead, the side sheared off and its remnants still strewn across the half-empty lot. People lived in the remaining half, even though it was in danger of collapse. There were worse housing situations than this in the country.

Puerto Jardin was a mess. It was home not just to an international arms dealer, but to drug lords, illegal gold miners, illegal logging, and a bunch of other things he could put the word illegal in front of.

Then there was the civil war. For the past ten years, it had been an on-again/off-again affair, drawing mercenaries from around the world. Lately, it had been on again with most of the battles taking place in the country’s north. Trujillo was far away from the fighting, but it was where out-of-work mercs waited for jobs. It was where the rebel splinter group was hanging out.

The men he wanted to locate.

Case drew to a halt across the street from El Taller. The merc bar was in sad shape. The white paint on the brick exterior was flaked, the tin roof showed visible rust, and someone had spelled out the name of the bar using pallet slats nailed to the front. The E had come partially unmoored and hung crookedly. There were maybe two dozen mercenaries loitering in front.

The bar was one of his least favorite places and Case usually avoided it. He’d like to stay away now, too, but he needed to at least make a walk-through. There could be rebels inside.

The interior was dimly lit, especially after the bright sunlight outside, and Case allowed his eyes to adjust. Cigarette smoke hung like a hazy cloud over the packed room, the few small ceiling fans unable to clear it.

Threading his way through the throng, Case headed for the bar to buy a beer he had no intention of drinking. As he waited in line, he looked around. There were too many bodies to see much except a sea of camo. He knew the layout of the bar well and had a plan in mind for how to search by the time he paid for his beer.

He finished three-quarters of his grid without seeing any rebels, but as he reached the final quadrant, Case spotted one of his teammates sitting at a corner table. The mercenaries gave Oziah “Wizard” West a wide berth. The man looked like trouble.

It didn’t appear as if he’d combed his long, dark hair today, his beard needed a trim, and his entire aura emitted fuck-off vibes. His attitude was one reason Oz had been assigned to work undercover for the local drug lord. Case pretended not to know him, but Oz signaled him to come over.

“Yeah?” Case asked when he reached the table.

Oz gestured toward the open seat across from him. Reluctantly, Case sat, putting his beer bottle down in front of him.

“What are you doing here, dude?” Oz asked.

Shrugging with nonchalance he didn’t feel, Case said, “Looking for friends. Why are you camped out at El Taller?”

Raising his beer bottle, Oz took a swig before he straightened, glanced around, and said quietly, “I have a check-in with Ski and Baggs.”

Oz didn’t have as many meetups as some of the team—himself, for instance—but he had to make occasional updates. “Why’d you want me to come over?”

“Because after I finished with that, I was going to look for you.”

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