Page 3 of Fatal Thrill
Oh, and she needed a pregnancytest.
Opting for a bottle of water instead of crackers, she took a sip then waited to make sure it stayed down. When it did, she headed for the exit. Back inside Kratos, she pulled out her Dark Cherry lip balm and under-eye cream, giving herself a bit of TLC as she considered heroptions.
Good Hope orDC?
The two choices thrummed in her brain like a mantra. Her phone buzzed, a text coming in from her office manager, Lexie, wishing her a Happy New Year and asking when she’d be back. The spa was booked for the holiday, but appointments would drop off mid-month. They’d kick back into high gear around Valentine’sDay.
Nine weeks. Oh, god. How was she going to get everythingdone?
Jaya typed back a short note telling Lexie she’d be in Good Hope soon and giving her a short list of things to tackle. None of which Lexie didn’t already know and probably had on her calendar, but Jaya needed to triple-check everything so the next nine weeks were as productive as possible and nothing slipped through the cracks. Lexie was a great office manager and a definite Type-A personality, otherwise Jaya would never be able to leave town. It was no surprise when Lexie’s reply told her not to worry, that she had everything undercontrol.
At least one of usdoes.
Scrolling through her contacts, she stopped at Jon’s name. Should she or shouldn’tshe?
How’s the bodyguard gig?Her fingers shook as she typed.Watching the show, but haven’t spotted you yet.She added a smileyface.
It was a lie, and she knew he wouldn’t answer, but she’d needed to reach out. Any kind of response would give her a clue about what she shoulddo.
None came. He was no doubt busy, up to his eyeballs in whatever bodyguards did for the rich and famous. He probably didn’t even have his personal cell phone onhim.
Taking another restorative breath, she put Kratos in gear and pulled out of the reststop.
The Yucatan Peninsulalooked like it was stuck in time, holding its breath. Jon felt it in his guts, where he too marked time differently than most people. The warm Caribbean climate and the Mayan ruins added to the sameness—one day like another, generation after generation. The ancient and modern meeting and blending, flowing through time and space as if every person who lived here had been here forever. Every person who visited took a piece with them that anchored them to thisspot.
North Carolina did that to him, and while he didn’t plan on ever returning, he knew he could never escape the pull of home. The anchor around his neck would never let himgo.
Not my homeanymore.
Did he really have one? He’d moved his mom and her dog sanctuary to Virginia, but that was long after he was grown. While he loved the place she’d built, it didn’t feel anymore like home than this spot in SouthAmerica.
It wasn’t the land or moments in time he’d carried with him from Thief River to the Middle East and back again to D.C. It was the dogs. The dogs he’d cared for growing up at his mother’s animal sanctuary, the ones he’d trained for search and rescue as a SEAL. Deke, who’d tried to help him find Isaiah, his best friend growing up, and ten years later, Geronimo, who’d helped Jon and the FBI track a missing ten-year-old to a cave, where Jon discovered Isaiah’s bones and a crossbow that had turned his world upsidedown.
No longer a SEAL or a contractor for the FBI, he was still doing search and rescue, this time in a place known for some nearly extinct birds that people paid thousands of dollars to capture onfilm.
Yucatan birdwatching tours took groups from the white sandy beaches to the tall, humid forests searching for their elusive quarry. From the black-throated bobwhite to the yellow-lored parrot, birders wanted to see and photograph what they considered aviantreasures.
Jon didn’t get it, but who was he to say what was and wasn’t worth throwing money at? He’d grown up with a survivalist father who was more likely to snap a bird’s neck and eat it for dinner than take its picture, regardless of the bird’s status on the endangered species list. And don’t even get the old man started on that subject—to Jeremiah Wolfe, the Endangered Species Act was just another government conspiracy to take away property rights and round up citizens into “sustainablecities.”
On a private birding tour to kick off the New Year, Dr. Peter Sutton and his wife, Natalie Hargraves-Sutton, had been kidnapped by three men who belonged to a Yukaton cartel while visiting the north coast. They’d been looking for the Mexican Sheartail and found a heap of trouble instead. Dr. Sutton, a plastic surgeon with his own TV reality show, was worth upwards of a couple billion dollars, and his wife was no slouch in the rich and famous category. Natalie shared the reality TV-star label, having been part of some group of Hollywood teens and their first-world-problemsdrama.
The couple’s kidnappers had demanded a lot of money from Sutton Enterprises for their safe release, and Shadow Force International had been called in by the SE’s Board of Directors to save theday.
Muffled music cut through the insect and bird noise. He and Colton Bells lay flat on a hilltop, overlooking a squat hut with smoke curling out of thechimney.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, realizing the music was from his new phone that had once again backfired. Even though he’d put the ringer on silent, the cell was ringing loud andclear.
“What the fuck?” Bells said, his face greased to match his camo gear. “Is that yourphone?”
Next to Jon, the newest member of the SFI team, Nyx, whined softly, her big, liquid brown eyes looking to Jon for a command. Or maybe, like Bells, she was wondering why Jon’s phone was going off in the middle of a crucialmission.
The Pit Bull/Labrador mix was as smart as Jon, even though she looked as goofy as Bells with one ear permanently standing straight up and the other lying down. Her offset jaw gave the impression she was alwayssmirking.
Below, the two kidnappers inside the hut had no idea they were being watched. The third had left fifteen minutes ago on a beerrun.
At least Jon hoped the assholes inside still didn’t realize that his group of paramilitary commandoes—all former SEALs like himself—were about to unload the wrath of God onthem.
With as few movements as possible, he scooted backward on his belly, reaching for the phone buried in the pocket of his fatigues. He knew the ringtone since the woman calling had picked it out herself. The singer, Cher, had a unique voice and was belting out, “Gyp-sies, tramps, andthieves…”
