Page 23 of Booker's Mission

Well, crap.

Callie glanced over at the building, wishing Booker hadn’t voiced what had been racing through her head since she’d made the impromptu trip to West Yellowstone — enlisted the help of the only man she trusted with more than just her life.

And he’d done exactly what she’d known he would do and called her on it.

She sucked at her bottom lip, wanting to say she could march in there and shoot the creep in the head. Sleep like a baby for the rest of her life, but the lie wouldn’t form on her tongue.

Instead, she released a shaky breath — met Booker’s expectant gaze. “I want him to pay, but I can’t kill someone without justification. That’s not who I am.”

Booker’s hand slid down her back, resting on her ass, again. “That’s my girl. Okay, we go in. You photograph everything in sight, grab whatever we can take with us, then we bug out. Call your boss once we’re clear and let the DEA do the rest. Agreed?”

She nodded because if she said yes, it meant she’d taken the high road, and she hated taking the high road.

He laughed. “I know that look, too, and I get it. But sometimes, doing what’s right — what you can live with — isn’t as simple as doing what’s easy. What you think will soothe that burning beneath your skin. But, I’ll do my best to make it up to you, later.”

He gave her a nudge. “Lead the way. I’ve got your six. And if our friends start shooting…”

All bets were off, which eased the jumpy feeling in her gut. Had her laser focused because she knew as sure as the storm would get worse before it got better, that this night wouldn’t end without more bullets flying their way. And that was the one scenario where she might just get both wishes. The moral high ground she needed to get her revenge without losing her soul.

Making it to the side of the crappy shack without anyone walking out or yelling at them was a blessing. Especially after all they’d been through to get this far. How she’d half-expected the entire cartel family to be standing in a circle around the building, waiting for her to show up.

Having Booker pick the lock in ten seconds flat was unexpected. She’d arched a brow, but he’d merely shrugged, muttering something about growing up in foster care — that he’d learned early how to escape a bad situation, which only made her acutely aware that there was so much she didn’t know about him. Was itching to find out.

Which meant making it out of the rainforest alive.

Callie followed Booker inside, sticking to the shadows as he picked his way across the room, heading for the office on the far side at the top of a set of rusted metal stairs. He didn’t talk, just made his way to the steps, listened for a few moments, then started up. Boots barely making a sound.

Christ, had he done more than just pilot for special forces? Because the guy seemed as highly skilled as any black ops soldier she’d worked with in her various JSOC teams. More so because Booker’s abilities extended far beyond the ordinary. Were the only reason they were both still breathing.

Questions she could ask him later, after they’d gotten some scrap of proof she wasn’t crazy. That she hadn’t dragged him all the way to Puerto Rico because of some harebrained memory that was nothing more than the product of blood loss and a healthy dose of guilt.

Booker held up his fist, pressing his ear to the door before trying it. Having the handle turn and the door swing open from nothing more than a push of his hand was a surprise. One she wasn’t sure was in their favor when it could be a trap. A way to trick them into the room then have a dozen mercenaries open fire.

Or maybe the creep she was after would use a drone — get a kick out of the fact the DEA’s own weapon had finally killed her. Unlikely, seeing as the winds had picked up in the short time they’d been inside. Sounded as if the walls might give way at any second, just like the night of the raid. But Callie wouldn’t rule it out. Not with Booker’s life on the line.

Though, if Booker worried they were being set up, he didn’t show it. Seemed completely at ease as he pulled out his mag light — concentrated the beam on the desk. Another quick twist of the tools he’d brought along, and he had the drawers open and the files stacked on the top.

He motioned to them. “Start clicking, sweetheart, and be quick. I have a very bad feeling we’re already out of time.”

“You think it’s a setup?”

“I think we’ve gotten extremely lucky, so far.”

“Pretty sure us still being alive has nothing to do with luck and everything to do with you, but I’ll be quick.”

She started working her way through the stack, taking photographs of everything. Ledger sheets. Drug shipments. Images of the key players, and any surveillance they’d recorded. The kind of intel she would have thought would be locked away in a safe. Or maybe stored on a thumb drive, not stashed in a desk. But, with little in the way of technology this deep in the forest, it made sense the cartel kept track of everything on paper.

Still…

Booker stayed close, making regular trips to the door to watch for men. Moving like a damn wraith because Callie didn’t hear anything other than the soft rustle of paper as she flipped pages, stopping when she reached a series of photos.

“Well, fuck.”

She looked over her shoulder as Booker’s voice whispered in her ear. Not that she was surprised because… Her face was plastered all over the images. All at weird angles, but there was no denying it was her. At the villa. In the street. One of her on her cell when she’d been reporting to her handler. What she thought had been on the down low, only she’d been tailed.

Booker grabbed some of the photos. “This is more than enough proof you were setup, unless the cartel has a damn drone.”

She whipped her head down, groaning when she realized he was right. That the weird angles were the result of some jagoff manipulating a zoom camera from up high.

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