“This is Three. One door to check. Made of steel and locked, so we’re thinking we need to take a look. Be out soon.”
“Roger that,” Wyatt responded, a bit breathy as if running in tow with the HVT. “TOC, come in, en route to the exfil site with the package.”
“Roger,” Harper answered. She served as their off-site support for the op and was waiting in one of two Tahoe SUVs a mile away from Santiago’s compound. “Intel said there wouldn’t be any hostages at the compound, but—”
“We’re doing a thorough check,” Roman reported.
The CIA director had supplied the identity of their target package through their new liaison, Natasha Pierson, a CIA officer who also happened to be Wyatt’s wife. The U.S. government couldn’t get clearance to operate, which was why Chris and his team were sent in.
His people worked off-the-books ops for a handful of higher-ups who reported directly to the Commander in Chief.
To the world, the guys had retired from the Navy and were now employed by a private civilian-military contracting company, Scott & Scott Securities.
Chris hadn’t kept count of how many ops they’d handled over the years, but they never seemed to have much downtime. The majority of their ops were outside of the country. However, there were occasions when they’d operated on U.S. soil due to the fact it was a big no-no for the CIA and other military branches to do so.
The Scott & Scott alias used by Bravo and Echo Teams provided Uncle Sam a layer of protection to hide the fact they were running ops directly for POTUS and thereby circumventing Congress. Plus, their company pretty much funded their missions, so the taxpayers didn’t have to.
Saving the world on their dime, and the guys wouldn’t have it any other way.
Like today, taking down a human trafficker. And it’d felt fucking good to grab the bastard.
At the sound of footsteps heading his direction, Chris readied his gun but eased the tension in his arms when he saw it was Finn returning with the key chain.
“Got it,” Finn mouthed.
Chris stepped aside to let Finn check each key, but he remained on alert, weapon drawn and aimed toward the staircase at the end of the hall.
Wyatt, Liam, and Roman may have been the best snipers on the Teams, but Chris could still drop a guy with pinpoint accuracy. They were all artists with their guns. And handy with knives.
“Jackpot,” Finn whispered a moment later, then he reached for his rifle and opened the door with his free hand.
Both Chris and Finn quickly jerked back at the unbelievable sight before them.
Snakes.
Cobras, vipers, and other venomous snakes writhed and slithered over and around each other. There were even some perched on top of what looked like pet furniture for cats. The sounds of hissing and the clacking of rattler tails emanating from the room were chilling.
“Shit,” Chris whispered, “it’s like Raiders of the Lost Ark . . .”
“When Indie lowered himself into the Well of Souls,” Finn finished for him.
“Why’d it have to be snakes?” Finn and Chris simultaneously muttered Harrison Ford’s famous line from the movie.
A couple of vipers approached, tongues darting out, prompting Finn to slam the door shut.
“I think he just . . .” Finn faced Chris with wide eyes. “Did that snake just eat the other snake?”
Chris shook off the disgusting feeling crawling across his skin, regrouped, and looked back to the staircase, ensuring they were alone. “Well, we can confirm there are no people in the final room,” Chris informed the others.
“Do I even want to know?” Wyatt asked.
“Echo Two, we got a really nice present up here for you as a welcome back to operating,” Finn remarked.
“Ah, hell no, I ain’t coming up there,” A.J. answered.
“Snakes,” Chris said in astonishment, chills erupting over his spine beneath his clothes yet again. “A room full of freaking snakes.”
The black Chevy Tahoe tore down the dirt road as the teams moved to get away from Santiago’s compound—away from those damn serpents.
“Who the hell owns a room full of snakes?” A.J. visibly cringed, sitting next to Chris in the back of the SUV.
“At least you don’t have to live the rest of your life with that image.” Chris grimaced. “But remember that guy who smuggled baby king cobras into the U.S. hiding them inside potato chip cans?” Chris tossed out a random memory he’d read in the news. “It was a few years ago.”
“No way,” Finn said from behind the wheel. Wyatt was riding shotgun. The rest of the team were in the second Tahoe behind them with the “package.”
“Can’t bullshit a bullshitter, brother,” A.J. said with a laugh, and Chris pulled out his cell phone, powered it on, and googled the story. “Well, shit,” A.J. said when scrolling through the article on Chris’s phone a moment later.
“I should have wagered on that,” Finn added. The guys would bet on just about anything.
“That’s wrong on so many levels.” A.J. handed Chris his phone, and Chris stuck it back in his side cargo pocket and secured a better grip on the rifle on his lap for a just-in-case moment.
With his free hand, Chris rolled down his window, but dirt from the tires kicking up hit his face and had him sputtering and coughing. Bad idea. He powered the window back up and shifted in his seat, thoughts drifting to the dog he’d recently rescued, only to have to give him up.
“Why the long face?” A.J. asked a beat later. “The mission was a success. And we didn’t get shot or—”
“Bitten by a snake,” Finn pointed out.
“So, why do you look like your dog died?” Wyatt chimed in.
“He didn’t die, but I had him for less than two days. I didn’t even have a chance to name him before the owner decided she wanted him back.” Maybe it was better he hadn’t given him a name. The loss would hurt even more.
“That dog wasn’t meant to be.” Wyatt glimpsed back, shifting his aviator sunglasses up to briefly catch his eyes. “We’ll get another canine for the team. And then you can have your shot at begging Rory to train him.”
“Because we all know your ulterior motives.” Chris could practically hear the smile in Finn’s voice.
Rory McAdams. Just thinking about her had his pulse racing. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his head, and according to A.J., that was supposed to mean something.
The first and only time he’d come face-to-face with Rory had been back in June.
A.J. had corralled Echo Team and Bravo Two to join him in Alabama to scare the piss out of his sister’s fiancé for a bachelor party and do a little recon on the groom-to-be, to see if he was good enough for Ella. The result: the guy sucked. And the wedding never happened.
But that night had other perks, like meeting Rory.
He’d hopped out of A.J.’s brother’s pool to find a stunning blonde with an incredible smile and the most amazing legs he’d ever seen standing next to A.J.
He thought back to that night as he’d done many times since then. His body tensing with anticipation at the idea of seeing her again.
A.J.’s sister’s fiancé had challenged Chris to a race that night—riding mowers. A first for him. Does he seriously want to race lawnmowers? he remembered asking, a grin easing onto his lips. No cow tipping? Wrangling bulls or something?