Excerpt from Wicked IntentionPrologue
Finn Rowland stood in the vestibule of
La Brisa Griega, hands over
his head, and waited for the bodyguard to finish a second pat-down. It
was unnecessary. The first search had been thorough enough to find the
weapons he’d concealed. All of them. But it wasn’t a surprise that Henri Silva had hired
pros. The invitation to meet had arrived out of the blue,
and Finn had broken every posted speed limit to make it on time. There’d
been no opportunity to check out the café beforehand or to get any of
his teammates in position. He was on his own. As the bodyguard ran his hands down Finn’s legs,
Finn scanned the place. Getting out of here fast would be difficult. To his right, the cash register sat on a waist-high
counter. And beside it, his two pistols and four knives. The woman
standing there was carefully ignoring everything happening in front of
her. Finn didn’t blame her. No one wanted to get on Henri Silva’s bad
side. No weapons, no backup, and no quick way to escape.
If it hadn’t taken him three months of maneuvering to get a meeting with
Jorge Torres’ second-in-command, Finn would leave and wait for a safer
opportunity. The problem was there might not be a second chance. Yeah, if this was a setup, he was fucked. The bodyguard finished and straightened. “Come,” he
said in English, “Señor Silva doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Finn lowered his arms slowly. “What about my
things?” “The señora will keep them safe until you leave,
won’t you, Rosa?” The woman nodded vigorously, and Finn inclined his
head in a wordless thank you before following the bodyguard into the
dining room. The second bodyguard fell into step behind him. It took a nanosecond to locate the man he’d come to
see. Henri Silva sat with his back to the wall—more bodyguards on either
side—and tapped at the screen of his phone. He glanced up and stowed his
mobile as the three of them grew closer. Silva’s expression remained
neutral, but Finn knew he was being studied. Measured. He tamped down
the burst of adrenaline and took a breath, trying to slow his pulse. Torres’ right-hand man was slim, a couple of inches
shy of six feet tall, and his hair was almost completely white and cut
short. Conservative. He was clean-shaven and he wore round-rimmed wire
glasses and a precisely tailored suit. In another life, Silva might have
been a businessman, but in this world, he was an arms dealer. The US Army wanted Jorge Torres’ band of gunrunners
shut down, the weapons supply line identified, and they’d sent in Finn
and the rest of his Special Forces team to make it happen. But getting
anywhere near Torres had proven to be difficult. This was the first
break they’d had, and they needed it to pan out. They reached the table, but Silva didn’t stand,
offer his hand, or greet him. “Señor Silva,” he began, but he was interrupted
when the first bodyguard pulled out the chair across from Silva and
gestured for him to sit. Finn didn’t like it—his back would be to the
room—but it wasn’t as if there was another option. At least the tables
around Silva’s were empty. Finn sat where he’d been ordered, and his two
escorts assumed positions that would make it impossible for him to leave
if their boss wanted Finn to remain. “Señor—” “Coffee first.” Silva picked up a menu. There was another beside him, and Finn reached for
it, opening it slowly. Coffee was serious business in Puerto Jardin, but
he already knew what he’d order, and he doubted Silva needed to consider
the available choices either. He didn’t know why they were going through the
motions, but he’d play along. Whatever it took to get the job done. Finn
felt eyes boring into the back of his skull, and he fought to keep his
muscles from tensing. A fifth bodyguard hidden among the diners? The silence lengthened. Finn closed his menu and
returned it to the table. Staring at the man wasn’t a good idea, so he
looked around the café. One wall had a chalkboard menu with the day’s
specials, and the others had landscape paintings of Greece. He glanced
back at Silva in time to catch the man’s gaze as he studied him. Silva raised a hand, and the waiter immediately
appeared. He indicated Finn should go first. He ordered Narino coffee
and waited while the arms dealer ordered his own cup. “You are a persistent man,” Silva said in barely
accented English as their server hurried away. “Gracias,”
Finn replied. “It wasn’t a compliment.” “A man goes nowhere in life without determination.”
It was impossible to tell from Silva’s expression what he thought of
that answer. The waiter returned, meticulously setting the
coffee cups in front of each of them. A plate of cookies went in the
center of the table, but he placed the cream and sugar on Finn’s side.
Silva sipped from his mug and nodded before the server left. Interesting. Intelligence reports hadn’t indicated the arms
dealer was a regular at La Brisa
Griega, but the waiter had known Silva drank his coffee black,
otherwise the cream and sugar would have gone in the middle next to the
cookies. Also, the bodyguard had known the woman at the register. He didn’t try to break the long silence as he
sipped his coffee and waited for Silva. The man wasn’t in a hurry.
Instead, he reached for an
alfajores, taking a careful bite. The sandwich cookie was lightly
coated in powdered sugar and filled with caramel. Finn enjoyed them, but
he didn’t take one. His nape burned. He knew he was being observed, and
it felt as if there was animosity in the stare. It had to be another
bodyguard, but he didn’t dare turn to check. Finn nearly finished his coffee before Silva said,
“Señor Torres would like to know why he should do business with you,
Señor Finley. You’re an unknown. A mercenary.” There was a soft sneer in
that last word, which amused Finn. “I have access to American-made weapons.” “So does Señor Torres.” Yes, he did, which was why Finn was in Puerto
Jardin, playing the role of Tom Finley, mercenary. “Señor Torres has to
wait for some third country to finalize a weapons purchase from the US,
and then he has to count on someone in that nation’s military looking to
make extra money. With me, he has a direct pipeline into the US Army and
its weapons.” More silence. “If you have the contacts you claim,”
Silva asked at last, “why aren’t you brokering your own deals?” “I’m small-time.” Finn leaned back in his chair,
feigning nonchalance. “I sell a few SCARs here, a couple of M4s there.
But now I have access to major inventory, and I don’t have the network
to handle that kind of cache.” Pausing for his final gulp of coffee,
Finn shrugged. “Besides, I’m not stupid enough to muscle in on Señor
Torres’ territory. I’d rather take a smaller cut and live to enjoy the
money.” Finn returned his mug to the table and waited. He
knew what everyone saw—a mercenary—a man who needed a haircut, a shave,
and better clothes. Hell, compared to Silva and his CEO attire, Finn
felt as grungy as he looked. “How have you suddenly managed to acquire such a
large inventory?” Silva asked at last, his face and tone impassive. “Let’s just say I have friends who decided they
need bigger retirement funds.” Silva stared at him briefly, nodded, and stood.
“I’ll pay the bill on my way out.” “That’s it?” Finn stayed seated. He’d expected a
hell of a lot more questions. “I’ll be in touch. If necessary.” Without another
word, Silva and his entourage exited, leaving Finn alone at the table. They’d be watching—someone from Torres’
organization would no doubt follow him when he left the café. As
casually as he could, Finn shifted to the seat Silva had vacated,
motioned for the waiter, and ordered lunch. This first meeting might have been to size him up
and nothing more. He hoped Silva would be in touch, but who knew? Three
months of undercover work, and he and the team might be back at square
one. Or worse. Fuck, this couldn’t drag out indefinitely. Finn was
leaving the Army at the end of his enlistment or at the end of this
mission—whichever came second—and the last thing he wanted was to be
held longer to finish this damn op. Then there was Pienkowski. He was getting married
in a little over two months, and Ski would be climbing the walls the
closer they got to his wedding day if they were still in Puerto Jardin.
His fiancée would likely be anxious too, and considering their history,
who could blame Langley? Finn tapped the table. He needed to research what
exactly a best man’s duties were, but it would have to wait until he had
time. Right now— The feeling of being stared at returned, and Finn
scanned the other patrons, looking for the source. He found her. Four
tables over and toward the door. He guessed mid-twenties. Height was
impossible to gauge while she was seated, but she appeared taller than
average. Her hair was long and dark, and she was American. He couldn’t put his finger on why he thought that,
not beyond her clothing, but Finn was certain of it. Their eyes met.
Locked. The distance didn’t matter. They were light, probably blue. Fuck, he
knew they were blue. Every cell in his body went up in flames. His mind
blurred even as his gaze sharpened, bringing her into focus, and the
rest of the world disappeared. Her lips parted, and heat rose between
them. He couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to look away. As Finn began to push back from the table, the
waiter arrived with his food, saving him from himself. He used the time
it took the man to put down the plate and utensils to regain control. He
didn’t know who the hell she was, only that she was trouble, and he
needed to avoid her. But as soon as the waiter left, Finn looked back
toward her.
This excerpt is from WICKED INTENTION
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