It was weird seeing Rock and Grif in a setting that wasn’t a military base. They ran one of the most classified Black Ops teams in the world, had access to intel from any country across the globe, and a budget that would put a royal treasury to shame. Yet here in this place, with kids’ drawings on the walls, inflatable toys in the pool, and a daughter who clearly was going to give them heart failure when she got a little older, they seemed almost normal.
Normal?
Normal, my ass.
They’d prepped for missions so many times that there wasn’t a need for much talking. Every man had his own routine as go-bags and rucks were packed, weapons broken down, cleaned, and loaded. Everything from extra socks to field knives, to tampons, antibiotics, burner phones, and the essentials—shit you didn’t realize you needed until a mission had you cursingthat you’d left it behind in the cage—was checked, double-checked, and ticked off the list.
Finally, Rowan zipped his ruck closed and stepped back to scan the room. “All set?” A chorus of ayes, yeses, and yes sirs filled the room in response, and he took a deep breath before letting it out slowly. He glanced at Rock and Grif, “Let’s roll.”
“Lancha’ll move when the captain feels like it.” Rock led the way back to the trucks. “But get your asses in the trucks, and we’ll get you to where you’re going.”
Rowan and Gael’s men split between the two vehicles and climbed in without fanfare. Rowan slid into the passenger seat next to Rock and slammed the door shut. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he had Edge, Fuse, and Scout with him. Gael, Titan, and Valley were riding with Grif in the other truck.
About ten klicks from the house, the road turned from gravel to potholes to mud. Rowan braced his hand on the ‘oh shit’ bar when Rock swerved to avoid a pair of kids who ran barefoot down a path. Rowan squinted through the window. “What kind of game requires a chicken and a soccer ball?”
“Fucked if I know.” Rock slowed and turned onto an even smaller track that led them toward a curve in the river. “You don’t ask questions in this place. Just do your thing, and try not to catch a bunch of flies every time your mouth drops open because something that twigs on your WTF radar happens right under your nose.”
“I hear ya, bro.” As operators, their What The Fuck radars were a little different from most people’s.But still, a chicken and a football…?That was weird even for a ranch kid from the hills of Kentucky.
Rock slowed even further at a rusted jetty and made a three-point turn so the nose of the truck was facing back up the track. Grif did the same and parked next to them.
“Geez, I’ve seen bicycles that look sturdier than that.” Gael came to stand next to him.
“Agreed.” There wasn’t much about the boat that exuded confidence or the ability to stay afloat, never mind to get the miles into the jungle without breaking down.
This is what we’re working with.
Edge clearly knew what Rowan was thinking, because he pushed a ruck into his chest. “Just think of it like you do ol’ Joe’s combine.” He turned and whistled softly to get Grif’s attention, “You got any baling twine, St. Clare?”
“You forget to bring Zip-ties, Edge? I told you three times to load them in the gear, asshole.”
“Oh, I brought the zip-ties, St. Clare.” Edge smirked. “We’re just better at fixing shit with baling twine if the engine in that thing decides to die in croc-infested waters.”
“You were a damn Frog, man. Shoot the croc, and swim like you’ve got a BUD/s instructor yelling at your ass. You’ll do just fine.”
Rowan directed his men toward the boat with a jerk of his chin. “Rock, Grif, we appreciate the assistance.”
“Anytime, bro.” Rock smirked as he shook hands with him and Gael. “You’ll return the favor when we need it sometime.”
“Just say the word. If we can do it, it’s yours,” Rowan promised, then turned to board the boat.
He was relieved that no one checked for IDs or even asked why they were there, because the second his boots hit the deck, he only had one thing on his mind.
Go time.
Get in, get her, get out.
“Kinda weird not having to buy tickets.” Gael followed him up the stairs to the first level. “I’m digging the no manifest or names thing though.”
“Me too.” Boats like this moved people, freight, and secrets through parts of Colombia the government pretended didn’t exist. The last thing most of the passengers wanted was a record of where they’d been, when, and with whom. He couldn’t see the guys and gestured up with his thumb. “Up again.”
“Yeah.” There was no way Gael would have been comfortable here on this deck with so many people they didn’t know. Locals with crates of produce, battered coolers, chickens in woven baskets, and a whole host of other things.
“Up top,” at least he hoped that’s where they went, because the battered walls of the boat were already closing in on me. “Too close to the engine down here.”
“You mean too many people for my liking,” Gael grunted and made a beeline for the next round of narrow stairs. At the highest level, the wind cut hard across the open space, thick with the reek of river mud and diesel, but at least it was slightly cooler up here, and the breeze was strong enough to hopefully keep most of the bugs away.
“There they are.” The guys had picked a spot on the far side, past a little kiosk selling beer, soft drinks, and cups of soup from adented aluminum pot. To be clear of any other travelers and the stench, they slung their hammocks about halfway between the kiosk and the bathrooms.
