local police follow those leads.
Charter’s analysts didn’t believe she’d be found there anyway. Not after they’d caught a single transmission. One that, once decrypted, had spoken of a special package ready for delivery to “the sheikh.”
The moment Wiley had heard that final word his blood froze. Rumors had abounded for over a year of a Yemeni sheikh who’d allied himself with a Mexican cartel. In exchange for heroin the ISIS-affiliated warlord smuggled to the cartel, he was provided a safe place to train terrorists, and coyotes to help smuggle his fighters across the porous U.S. border. So far, the intelligence community had only heard of scouting missions. Fighters looking for soft targets in the southwest and Texas. And U.S. intelligence agencies hadn’t found the supposed camp.
If Poppy fell into the sheikh’s hands… Wiley tightened his fists.
His team commander, Deke Warrick, met him beside the runway, reaching out to shake his hand. His hazel gaze studied his expression. “You holding it together?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Wiley said, keeping his emotions carefully guarded, his expressions neutral. If Charter knew he was hanging on by a thread, they might make him sit this one out.
“Look, I’ve been where you are, Wiley. When my wife Nicky was taken, I only had me. I had to keep a lid on my emotions. Had to work fast. At least, I never lost track of her.” He pressed his hand harder before letting go. “We’ll get Poppy back. But I need you steady.”
With both hands fisting at his sides, Wiley gave Deke a curt nod.
“Good. Now, come see Teague. He’s been pulling together intel and is ready to brief us.”
Wiley followed Deke to the command center, an impressive title for a rather unimpressive little building. Close to the hangar, it sat on piers, with dirty whitewashed siding and a shingled roof. Inside, they passed empty desks, heading straight to the back where the real work happened, the guts of the operation. There, blackout curtains covered the windows. A long table held computers, monitors, and a radio.
Teague sat on a stool and swiveled toward them when they closed the door.
If he hadn’t been wound tight, he might have smiled seeing Teague. The guy had a face that looked like it had been chiseled out of rock. His hair was cut high and tight. And the bristles on top showed more silver than the last time Wiley had been here.
Teague gave him an icy stare. “Heard you fucked the pooch.”
His neck stiffened. “Yeah, I messed up.”
Teague grunted at his admission and crossed his arms over his chest. “Commander Martir,” he said, referring to the former SEAL commander who now ran special operations for Charter, “tapped his old buddies at the DEA. Remember that bastard Diego Guzman we took out last year?” He didn’t wait for Wiley’s nod. “A splinter group, not beholden to the son, has her. They’ve been trying to reconstruct Guzman’s supply chain, to gain back trust after his organization scattered to the winds.
“Martir says this is a good thing. Because communication is fractured as well. No one trusts anyone. The men who have Poppy want to trade her to the sheikh for exclusive rights to move his heroin over the border. It’s a power grab. Guzman’s lieutenants have been killing off each other, one by one. Last man standing gets the crown.”
“Who’s in charge of this particular group?” Wiley asked, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. Poppy was being held by some desperate, ruthless assholes.
“Fernando Peña. The fact he’s kept her kidnapping under wraps is a good thing. It means we won’t have to fight an army to get her back. Just his most trusted men.”
Wiley still wasn’t feeling better. “Do we know where they are?”
“Heading straight down the coastline to an airstrip near Chetumal.”
Airstrip. She could wind up anywhere. A muscle jerked along the side of his jaw. “Where do they plan to take her from
Charter’s analysts didn’t believe she’d be found there anyway. Not after they’d caught a single transmission. One that, once decrypted, had spoken of a special package ready for delivery to “the sheikh.”
The moment Wiley had heard that final word his blood froze. Rumors had abounded for over a year of a Yemeni sheikh who’d allied himself with a Mexican cartel. In exchange for heroin the ISIS-affiliated warlord smuggled to the cartel, he was provided a safe place to train terrorists, and coyotes to help smuggle his fighters across the porous U.S. border. So far, the intelligence community had only heard of scouting missions. Fighters looking for soft targets in the southwest and Texas. And U.S. intelligence agencies hadn’t found the supposed camp.
If Poppy fell into the sheikh’s hands… Wiley tightened his fists.
His team commander, Deke Warrick, met him beside the runway, reaching out to shake his hand. His hazel gaze studied his expression. “You holding it together?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Wiley said, keeping his emotions carefully guarded, his expressions neutral. If Charter knew he was hanging on by a thread, they might make him sit this one out.
“Look, I’ve been where you are, Wiley. When my wife Nicky was taken, I only had me. I had to keep a lid on my emotions. Had to work fast. At least, I never lost track of her.” He pressed his hand harder before letting go. “We’ll get Poppy back. But I need you steady.”
With both hands fisting at his sides, Wiley gave Deke a curt nod.
“Good. Now, come see Teague. He’s been pulling together intel and is ready to brief us.”
Wiley followed Deke to the command center, an impressive title for a rather unimpressive little building. Close to the hangar, it sat on piers, with dirty whitewashed siding and a shingled roof. Inside, they passed empty desks, heading straight to the back where the real work happened, the guts of the operation. There, blackout curtains covered the windows. A long table held computers, monitors, and a radio.
Teague sat on a stool and swiveled toward them when they closed the door.
If he hadn’t been wound tight, he might have smiled seeing Teague. The guy had a face that looked like it had been chiseled out of rock. His hair was cut high and tight. And the bristles on top showed more silver than the last time Wiley had been here.
Teague gave him an icy stare. “Heard you fucked the pooch.”
His neck stiffened. “Yeah, I messed up.”
Teague grunted at his admission and crossed his arms over his chest. “Commander Martir,” he said, referring to the former SEAL commander who now ran special operations for Charter, “tapped his old buddies at the DEA. Remember that bastard Diego Guzman we took out last year?” He didn’t wait for Wiley’s nod. “A splinter group, not beholden to the son, has her. They’ve been trying to reconstruct Guzman’s supply chain, to gain back trust after his organization scattered to the winds.
“Martir says this is a good thing. Because communication is fractured as well. No one trusts anyone. The men who have Poppy want to trade her to the sheikh for exclusive rights to move his heroin over the border. It’s a power grab. Guzman’s lieutenants have been killing off each other, one by one. Last man standing gets the crown.”
“Who’s in charge of this particular group?” Wiley asked, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. Poppy was being held by some desperate, ruthless assholes.
“Fernando Peña. The fact he’s kept her kidnapping under wraps is a good thing. It means we won’t have to fight an army to get her back. Just his most trusted men.”
Wiley still wasn’t feeling better. “Do we know where they are?”
“Heading straight down the coastline to an airstrip near Chetumal.”
Airstrip. She could wind up anywhere. A muscle jerked along the side of his jaw. “Where do they plan to take her from
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