Wild Hearts (Novella)

  Wild Hearts is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2014 by Tina Wainscott

  Excerpt from Wild on You by Tina Wainscott copyright © 2014 by Tina Wainscott

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN 978-0-553-39080-3

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Wild on You by Tina Wainscott. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  www.readloveswept.com

  Cover design: Caroline Teagle

  Cover photograph guy: George Kerrigan

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  The Men of Justiss

  Dear Reader

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Wild on You

  Chapter 1

  This was not going to be like the Navy SEAL Team Six takedown of bin Laden. Rick Yarbrough’s team wasn’t going to be lauded in the news, and there wouldn’t be any movies made. They wouldn’t be hailed as heroes. That was if things went well.

  Rick was the first to sign on, no doubt substantiating his nickname: Risk. The boys in his team had followed suit, unwilling to be shown up by the Farm Boy, his other label. They’d all been arrogant enough to take this hit, knowing that if they failed, they’d be thrown under the bus. The official terminology: The U.S. government would disavow any knowledge of the mission. Meant the same damned thing.

  So they couldn’t fail. Wouldn’t fail. And now Risk’s team was crouched in the flat desertlike wilderness outside Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, on a warm, moonless night. Surrounding a compound not unlike some they’d raided in Iraq. He checked his suppressed MP7, the perfect weapon for an infiltration like this. Discharging it would alert no one. The mission was simple: Take out Miguel Romero and his four top men execution-style and get out without anyone in the compound the wiser. Make it look like a hit by Los Negros, the most violent and invasive cartel. Let the shit fly afterward, with the U.S.’s nose nice and clean. They’d done it before with success.

  And they would do it again.

  On the signal, Risk and his teammates moved closer to the concrete wall surrounding the compound. Three guards patrolled the wall, their assault rifles plain as day in their NVGs—night vision goggles.

  If the Mexican drug cartels could manufacture adrenaline, they’d have an even bigger customer base. Hot and sweet, it pulsed through Risk as they crept several steps closer. It was the only drug he needed.

  The compound held the leaders of an anti-cartel group called El Martillo—the Hammer—that was targeting the growing corruption and bloodshed in Mexico. With cartel activity becoming the biggest organized-crime threat in the U.S., the government was taking public steps to support Mexican officials. They were also secretly funding and training members of El Martillo, a private organization that used as much violence as the cartels did.

  The covert U.S. liaison, known only as the Wolf, was working closely with Miguel Romero, El Martillo’s leader. The Wolf monitored progress and ascertained how much support the Hammer needed. And he’d found out that it was all a front. They wanted to shut down the cartels, all right—so they could take over the lucrative drug trafficking industry themselves. Using resources and weapons supplied by the U.S.

  Sons of bitches.

  As soon as the guard passed, they moved to the wall. Showtime. Quick as spiders, they scaled the rough concrete and dropped to the ground on the other side. The Wolf had given them specs on the whole compound, right down to each bush. He’d been off by about a foot, and Risk had to lurch to the side midfall to avoid landing in a bush. And making a lot of racket.

  Salsa—Salsa Boy when they were ribbing him—landed several yards away, his feet making barely a sound. Julian Cuevas was as quiet as a snake when he moved, though his laugh was as loud as the salsa music he used for a ringtone.

  Five other shadows fell in line as they followed the wall toward the door that the Wolf was leaving unlocked. A quick scan showed the guards making their rounds as usual. Still, Risk knew that every time you entered a building, someone could be waiting, armed and ready. He did a visual check of his team—all accounted for—since they hadn’t worn the troop net that allowed them to communicate with each other. If they were caught, they couldn’t look as though they were on official military business.

  Cal Gutterson led the way into the dimly lit building. None of Risk’s team had worked with him before, though he’d pulled some missions back when Mexico didn’t want America nosing around in their cartel matters. Cal had been to this particular compound when it was held by another cartel. The tentative relations between the two countries were why this had to look like Los Negros. Otherwise, it would seem pretty bad to the world, Americans killing the “good guys.” Others would be livid that the U.S. was funding “terrorists,” no matter their stripes.

  Risk crept to the back hallway, cleared it, then followed Gutterson to the right, where Romero was supposed to be sleeping. Saxby Cole, known as Sooch—short for “Southern charm”—and Knox Logan headed down another hall to take out Romero’s brothers, while Julian and Rath Blackwood headed toward the back of the compound for their targets. There was nothing charming about Sax, or any of them, in black face paint and the dark fatigues Los Negros were known for.

  Risk covered from the rear as Gutterson led the way. They flanked the target’s door and listened. Not a sound; not even breathing. Gutterson turned the knob and pushed it open, his gun pointed and ready. Risk could make out two figures lying in the bed. The goal was to kill Miguel, leaving his wife none the wiser—and alive. Unless she aimed a weapon at them.

  With the NVGs, Risk could see that Miguel slept on the left side, his assault rifle within easy reach. He wasn’t reaching for it. Gutterson aimed at Miguel. Risk saw something strange on the man’s pillow but didn’t have time to gesture before Gutterson squeezed off two shots.

  Though the wife didn’t move, Risk saw the odd pattern on her pillow, too. He tapped Gutterson’s shoulder and pointed at it.

  Glass shattered as an assault rifle sprayed a line of bullets at them from outside the window. Risk’s body reacted instantly, dropping him to his knees. Gutterson fell with a thud. Risk came from the side and fired back. He saw no one there, but they’d lost the element of stealth. The compound woke up. Risk could feel it and hear it in the clatter of guns and pounding footsteps.

  Gutterson wasn’t moving. Not even a groan when Risk shook him. Risk hoisted Gutterson over his shoulders and darted toward the door, watching both the hallway and the window for movement. Warm blood poured over his shoulder and made his shirt stick to his skin.

  Risk swung his weapon right and left before stepping into the hallway. A shadow fell over the tiles on the floor, and he aimed the weapon at the person about to come around the corner. His finger stiffened on the trigger as his brain computed what he saw: a little girl, armed only with a teddy bear. Holy shit. The Wolf had said women and children were kept separate from those who might be targets. But here was a kid. Risk lowered his weapon and told her in his limited Spanish to hide. But the kid … hell, she was frozen right there, her big brown eyes reminding him of that deer-in-the-headlights saying.

  Risk tightened his hold on Gutterson, one arm looped around his leg, with one hand gripping his sleeve and the other holding his rifle. He ran out of the hallway, a barrage of bullets zinging past them. Puffs of dust came out of the walls where the bullets hit. They weren’t quite as troubling as the men waiting in the main living area, guns drawn. Risk ducked as the salvo cut across the room inches above him. He could hear suppressed weapons in other areas of the house, probably his teammates.

  A woman screamed. Fucking hell. Women and children. The Wolf had either lied or screwed up.

  Risk cut two of his assailants down at the knees. Hunching low, he ran for the door, now guarded only by a couple of bodies. The force of a bullet hit him in the chest and threw him to the floor. Gutterson fell in a heap. Pain thrummed through Risk, and he sucked in a ragged breath. The shooter approached from the side. Risk spotted his MP7 on the floor, too far away.

  The guy nudged him with a toe. Bare feet, so not prepared for this late-night attack. Risk let him think he was dead. Three. Two. One. He grabbed the man’s ankle, jerked, and sent him backward; he hit hard and let out a pained grunt. His gun went off, spraying the ceiling and raining dust and plaster down on them.

  Risk grabbed his own weapon and swung it before the guy had a chance to aim. Two whumps later, the guy sagged. Risk patted his chest where the bullet had hit him. Thank God for body armor. Still, it hurt like hell.

  “Moving,” Saxby said as he entered the main living area, so Risk would know that his comrade was in the room. Sax took out another man who’d stepped out from the hallway entrance. Risk was terrified that the little girl was still frozen
in the line of fire. Damn, he hated when kids got hurt because of what their family was up to. Or as a political statement. Or by abusive adults who couldn’t channel their anger properly.

  Any reason.

  He spotted her hunched down in the corner, her bear a shield in front of her face. Alive, then.

  Knox announced his entrance as he darted toward them.

  “Gutterson’s been hit,” Risk said in a soft voice. “Condition unknown.” No time to check for pulses, and it didn’t matter anyway. Dead or alive, they would take him out of there. No man left behind, the military credo. His gut told him the guy was gone, but all he could focus on was hoisting Gutterson again. To survive, they had to compartmentalize everything. For the moment, it wasn’t a comrade on his shoulders but simply weight that he had to transport. Any emotions or physical discomfort had to be shoved into boxes to be dealt with later.

  Knox and Risk ran for the door. Saxby covered, sending a volley of shots somewhere behind them.

  Rath ran in from the shadows and covered from the other side, sweeping his weapon back and forth and moving along with them. “Wolf not located,” he said in a low voice. “Room was empty,” he added to their unspoken question. They were supposed to put eyes on Wolf in a designated room, give him a few seconds to get into a safe position, and then shoot up the bed so he would look like a target as well.

  Julian moved ahead and out the door, Rath right behind him. Rath really looked like Los Negros, with his dark beard and scruffy hair. He definitely didn’t look like a redneck from Tennessee.

  SEALs didn’t have to follow strict military standards for grooming, which gave them a lot of leeway for blending in. They weren’t wearing standard uniforms but a mishmash of various camos. Still, they obviously weren’t blending in very well tonight. They waited for the all-clear. The guards who’d been outside had probably run into the building at the first sign of trouble and joined the firefight. But it was dumb to assume they were all inside—and dead.

  “Clear,” Julian called.

  “Moving,” Risk said, getting the answering confirmation from Knox before stepping out to the courtyard.

  The tiniest click shot his attention to the catwalk that led along the inside of the wall where the guards patrolled. One man crouched low, aiming his semi-automatic. He let out an oof and fell backward as Rath’s bullets hit him before he could pull the trigger.

  They ran across the open courtyard, the most vulnerable part of their escape. Julian shot out the lock at the gates and pushed them open, and Rath slipped out. “Clear,” he called.

  They passed through the gate and into the darkness toward the extraction point. Screams and shouting punctured the night, and footsteps pounded across the courtyard. They took the designated path through scrub that would camouflage them. Headlights flashed from the compound, then stopped. They could be driving right into an ambush, depending on whatever was left of El Martillo’s soldiers. Time would tell.

  The team ran in single file to be less of a visual target. Risk’s shoulders were aching, his knees giving under the strain. This was what they trained for. His body would not fail him.

  Knox came up beside him. “Pass him over.”

  “No time. I’ve got—”

  “Just do it,” Knox said, nudging in and taking the weight off of Risk’s shoulders. That was what they’d trained for, too, the uncanny knowing that bonded them as a team. As brothers.

  The truck waiting for them was barely visible in the distance, even with the NVGs. Eventually, it became clearer. The truck would take them to the helicopter. Again, they couldn’t chance anyone at the compound hearing a chopper, which would be a sure sign that this was official.

  They clambered onto the truck, Knox laying Gutterson down. At the signal, the driver took off, pitching them over the rough terrain. Risk pressed a finger to the pulse point at Gutterson’s neck. He shook his head. A moment of silence passed heavily over the group. But they had to move on.

  “Did you get Target One?” Knox asked Risk. Miguel.

  “Yes. And potentially no.”

  “Say what?”

  “I think he and his wife were already dead. I can’t be sure, but it looked like their pillows were covered in blood. Then again, it could have been some kind of pattern. Before I could investigate, someone shot at us from outside the window.”

  “Someone who knew you were coming,” Rath said, his voice a low growl. “Who knew you’d be going to that room?”

  “The Wolf,” Julian said. “He obviously lied about the kids and women not living there.”

  “Smells like a setup,” Rath said. “There were kids’ toys all over. I find it hard to believe they decided to stay in the main building tonight, out of the blue.”

  “But if this was a setup, there would have been more soldiers and a lot more bloodshed,” Risk said. “And the women and children wouldn’t have been present.”

  Saxby kept an eye on the darkness behind them. “If the Wolf had tipped them off, they would have had someone posted outside all the target rooms.” He glanced back at the guys. “Who else got their targets? I don’t think I got Target Two. By the time I reached Jose’s bedroom, the gunfire had started. I fired into the room, but I can’t be sure I hit him.”

  “I took out Target Three,” Knox said. Julian and Rath confirmed that they had taken out their targets. But none of them felt comfortable saying it was a successful mission.

  “So four confirmed dead, one unknown.” Risk went back to that dark room in his mind. “Miguel and his wife, executed. If she were alive, she would have woken up at the sound of gunfire.” Anger burned inside him. An innocent woman had been murdered.

  “Something’s fucked up with that,” Rath said.

  Their silence stood as agreement. There were too many questions. Once they were safely back in the U.S., Risk damn well wanted answers.

  Chapter 2

  Four days later …

  The five SEALs had been in isolation since the debacle they now referred to as the defuckle, courtesy of Rath’s colorful -isms. Yeah, they’d each been debriefed right afterward. But had anybody answered their questions? Fuck, no.

  What they did figure was that something was going on, and they weren’t going to like it. They’d been shut off from the world. No phone, television, or Internet. Even worse, they weren’t doing anything. Not preparing. Not training. Not being deployed or even waiting to be deployed. Just getting on one another’s nerves once they’d rehashed every single detail of the mission about a thousand times. They’d done everything as per plan. It wasn’t their fault that intel was misleading.

  Now, finally, they were sitting in some conference room with a bunch of brass, men and one woman who were introduced only cursorily. They all sat on one side of a long-assed conference table, stiff-shouldered and proper, while the team slouched on the other side with their knees spread wide. Risk was sure there was some psychological reason for the posture, but he didn’t really care to delve into it at the moment.

  Admiral Stevens began the show by clearing his throat, as if he needed to gain their attention. Hell, he had it. They’d been waiting for this for one hundred and twelve hours.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for your patience while we analyzed the implications of your last mission. Unfortunately, while you terminated four of the five targets, there are complications. We’ve been assessing the fallout, and we felt that keeping you isolated was the best course of action until we could determine how to handle this.”

  He tossed two Mexican newspapers onto the table. Risk didn’t have a chance to translate the headline; the pictures snagged his full attention. The one on top showed Gutterson, dead. Risk was pretty sure it had been taken right after he was hit. The other photos captured various moments during the takedown.

  “Jose Romero survived, though he sustained two bullet wounds. He’s accusing us of an unprovoked attack,” Stevens said.

  Julian, who could read Spanish, pointed to the words Militares Americanos. “How’d they know we’re American?”

  “And how did they get these pictures?” Rath asked.

  Risk recognized his profile in one shot, Salsa wielding his weapon in another, though the face paint pretty much obliterated any recognizable features. “What the hell?”