Black Ops Bodyguard. Donna Young

       Black Ops Bodyguard

       Donna Young

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      About the Author

      DONNA YOUNG, an incurable romantic, lives with her family in beautiful Northern California.

      To all of my family and my friends.

      Thank you for the love and support you’ve given me over the past year and more. I am blessed to have so many who care so much.

       Chapter One

       Amazonia, Venezuela Many years ago

      The jungle was one hell of a place to die.

      Calvin West dropped to his knees in the muck and rotted vines. The storm did little to relieve the humidity, turning the air into liquid oxygen, making it difficult to breathe and his head thick and fuzzy.

      A flash of lightning lit the shadows, adding a jolt of electricity to the fetid, moist surroundings.

      The crack of thunder came at a snail’s pace, telling Cal the worst of the storm lingered in the mountains miles away.

      The bullet wound in his side throbbed. The small hole oozed blood under the muddy cocoon of clothes that stuck

      to his body.

      He’d lost his pistol while crossing the river. The same place he’d picked up the wound.

      Gunfire burst behind him. Less than a hundred meters back. Cristo’s men were closing in.

      “Find him!”

      The order shot through the trees, making the birds flutter from their perches, their wings battling the downpour in fear of the hunters.

      Cal nearly smiled over the frustration in his enemy’s command. It was Solaris. Cristo’s enforcer. The mercenary was good and would make sure no one ever found Cal’s body.

      But, Cal was damn good himself and wouldn’t give Solaris the satisfaction.

      He staggered to his feet and veered back into the canal, sinking calf-deep into the rancid mire and slime beneath. Cursing the ache in his side, he trudged through the muck. Rain pelted the stagnant water, making it jump and spit in front of him, while his eyes scanned the churning current for the sleek, rolling movement of a snake or crocodile.

      Bloody hell. He should have known the deal had been too easy, the lure too tempting. He should have realized his cover had been blown.

      But after four years, he’d been eager to hit Delgado. Bring the drug lord to his knees.

      Still, he refused to pay for his mistake with his life.

      A shadow slithered along the curve of the bank. Cal swore as a boa constrictor slipped from the undergrowth and into the canal.

      He stumbled from the water, fighting the riverbed’s suction, his breath heavy with the exertion, his head swimming from dehydration and loss of blood.

      Dizziness tilted the ground beneath his feet, while sweat and rain stung his eyes. He held no illusions. He had another hour, maybe less, before he lost consciousness. If he didn’t find a path, a hollow, anything, he was a dead man.

      He broke through the trees, stopped short on top of an overhang of saturated jungle rot. Quickly, he scanned the shadows.

      Branches broke somewhere behind him—a brief warning before another burst of gunfire. The slap of the bullet hit his thigh, the white-hot stab of pain shot through his hip.

      His leg gave out from under him, bringing him to his knees. Suddenly, the slope collapsed beneath him. Grasping at air, he hit the side of the precipice. His body tumbled over thorns and rocks and broken trees. His ribs slammed together, knocking the wind from his chest, setting his wounds on fire.

      Without warning, he hit flat ground, barely missing the canal edge and the water beyond.

      He struggled to rise against the swirl and pitch of his head. Acid clung to the back of his throat. Suddenly, a foot slammed into his chest, knocking him back into the mud.

      “Going somewhere, West?” A laugh, thick with pleasure, rumbled above his head.

      Unconsciousness slithered through him, blurring stark lines into murky shadows.

      “Or are you just waiting for me to send you to hell?” The man ground his heel into Cal’s wound. Pain screamed through Cal’s gut.

      “Haven’t you heard, Solaris?” Cal struggled to get the words out before blackness engulfed him. “Hell’s my playground.”

       Chapter Two

       Washington, D.C., Midnight Present

      Winter encased Capitol Hill in a slow, deep freeze. The wind howled through the cement and steel of the parking structure, each gust strengthened by the moonless sky, the threat of snow in the air.

      Calvin West slid out of his pearl-black sports coupe and scanned the rows of parked cars. Fluorescent lamps spotted the ceiling, casting the garage in an artificial glow of light and shadows. Jetlag had settled into his muscles, making his shoulder ache, his knees stiff.

      Almost forty, he was getting too damn old to be chasing bad guys across seven continents.

      Not that he would get any rest soon. Not with a plane to catch at Dulles in less than four hours.

      With a shift of his shoulders, he fought off the fatigue, promising himself a nap during the trip to Caracas.

      The shadows drew his eyes and a cold whisper of warning settled at the base of his neck. His gaze shifted over the dark corners.

      Nothing.

      But he didn’t shrug off the unease. After thirty sleepless hours, anyone might be paranoid. But paranoia kept you alive.

      He reached into his jacket and pulled his .45 automatic pistol from its shoulder holster. Slowly, he lowered the gun to his side, confident the weapon remained out of sight from the casual observer.

      Heels tapped against the cement from behind him. Swearing, his finger tightened on the trigger.

      “Cal.”

      A woman stepped from the shadows into the stark lighting. She wore a navy blue wool suit. Its jacket tailored and trimmed to hug each dip and curve of her slender form, while the skirt, cut pencil-straight to midthigh, exposed long, shapely legs. The kind that male eyes admired and female’s envied.

      Thick, mahogany hair was swept back and tamed into an elegant swirl that lay at the nape of her neck. The style accented the delicate, triangular shape of her face, the high classic cheekbones and the stubborn, but distinctly feminine slant to her jaw.

      Professional. Sophisticated.

      And sexy as hell.

      The hum of awareness shifted points of contact, hitting him just south of his waist.

      He reminded himself that in his line of business, sexy was a commodity, not a comfort.

      “Julia.” Cal thumbed the safety, then slipped the gun back into his shoulder holster. After buttoning his suit jacket, he turned fully and faced her. While her appearance was not unexpected, Cal’s irritation poked at him. “The President’s private secretary should know better than to sneak around in the dark.”

      “Sneak? Not likely,” Julia Cutting responded with just enough disdain to tighten her prim little mouth. “I’m