Storm Warning (Security Specialists International Book 4) (26 page)

Maybe because the man eyed her as if she were a tasty treat and he has a sweet tooth.

Yeah, that would be why.

“Who are you working for?” Tweeter asked. Might as well be blunt.

“Who do you think?” Crocker’s eyes glistened with amusement as he raised the bottle of Corona to his lips and took a long swallow.

“NCS,” Tweeter responded.

Crocker saluted him with the bottle. “Bingo.”

“What was your mission?” DJ accepted a Diet Coke from Conn with a smile.

“Still
is
my mission.” Crocker heaved a sigh and put the bottle on the bar. “Observation of Oraio’s hacker tryouts. Note who all the hackers are and then attempt to turn whoever takes the job to play both sides and provide intel to the CIA.”

“Plausible,” Tweeter said. “Since the CIA would never in a million years think to ask the NSA and DIA if they already had an op in place. Just wouldn’t do to share info. Typical stove-piping.”

“Exactly.” Crocker looked at Conn and waggled his empty bottle. “Think I could get me another one of these?”

“Sure.” Conn pulled out another beer and handed it to Crocker. He also pulled out platters of sandwiches, fruit, and chips with dips from the bar refrigerator. He placed everything on the bar top. “Might as well eat.”

“Thanks.” Crocker saluted the man, then took a sandwich, bit into it, chewed, and swallowed. “Good stuff.” He grabbed some chips and added them to his plate. “Yeah, as to the sharing.” He snorted with disgust. “As boots on the ground, you and me are all well aware that the big wigs in intelligence are often short-sighted along with having bad cases of tunnel vision. Like that deal with MacLean, that shouldn’t have gone down the way it did. I told my handler the fucker was gonna rabbit, but the political asshat wouldn’t listen to me.”

Tweeter listened to Crocker’s explanation as he snagged a beer for himself and prepared a plate of food to share with DJ.

“You could’ve been tried for treason.” DJ accepted the plate Tweeter handed to her.

Crocker shook his head. “Never would’ve happened. They have too much invested in my cover.” He smiled for a split-second, then an almost haunted look passed over his face before he went blank. “Damn Dillman fucked up royally on the National fucking Mall. Forced me to improvise. Little Elana was a game-changer and then the op really went tits up fast after that. MacLean would be in a Federal penitentiary in solitary, awaiting trial for treason and a bunch of other just as nasty Federal crimes, if Dillman had followed orders.”

“Were your merc team members also CIA?” Tweeter asked. Fucking CIA had run an NCS black op on U.S. soil illegally. SSI could use that for leverage in the future. DIA would jump all over it.

“Nah, while my cover was as a mercenary for hire, Dillman and the others thought they were working a real merc contract.” Crocker reached for another sandwich as if he hadn’t eaten for days.

“So, how did the Feds explain you being allowed to go free after the Keys?” Conn asked, shoving Crocker the plate of fruit and cheeses.

“They didn’t. They couldn’t acknowledge the op.” Crocker laughed. “I
escaped
from the locked ward of a military hospital after the CIA conveniently let slip the info of where I was. One of my backup merc teams came and took me away in the middle of the night. I recuperated in Panama at one of my men’s
fonda
. So, my merc cover is solid and has been polished somewhat. The intelligence agencies conveniently lost the reports of my brief incarceration and hospitalization. Yay, me.”

Tweeter got the impression Crocker was somewhat disillusioned with his CIA superiors and his undercover career. Crocker’s experience, skills, and third-world connections would be the kind Ren could use at SSI, but currently, his brother-in-law and Vanko wanted to kill the man.

Before he went out on a limb and spoke to Ren about potentially recruiting Crocker to do contract work, there was one thing he had to know—“To maintain your cover, would you have shot my sister?”

DJ touched his arm and squeezed, whether to calm him or in preparation to stop him from leaping at Crocker and strangling him, he wasn’t sure.

Crocker’s expression went stone cold. “It wasn’t supposed to get that far, man.” His voice was filled with anger, frustration, and maybe some pain. The man rubbed a hand over his face and blew out a frustrated breath. “I told you Dillman fucked up—then he fucked up again in Virginia and shot—killed—police officers. Man, I could’ve killed Dillman and that dumbass Peavey who followed the idiot’s lead myself. Instead, I dumped their asses, and thank fuck, the cops saved me the trouble.”

“Dillman always was an asshole.” Conn shook his head. “Peavey was just stupid.”

Crocker clicked his bottle against Conn’s. “What he said.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Tweeter ground out. “Would you have killed my sister?”

“No. I don’t kill or hurt women—ever.” Crocker picked at the label on the bottle with his thumbnail. “My mission, my only mission, was to get positive proof that MacLean was selling out our spec ops units and contractors like SSI and providing weapons and advanced technology to groups we didn’t want to have such. When MacLean hired me to kill your sister and made the deposit into my merc account, that was the first piece of solid evidence against him and my superiors felt it would’ve led to the rest of what they needed. But little Elana overheard the meeting with MacLean and the whole mission went in the crapper.”

“Fuck! Crocker, the CIA … you … were acting illegally on U.S. soil.” Tweeter shook his head.

Crocker looked up, eyes blazing silver fire. “Yeah, I know. But it made sense to keep the op inside the CIA. MacLean had already reached out to
me
. If the FBI had taken over, precious time would’ve been wasted, playing games on who’d run the op and them trying to substitute one of their own undercover people. Time we didn’t have. That fucker was getting soldiers and undercover operatives killed in hellholes all over the world. He needed to be taken down. ASAP. Still needs to be taken down—hard.”

“Amen, brother,” Conn said.

Tweeter admired Crocker’s zeal, but it might still be a hard sell to get Ren—and Vanko—to consider using Crocker as an asset. Though, if Keely and Elana hadn’t been involved in MacLean’s evil plots, Tweeter was certain Ren and Vanko would’ve played the game the same as Crocker had.

And that brought them to—“What’s the deal? Why did you break cover now?” Tweeter asked.

“MacLean,” Crocker replied.

“What about the fucker?” Tweeter asked even as an answer presented itself.

DJ voiced her own conclusions before he managed to offer his own. “Oraio is MacLean.”

Crocker nodded, his face ruddy with anger. “Can’t prove it … yet. But the guy shadowing you was one of MacLean’s go-to mercs in South America. From my reconnaissance of the resort y’all are going to, the security there is made up of other guns-for-hire MacLean’s used in the past. Also, I found it too much of a coincidence that the reclusive, never-before-seen-in-public Oraio is now man-about-town in Rio and in residence at his island off the Brazilian coast. What nailed it for me was the fact that Oraio has taken over the majority of the weapons and drugs contracts MacLean serviced while double-crossing the U.S. government. The circumstantial evidence and my gut agreed—Oraio is MacLean.”

“Makes sense,” Tweeter said. “He would’ve had his exit strategy and an established cover in place in case he had to run. But that still doesn’t explain why you broke cover. You worried he’ll recognize you and you need us to feed you intel?”

“Fuck, you really don’t think much of me, do you?” Crocker glared at Tweeter, then he sighed. “But then, why would you?”

Crocker fixed his gaze on something in the distance. “I was following the tail who was following the Phantom, which I now know is you. The CIA figured the Phantom would take the contest and wanted me to approach and turn him so we could get the goods on Oraio. How the hell you’ve kept your secret?—I’ll never know.”

Tweeter grinned. “My sister and I are smarter than the fucking CIA bureaucrats.”

Crocker snickered and saluted him with his beer. “Yeah, you are. Hell, if I’d known a week ago you were this Erik Slade guy, I would’ve notified Maddox and had you pulled off this op. I outed myself, because I
saw you
in the Cancun airport.”

“You broke cover because of me?” Tweeter asked. “Why?”

“Because I figured MacLean’s man would recognize you and let O’Riley know.” Crocker blew out a frustrated breath. “Hell, man, I figured I owed SSI a favor, okay?”

Tweeter was momentarily speechless. Conn had been correct—Crocker had a bone deep sense of honor.

DJ asked the next logical question, “What happened to MacLean’s, um, Oraio’s, man?”

“I killed him after I made sure he hadn’t identified you. Lucky for all of us, he was a lousy tail. He hadn’t reported in or even sent O’Riley pictures of you, though he’d taken plenty.”

Yeah, Crocker had acted selflessly. The pictures of the formerly reclusive Phantom could’ve have been identified as Stuart Allen Walsh if Oraio or any of his contacts had access to a U.S. government database.

“Won’t that make O’Riley suspicious?” DJ asked, frowning. “If he doesn’t hear from his man…”

“No worries, sweetheart. I made it look like a back alley robbery. Called it into the local cops anonymously from a throw-away cell.” Crocker then shot Conn a wry grin. “After which, I made sure my Marine brother saw me, so y’all wouldn’t shoot me on sight when I set up this meet.”

Crocker’s eyes went flat and darkened to gunmetal gray. “You need to fucking go home, Walsh. Oraio’s people may not be able to hack, but they sure as hell can hire someone to run recognition software and find out who you are. What’s even more disturbing is the tail confessed he was supposed to abduct you
before
you arrived at the resort. Oraio has a real hard-on to have you in his employ. You’re walking into a bear trap, my friend.”

“Can’t stop now.” When Crocker opened his mouth to make further arguments, Tweeter cut him off with a slash of his hand. “Think, man. You’ve already covered the death of Oraio’s man with a plausible explanation. O’Riley
is still
expecting Erik Slade. If I don’t show, he’ll definitely smell a rat. He’d close the contest down and months of work on your and NSA’s end would go down the fucking drain. We might never get someone else inside to get into Oraio’s cyber-operations. If Keely and I could’ve hacked in off-site, we would’ve. We tried. Hell, every hacker in the NSA tried. Someone … I … need to be on-site to get into Oraio’s closed network to mine intel and find the weaknesses.”

“If they identify you, you’re dead”—Crocker angled his head toward DJ—“and your girl, too.”

DJ snarled, “I’m not a
girl
, and I’m damn hard to kill. I’m not gonna let anyone hurt or take Ace.”

“Plus,” Tweeter added, “I don’t plan on being there long. Twelve hours tops.” Logic said, now that their plan to abduct him failed, Oraio’s people would try to recruit him before they’d kidnap him.

Conn who’d been quietly listening to their exchange addressed Crocker, “Will MacLean—shit, let’s call him Oraio since that’s who he is now—will he be on-site?”

“Hasn’t been yet. Haven’t heard any rumors to the effect, either. The bastard has to be recuperating from extensive plastic surgery. The long-distance photos I’ve seen of Oraio, look nothing like old Syd. Plus, the fucker’s a coward. He wouldn’t risk his own hide.”

“NSA had never been able to get a picture of Oraio prior to his recent coming out,” Tweeter said. “MacLean operated as Oraio for years through O’Riley, Salazar, and Rossi. The rumor in the intelligence community was Oraio had been scarred in a fire and that’s why he was a recluse.”

“Well, his front men have definitely been busy on his behalf in Belize.” Crocker snagged a banana and peeled it. “Over copious amounts of alcohol at one of the local hangouts, I discovered O’Riley bought the resort two years ago in one of Oraio’s Brazilian businesses’ name. So, expect eyes and ears where you can’t see them.”

“That change in the resort’s ownership wasn’t in our dossier, so they must’ve buried the purchase under multiple layers of shell companies.” Tweeter added, “We already expected the place to be bugged. I can disrupt them, if I need to, and make it look like a local network problem.”

“Plus, if the op goes to shit and they identify Ace, Conn will be close by with a helicopter to pull us out,” DJ added.

“I’ll be closer.” Crocker gave DJ a jaunty wink. “I have a camp set up just outside the resort grounds perimeter, eastside. If you need me, I’ll come running and to hell with my fucking mission. The CIA and DIA should’ve worked together on nailing MacLean from the get-go. He was a Defense problem.”

“That’s for damn sure,” Conn said. “I’ll visit Sam’s camp so I know where it is. I’ll send you the coordinates over our secure feed so you’ll have his exact location. And, Sam, if you need an evac, I can pull you out also.”

“Man, if I need to bug out, I’ll steal Oraio’s Apache helicopter.” Crocker grinned. “Always wanted to fly one of those bad boys.”

“I’ll need to know where the Apache is,” DJ said. “Just in case everything goes tits up fast.”

“Can’t miss it, beautiful.” Crocker laughed when Tweeter growled. “I know she’s yours, Walsh, but she’s beautiful.” He turned his attention back to DJ. “The helipad is next to the tennis courts.”

“I think we need to take a nice walk when we get there, Ace, to scope things out.”

“We can fit it in right before the evening meal.” Tweeter looked at Crocker. “I’ll make sure Ren and Keely get the information you’ve shared and are aware of your presence. NSA needs to know we suspect Oraio is MacLean.”

“And unlike the CIA, I know NSA will make sure the other intelligence agencies get a dossier on the whole mess.” Crocker’s statement dripped with sarcasm. “I really should’ve gotten out after the Demidas mess, found me a nice gal, and started a family. But MacLean was still out there. I really want that fucker.”

“You can’t want him anymore than SSI does,” Tweeter said. “If we work together, we can take him down once and for all.”