Lindsay McKenna - Commando

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To my brothers and their families:

Gary, Debby, Brian and Kimberly Gent,

and Brent, Jeanne, Erin and Lauren Gent.

A sister couldn’t get luckier, believe me.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

“Mr. Trayhern, I want my daughter out of the Amazon jungle. Now. No questions asked.”

Morgan Trayhern eyed the man who stood tensely in front of his large desk. Ken Travers, a millionaire real estate developer, wore a Saville Row suit; his black hair was peppered with a few white strands. Right now, he looked angry. Morgan rested his finger against his chin and allowed his instincts to take over. Travers might be rich and influential, but Morgan didn’t like his attitude.

“Mr. Travers—”

“Call me Ken.”

Morgan allowed a brief, perfunctory smile to cross his mouth as he eased forward in his leather chair. He clasped his hands in front of him and rested them on top of his cherrywood desk.

“All right. Ken. Perseus doesn’t do anything without asking a lot of questions first. You come bursting into my office without an appointment, and—”

“Yes, yes, and I apologize.” Travers raked his hand through his short hair, his blue eyes narrowing. “It’s just that my daughter, Shah, has no business being down in the Amazon! She’s headstrong and opinionated.” Travers paced for a moment, halted and pinned Morgan with a glare. “On top of that, she’s half Sioux, and wears it like a damned badge of honor. She calls herself a warrior for Mother Earth. What rubbish! She’s a hellion who goes off half-cocked on ridiculous, fanatical quests.”

“Please, Ken, sit down and let’s discuss this matter intelligently.” Morgan wondered which of his Perseus employees might be available for the assignment. Marie Parker, his intrepid assistant, kept him supplied with a complete, updated list of who was open. Quickly perusing the list, Morgan noted the “not available” status of Wolf Harding, who had recently quit. At least he was happy with his ranger’s job in Montana—and he would be marrying Sarah Thatcher shortly. Marie had penned a date in the margin near Wolf’s name to remind Morgan that he and Laura would be attending that wedding.

Hiding a smile, Morgan’s gaze moved down the list. Killian had requested only American assignments, and low-risk ones at that. Judging from Ken Travers’s agitated state, this potential assignment was probably not low-risk. Besides, Killian was still on his requested three-month leave, working to get his life back together, and Morgan respected that request. With Morgan’s own sister-in-law, Susannah Anderson at his side, and his recent move to Glen, Kentucky, to be with her, Killian’s focus was on the personal right now, anyway.

Morgan was nearly to the end of the list when he noticed that one of his men, Jake Randolph, was due to come in off an assignment today. That meant he’d be checking in with Marie tomorrow morning as a matter of course. Every employee, after coming off an assignment, wrote up a detailed report at the main office to be submitted to Morgan. Then the employee was given two weeks—or more, if he or she requested it—time off to rest and regroup.

Frowning, Morgan sat back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. Jake had been on a brutal assignment in Peru. He’d been responsible for getting all the parties together regarding the contract on Susannah Anderson by José Santiago’s drug cartel. If it hadn’t been for Jake’s brazen approach to Santiago’s estate, demanding that those now in command talk with the Peruvian government, as well as with U.S. officials, the contract would never have been lifted from Susannah’s head. Yes, Jake had clearly been a key to saving Susannah’s life.

Jake would be tired, Morgan knew. He’d risked his life time and again, carrying messages to the drug cartel on behalf of the U.S. government when the cartel officials refused to talk directly. Quickly glancing to the end of the list, Morgan realized that Jake was the only operative potentially free to take this assignment for Travers.

But would he? Morgan looked up at Travers. “I’ve got one of my operatives coming off an assignment tomorrow morning. Why don’t we discuss some of the details of what you want done, and we’ll have a meeting with him tomorrow?”

Travers nodded brusquely. “Fine with me. I just want this thing settled. I want my daughter the hell out of Brazil.”

“Welcome home, Jake,” Marie said with a smile.

Wiping his eyes, Jake Randolph smiled tiredly as he got off the elevator that led directly to the main office of Perseus. “Hi, Marie.” He moved slowly across the thick rose-colored carpeting toward her desk. “Got something you’ve been wanting.”

With a smile, she took his report. “Handwritten, no doubt?”

“Yeah. You know me—I can’t type to save my soul.” He stretched and yawned. “I’m taking that two weeks off. I’m beat.”

“Not so fast,” Marie murmured apologetically. “Morgan left word for you to come directly to him when you came back.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’m afraid he’s got another assignment, and you’re the only person available to take it.”

Jake frowned. “Listen, I’m wiped out from that Peruvian fiasco.”

“I know you are. Just go in and talk to Morgan, will you? There’s a gentleman in there with him. They’ve both been waiting for you to show up.”

Groaning, Jake rubbed his face, which needed a shave. “Okay, but I’m turning it down.”

Marie smiled understandingly and pressed the button on the intercom that sat on her desk.

“Jake is here, Mr. Trayhern. Shall I send him in?”

Jake opened the door to Morgan’s spacious office and entered. Morgan looked up and nodded to him.

“Come in, Jake. Meet Ken Travers. Ken, this is Jake Randolph. Jake’s our Brazilian specialist. He knows Portuguese, the language of the country, and he’s been there on assignment a number of times in the past few years.”

Travers leaped from the couch like an overwound spring and held his hand out.

“Mr. Randolph.”

Jake sized up the lean, restless-looking businessman, taking an immediate dislike to him. It was an intuitive thing, Jake thought as he extended his hand to shake Travers’s manicured one. Intuition had saved his life on a number of occasions, and he wasn’t about to dismiss a gut feeling.

“Mr. Travers.”

Jake turned to Morgan, whose face showed no expression. Not unusual, Jake thought—Morgan knew how to keep his feelings hidden until the proper time. Jake noted Travers’s expensive suit, his perfect haircut, the gold watch on his wrist—and his arrogance. Hiding a wry smile at the thought, Jake realized that he must look like a country bumpkin by comparison. He wore jeans, rough-out boots and an off-white fisherman-knit sweater. November in Washington, D.C., was cold, and there was a threat of snow today.