href="#uda1a40e8-2793-5948-a908-6a069403ae2f">Chapter 3
Everything was going to be all right, even if he had to resort to using his pistol on his ex-wife.
Cold sweat trickled down his back. US Navy SEAL Lt. Jarrett “Iceman” Adler rolled up the cuffs of his white shirt, tucked his loaded Sig Sauer P226 into the leather holster hanging on the belt of his black trousers and prepared for the most challenging mission of his life: dragging his ex-wife back to the United States, where she’d be safe from a country about to explode into violence and from the terrorist interested in donating to her nongovernmental organization.
He walked out onto the balcony of his hotel room, taking a deep breath as he studied the sweep of sagging tin hovels dotting the mountainside. Here in the rich enclaves of the capital, poverty snuggled side by side with the wealthy, who hid behind massive stone fences decorated with colorful pink-and-purple bougainvillea. In the distance sirens bleated as three floors below on the streets, horns blared, dogs barked and people shouted in French in the rhythm of the city at rush hour.
He’d listened all day to the radio. The reports were scattered, a volley of excited French talking about protests downtown regarding the elections in two days. The city was hot, and before long, violence would spill out all over the city, a stream leaking onto the streets like gasoline waiting for a lit match. His instincts warned the tiny island nation of St. Marc was a pressure cooker about to explode.
And Lacey was square in the middle of it.
His chest felt hollow as he stared for the tenth time at the old photo of Lacey he still carried in his wallet. Her large blue eyes sparkled with life, and her wide mouth was open in a delighted laugh. He’d dreamed of her two nights ago and tossed and turned in his bed, remembering the good times they had shared.
His CO had ordered him to take leave, so Jarrett decided to head to St. Marc to visit his good friend and SEAL buddy Kyle “Ace” Taylor, who was recuperating at a posh beachside resort managed by his widowed sister. Upon his arrival, Ace warned him Lacey was in deep.
No matter what it took, he’d get her home safely.
He dedicated his life to fighting for his country. But after the last mission he’d led nearly turned into a royal goat fluster, Jarrett wondered if it was time to step aside. Being a SEAL meant spinning the roulette wheel of broken bones, banged knees, gunshot wounds and worse. On the last mission, the team’s communications expert, Cooper, narrowly missed coming home in a body bag. As the mission’s leader, Jarrett felt responsible.
Jarrett ran a hand through his dark hair, then headed out toward the third-floor elevators. What would Lacey say when she saw him? Would she be delighted? Appalled? Horrified? Turned on?
Sex had never been a problem with them.
His mouth twisting in a wry grin, he punched the elevator button and went downstairs.
Soft amber lamps hanging on the wall lit the hotel lobby, casting shadows on the white-bricked walls. The marble lobby flowed down to a bar, where three men sat on stools nursing bottles of beer. Jarrett chose the stool overlooking the courtyard, his back to the wall.
He ordered a Jameson neat and sipped the drink. Two minutes later his target walked past, a spring in her step, a smile on her face, her long blond hair swinging in a ponytail tied back with a tortoiseshell clip. Black trousers covered her legs, and a white peasant blouse displayed her curves. Jarrett’s gut clenched with longing. Hell, he hadn’t expected this kind of reaction. Stay cool. Lowering his head, he pretended to be absorbed in his drink. But deep inside he felt the old, familiar pain, the sense of loss and, worse, the yearning that squeezed him from the inside out.
Hips gently swaying with feminine grace he knew was totally natural, she walked outside to a metal table in the courtyard. A man in a black business suit greeted her French-style, a kiss on each cheek. He looked older, stylish and wealthy, with looks women swooned over. Jarrett recognized him from the newspaper clipping Ace had provided—Paul Lawrence, the vice president of the board of directors for Lacey’s NGO.
Jarrett dragged in a deep, calming breath and willed away his jealousy. Steady. He focused on the mission. Always the mission.
Target: Lacey Stewart. Only child of Senator Alexander Stewart, retired corporate scion who’d made millions by opening outlets of exclusive espresso coffee shops across the United States and then chose to enter politics. Lacey Stewart, president of Marlee’s Mangoes, a nongovernmental organization operating in St. Marc for four years.
Ives, the friendly waiter whom he’d tipped liberally these past two nights to find out about the meeting Lacey had arranged at this hotel, came over to greet him with a wide smile.
“Everything is going according to your plan,” Ives told him.
Jarrett
