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The first week in Argentina, they’d figured out some of the low and middle-level men of the Diaz cartel came to town a few times a week to eat and drink at the cantina and blow off some steam with some of the local working girls.

Once Darius had worked his way into the cartel using an alias that Deimos had spent years cultivating for just this kind of mission, it hadn’t taken him long to “bond” with some of the men.

Now, when either Darius or Romeo needed to pass on information to each other, they hid it in a loose wall board in one of the bathroom stalls.

It was a primitive system, but it worked for them.

They couldn’t risk Darius going into the Diaz compound with a hidden phone or any other communication device that could be found and blow his cover.

He did have one way to contact them in case of an emergency, but it was only to be used when shit went upside-down and back-ass sideways—in other words, totally FUBAR.

Three seemingly unrelated items—a watch, an electric razor, and a belt buckle—contained hidden components Darius could put together very quickly, and send out a code yellow, red, or black signal to a satellite, which would then alert his backup team.

The first two meant things had gotten fucked up, but he wasn’t in immediate danger.

A code black, however, meant they had to extract him fast. Less than an hour ago, they’d received a code yellow, sending them scurrying to their communication exchange point.

They’d arrived at the cantina and taken seats at their usual table, covertly eyeing the surrounding area for any signs of trouble.

After ordering a bottle of spring water and three carne picante empanadas— his favorite meal they served there—Val stood and headed inside the cantina.

Costello would be fine on her own for a few minutes.

Since joining the ranks at Trident Security, the retired Marine sniper had more than proven her worth, and he trusted her to cover his six as much as his male teammates.

Slap a fifty-pound ruck on her back and she could stay ahead of the boys while slogging through mud and muck, but clean her up and put her in a dress and the brunette would turn heads no matter where they went.

Striding past the long, scarred, wooden bar and the six drunks that always seemed to be sitting on the same stools every time he walked into the place, he made sure nothing and nobody seemed out of the ordinary.

The voluptuous bartender gave him a flirty grin, like she did every time she saw him.

It was something he’d gotten used to as a teenager—he’d been blessed with good genes and what his friends called Hollywood looks, and women tended to throw themselves at him.

Back when he was younger and cockier, he had no trouble getting his kicks with any woman who turned him on, but as the years went by, and he rolled into his thirties, one- and two-night-stands had gotten boring.

He’d dated a couple of women for a few weeks or months over the past few years, but none of those relationships had worked out.

There was one woman, though, that he couldn’t seem to get out of his head.

The problem was she’d turned him down when he’d asked her out.

Maybe that was why he couldn’t stop thinking about her—she was the only woman he’d really wanted who’d said no.

If she’d gone out with him, and to bed with him, would he still be obsessing about her all these months later?

Summer Hayes was an internationally known country singer, with Grammy, CMA, and other awards lined up on the mantle of one of the three mansions she owned.

Despite being famous, though, the petite blonde was a down-home kind of girl.

She was friends with the wives and girlfriends of some of the Trident guys, and that’s how Val had met her—at one of the barbecues Boss-man’s wife had thrown at the compound.

Val and Summer had gotten along great that day, and he’d been ready to ask her out to dinner the next night, but something had changed after she’d spoken to Devon’s wife, Kristen, and their friend Shelby Christiansen.

She’d become more reserved and stopped flirting with him.

Val just wished he knew what it was, but the other women told him it wasn’t their place to fill him in.

If Summer wanted to tell him, that was her choice.

Even though he barely knew her, he’d freaked when he’d heard she’d been in a bad car accident yesterday.

While it was all over the internet that she’d been airlifted to a trauma center, there had been no official statement released about her condition.

When Costello had called the Trident headquarters and gotten an update from Colleen this morning, they’d learned Summer had needed emergency surgery for a compound fracture of her lower leg.

Aside from that, everything else had been simple bruises and lacerations that would heal completely over time.

She’d been damn lucky considering her SUV had flipped several times.

That wasn’t the only news they’d gotten this morning—the other piece of intel was still under wraps as far as the media and public was concerned.

Princess Tahira and her cousins had been kidnapped after two of her royal bodyguards had been killed.

Boss-man had scrambled a team and flown to Jamaica ahead of Mousaf Amar’s arrival, but the last Val and Costello had heard, the three women were still missing and there were very few clues leading to where they’d been taken and by whom.

Entering the bathroom, he was glad to find it empty and bypassed the urinals.

The second stall was his destination, and after shutting the plywood door and locking it—not that it gave him much protection—he pulled out his Leatherman and used the blade to loosen the board they’d been hiding intel behind.

He immediately spotted a folded piece of paper Darius had left for him.

Unfolding the note, he quickly scanned the message. And, just like that, their mission had become a cluster-fuck. “Aw, hell.”