One day you're taking enemy fire downrange in the deserts of Afghanistan, and the next you have shrapnel buried so deep in your thigh that you'll never run, jump, or crawl like you used to. You're discharged, honorably of course, but not a damn thing about it feels honorable. And now, after being unable to bear pure civilian life, you join the DEA. Not because you're anti-drug so much as you're pro-action. Pro being in the field, taking out the enemy, completing the mission. And then you're sitting in Mexico, the heat of the setting sun warming your back through your cotton t-shirt as you sip the best tequila you've ever had. But it's not a vacation. It's a mission. And you're looking for someone...
Ryan sat at the bar, his posture casual as he leaned back against a thick, rough hewn column that held up the roof over the lively patrons--a mix of locals and vacationers. He appeared relaxed but his eyes were keen and seeking. The quick, rapid fire thoughts of his time in the Elite Forces leading to his current mission, ran in lightning speed succession through his mind like they always did when he had a few moments of quiet. It wasn't peace--he'd never have that--but it was close enough. He'd been back and forth between Mexico and the United States for close to two years now. Once even as a man working directly for the now defunct Vargas Cartel. He'd lived both sides. The missions were intense, but nothing like his past days in the military. Nothing that the screaming, searing pain in his right thigh couldn't handle. But despite his team's successes, they'd still failed to permeate deeper within the Mexican Cartel after the Vargas Cartel blow up. They needed to go undercover this time on the other side. It wasn't a small ask. Other men in his DEA unit had families, women and children back home. They knew that going in this deep meant there was a damn good chance you'd never come back out alive. Potential suicide mission. Ryan wasn't asked, he'd volunteered. Death wasn't something he feared. It was something he sought out, was ready for, his only condition being that he faced it on his own terms.
He caught a movement, nothing out of the ordinary but he sensed it. A flash of long black hair, creamy olive skin. His meeting was with a woman who ran in Cartel circles. He'd met with other women over the years to get intel. The DEA paid handsomely for this kind of information even though it was a death sentence for any woman if she got caught. Sometimes he had fleeting "relationships" with these women. The kind that involved information exchange and sex. Nothing more. That was Ryan's kind of relationship. The only kind he had the ability to comprehend, to engage in. Often they wanted more. He'd move on. He told them it was because of the work, because of the mission. But really it was because of the deep, open wound inside of his chest that left no room for anything else. A selfish beat, eating away at him. He had nothing more to offer. And he'd come to prefer it that way.
He tracked the woman as she made her way over to the bar, not missing how several men's heads turned and tracked her as well, albeit with a very different intent from his own. She was beautiful, no doubt. Ryan wasn't immune to recognizing a woman's beauty. On any other day, at any other bar, if she made a move on him, he wouldn't turn her down. But if she was who he thought she was, then anything resembling sex would have to wait. It was the information that he wanted the most. The inside lead on the Sinaloa Cartel--the reigning king post Rafael Vargas burning his family's drug trade legacy to the ground and "disappearing" with his lover, Isabella.
"Voy a tomar un agua de tequila, por favor*," the woman ordered her drink, still a few feet from Ryan. Her voice was feminine and smooth. Ryan noted these things not from a sense of attraction but from a heightened awareness to detail. Every detail mattered when you were observing people, from the way they talked to the way they moved their hands. Especially the way they moved their eyes, always an easy tell if someone was lying.
(*I'll have a tequila water, thank you)
Besides, an inside source could always be a veiled double agent.
She leaned her elbows on the bar and swept her gaze to the side, her eyes finding Ryan's for a brief moment before she looked back down at the bar top where the bartender slid her the drink she'd ordered. She'd spotted her mark. Ryan could tell from that brief flash of her eyes that she'd confirmed he was her contact, just as he'd confirmed she was his. Ryan didn't exactly blend in with the locals. His skin was golden from the sun, but his eyes were crystal blue and his hair a light brown, flecked with russet in the direct sun. His Spanish was good from a basic translation point of view, but his accent, if not his American looks, always gave him away as someone from the States. Still not able to pull it off as a true vacationer though, his demeanor nothing like the married American couple carelessly tossing back tequila shots at the bar. But that would be part of this new mission's plan. He was to pose as a defector from the DEA. A common pattern where agents realized that the money and the perks of switching sides to the Cartel would be to their benefit.
He'd known more than a few men who had ventured that route for real.
The woman brought the drink up to her full lips and Ryan mentally chastised himself for the way his cock twitched of its own accord. He wouldn't let something as simple as a woman's beauty distract him from his goal. She looked up at him again, a shy smirk on her face. Clearly fake, but still good enough to get the job done. This was the part where she'd pretend to be flirting with the handsome American man at the bar. Where anyone watching would think that's all that's taking place. Ryan played the part as best as his surly nature would allow, nodding once at her in response. She pushed herself gently away from the bar, the silk of her short dress brushing against her upper thighs, the fabric pulling tightly across her full breasts and a God-given ass. Ryan took a sip of his own drink, mentally chastising his dick to stop trying to take the lead.
"Hi," she perched her hip against the bar and tossed her hair back over her tanned shoulder, one delicate finger tracing the condensation of her glass. She's a little nervous, Ryan noted. That's good, that means she's being cautious, not reckless.
"Hi," Ryan offered a small smile but it felt unnatural. Just a tightness pulling across the lower half of his granite jaw. He hadn't genuinely smiled in years, not since before the attack that ended his military career.
"I'm Camila," she reached her hand out, offering it to him. He took it briefly, noting that she had provided the correct name from the mission file. Certainly not her real name, but it suited her just fine.
"I'm Ryan, nice to meet you."
**Stolen By The Queen is the completed next book in the series and can be found on my Wattpad profile, be sure to read next!**
https://www.wattpad.com/1186777032-stolen-by-the-queen-a-narcos-romance-chapter-1
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Sold To The Boss: A Narcos Romance
RomanceIsabella is for sale. And the recently crowned king of the Mexican Cartel is the highest bidder. Rafael was born into the Cartel. It's the only life he's ever known. After his father's death, Rafael asserts the throne. But he is not his father. And...
