be great if they were actually aboard the ship. The deeper into the jungle their tour bus drove, the deeper his concern grew. They were on an excursion into the jungle to view Mayan ruins. Anywhere along their route would be a great place for an ambush. The two security people provided by the cruise line to accompany his target were in good shape, but he could tell neither was armed. Conventional weapons were impossible to smuggle aboard the ship, and the weapons kept under lock and key aboard the ship wouldn’t have been permitted for this little jaunt.
And why were they out here? If he remembered right, the pyramids weren’t exactly wheelchair-friendly. But he knew she was thorough, that she took her job seriously. No stone would be left unturned. No tour unvetted, personally, by her.
He’d read the dossier Charter Group had put together. Poppy Shackleford, daughter of Lieutenant General Randall Shackleford, wasn’t some spoiled daughter of a famous man. She’d endured her own tragedies—the loss of her mother when she was young and her father stationed in Afghanistan, the loss of her fiancé after he’d sustained wounds in Iraq.
Not from the physical wounds that had claimed his two legs. Frank Sutton, who’d been despondent over the loss, had killed himself. His death was why Poppy was involved in Soldiers’ Sanctuary, a non-profit that helped disabled soldiers adjust to their new circumstances, whether helping with additional therapies the VA was slow or unable to provide, or seeking the latest in prosthetics and mobility devices. And they provided mentorship, one wounded soldier to another, so that no veteran of war would feel so alone, so hopeless they’d choose Frank Sutton’s path.
Wiley understood and admired her for not simply crying, and then moving on, but embracing a cause that might help others. However today, he wished she wasn’t quite so determined to make it impossible for him to protect her. Not that she had a clue he was there. If she’d glanced toward the back of the air-conditioned bus, all she might have noted was one dark head amid a sea of white, gray, and blue.
The fellow seated next to him gave him another narrow-eyed glance.
Wiley aimed a frown his way, hoping the old man would mind his own business.
The man was burly, surprisingly muscled for an old dude. He leaned sideways in his seat toward Wiley and whispered, “Name’s Joseph Olinsky, but you can call me Joe. I’m a marine.” He nodded toward the head of the bus where Poppy stood beside the tour guide, asking questions. “She someone important?”
Wiley blinked. “No, sir. I think she’s just another passenger. A noisy one.”
The old man grunted. “She has a detail. That guy with a clipboard ain’t a cruise director. I’d say he’s ex-Navy, probably a SEAL. Has a trident tattoo on his upper arm. Saw it when he was stowing her backpack in the overhead.”
Knowing there was no use convincing Joe he was just a guy on a trip to see a pyramid, Wiley gave the old guy another look. He recognized the type—his dad had been the same steady, patriotic sort. Once a marine, always a marine. Maybe he did need backup should shit go sideways. “You’re right,” he murmured. “The cruise line provided her security.”
“What about you?” his gray-haired companion said.
“Name’s Wiley, and I was Navy.”
“A SEAL,” he said, nodding. “Can’t hide that look. Everyone else, besides her, has been taking a nap. Not you. You’ve been watching the road ahead. Expect trouble?”
“Not expecting, but prepared.”
Joe nodded. “Don’t get along as well as I used to,” he said, patting his knee. “But I can be another set of eyes. And I do know who she is, son. She’s the daughter of that general ISIS wants taken out. Had his face plastered all over Facebook faster than Homeland and the FBI could take their pages down.”
Wiley almost smiled at how in tune the old guy was. “Nothing much gets past you, does
And why were they out here? If he remembered right, the pyramids weren’t exactly wheelchair-friendly. But he knew she was thorough, that she took her job seriously. No stone would be left unturned. No tour unvetted, personally, by her.
He’d read the dossier Charter Group had put together. Poppy Shackleford, daughter of Lieutenant General Randall Shackleford, wasn’t some spoiled daughter of a famous man. She’d endured her own tragedies—the loss of her mother when she was young and her father stationed in Afghanistan, the loss of her fiancé after he’d sustained wounds in Iraq.
Not from the physical wounds that had claimed his two legs. Frank Sutton, who’d been despondent over the loss, had killed himself. His death was why Poppy was involved in Soldiers’ Sanctuary, a non-profit that helped disabled soldiers adjust to their new circumstances, whether helping with additional therapies the VA was slow or unable to provide, or seeking the latest in prosthetics and mobility devices. And they provided mentorship, one wounded soldier to another, so that no veteran of war would feel so alone, so hopeless they’d choose Frank Sutton’s path.
Wiley understood and admired her for not simply crying, and then moving on, but embracing a cause that might help others. However today, he wished she wasn’t quite so determined to make it impossible for him to protect her. Not that she had a clue he was there. If she’d glanced toward the back of the air-conditioned bus, all she might have noted was one dark head amid a sea of white, gray, and blue.
The fellow seated next to him gave him another narrow-eyed glance.
Wiley aimed a frown his way, hoping the old man would mind his own business.
The man was burly, surprisingly muscled for an old dude. He leaned sideways in his seat toward Wiley and whispered, “Name’s Joseph Olinsky, but you can call me Joe. I’m a marine.” He nodded toward the head of the bus where Poppy stood beside the tour guide, asking questions. “She someone important?”
Wiley blinked. “No, sir. I think she’s just another passenger. A noisy one.”
The old man grunted. “She has a detail. That guy with a clipboard ain’t a cruise director. I’d say he’s ex-Navy, probably a SEAL. Has a trident tattoo on his upper arm. Saw it when he was stowing her backpack in the overhead.”
Knowing there was no use convincing Joe he was just a guy on a trip to see a pyramid, Wiley gave the old guy another look. He recognized the type—his dad had been the same steady, patriotic sort. Once a marine, always a marine. Maybe he did need backup should shit go sideways. “You’re right,” he murmured. “The cruise line provided her security.”
“What about you?” his gray-haired companion said.
“Name’s Wiley, and I was Navy.”
“A SEAL,” he said, nodding. “Can’t hide that look. Everyone else, besides her, has been taking a nap. Not you. You’ve been watching the road ahead. Expect trouble?”
“Not expecting, but prepared.”
Joe nodded. “Don’t get along as well as I used to,” he said, patting his knee. “But I can be another set of eyes. And I do know who she is, son. She’s the daughter of that general ISIS wants taken out. Had his face plastered all over Facebook faster than Homeland and the FBI could take their pages down.”
Wiley almost smiled at how in tune the old guy was. “Nothing much gets past you, does
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