Nowhere to Hide(7)

“No,” Cav snarled, slowly pushing up on his unmade bunk. The place was the size of a damn refrigerator, with just enough room for a Peruvian army bunk. The damn things always had squeaky springs. “I need an hour.”

“Roger that.”

Cav growled again, pushing his long black hair off his heavily unshaven face. When was the last time he’d shaved? Blearily, he scowled at the morning sunlight slanting into the small window. His straight brows flattened. His eyes were barely able to stay open, the light hurting the hell out of them. Shit, he was still drunk.

His stomach rolled with nausea. Why the hell had he drunk that ex-Special Forces dude under the table at El Diablo, last night?

Pride, he thought grumpily, pushing his fingers across his dark, hairy chest. He sat there in a pair of blue boxer shorts that hadn’t been washed for almost a week. Curling his lip, he could smell his sour flesh, mixed with the alcohol on his fetid breath. His mouth tasted like something that had died a week ago, and the smell made him want to throw up.

At twenty-six, Cav felt more like he was eighty. Glaring at the light, he pushed his shoulder-length hair behind him and got to his bare feet. Dammit, he was going to throw up!

Butch pushed a mug of steaming coffee in his direction as he emerged from the tiny bathroom, a towel draped around his hips. “Here, take this. You look like shit warmed over.”

Smirking at his best friend, Cav snapped, “Just give me the fuckin’ cup of coffee” as he plopped down on the creaky wooden stool at the small round table.

Grinning, Butch nursed his own coffee, his blue eyes dancing with mischief. “You’re so sweet the morning after….”

Snorting, Cav lifted the coffee, his hand none too steady. “Why the hell do you look so damned perky this morning?” He lifted the cup to his lips, the fragrant brew making his empty stomach growl. At least the coffee smelled and tasted good. That was progress.

“Because,” Butch said lightly, “I didn’t get stone-assed drunk on pisco sours with that asshole special ops dude like you did. Really, Cav, you’re an ex-SEAL and you let the bastard provoke you into a dumb drinking match.”

Cav’s eyes were red-rimmed and watering as he offered a one-shouldered shrug. “Ain’t gonna let some Spec Four dude drink me under the table. Us SEALs are tough.”

“Yeah…right. Well, you certainly look like you could pull off a PSD right now. Five-day beard, your hair looks like shit, you look like shit and your skin is pasty lookin’. Oh, and your hands shake.”

“Up yours,” Cav returned.

“I guess the General will call back.”

“Did he say anything about the PSD?” Cav demanded, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his forearm. Now, because he’d drunk so damned much, he was going to start sweating it out. It would mean another shower in an hour. Cav hated smelling like a drunk.

“Yeah. One of their Home School Foundation charities in northern Costa Rica just got burned to the ground last night. Seems a drug lord with his soldiers attacked it and murdered two women teachers. A third woman managed to escape into the jungle.”

Cav’s mouth twisted. “Great. Drug lords. What the hell is new down here in Central and South America?” he grumped. “What’s he want me to do?”

“The woman who survived, Lia Cassidy, called in the attack to Delos Charity Central in Alexandria, Virginia. She’s asking for help.”

Cav slid his friend a surprised look. “Usually, charities are off limits, even to those bastards.”

Shrugging, Butch muttered, “Apparently not any more. General Culver, who’s over in Istanbul, Turkey right now on a NATO exercise, got a call from his wife, Dilara, who runs the charity. He said he thought of you as a PSD for this survivor, Lia Cassidy.”

“Shit!”

“Hey, the pay is good, my man.” Butch looked around their third-story apartment, which was small but clean—if they cleaned it. A housekeeper came in once a week to clean, their focus was to provide personal security for rich people who could pay their high fees.

“What’s he offering?” Cav mumbled, sucking down the hot coffee and feeling his stomach roll again.

“Well, right now he wants you to go in undercover as a replacement teacher for the facility they’re going to rebuild. That entails a lot more than just carrying a rifle around looking mean and efficient. He’s offering you ten grand for a month.”

Perking up, Cav liked the sound of that. “Seriously, dude?”

“Yeah,” Butch said, puckering his lips. “Wish to hell I had a sugar daddy like this General in my back pocket like you do. Ten grand has a nice ring to it.”