Rogue Defender (Gone Rogue), page 1
Copyright © 2022 by Patricia D. Eddy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Deranged Doctor Design
Cover Photo: Paul Henry Serres
Proofreading: Book Dweller Proofreading
CONTENTS
Just for you
A note from Patricia
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Patricia D. Eddy
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For everyone who’s done the right thing, even when it’s hard. And for all of us who are “beautifully broken.”
A NOTE FROM PATRICIA
Rogue Defender takes place in Panama.
Domina is Panamanian. She went to college in the United States, so she speaks English very well, but her native language is Spanish, as is the native language of her colleagues.
To be authentic to her story, much of her dialogue and all of her inner thoughts should be written in Spanish. But for ease of reading, I’ve used English.
Her speech is slightly more formal than Leo’s, simply because English is her second language, though she is fluent in all but perhaps some of English’s more colorful idioms.
Representation matters, and I have attempted to honor Domina and her culture in other ways: food, traditions, her love for her country, and the various locations used in this book.
The Panamanian people have a beautiful, rich history, and I hope you will enjoy learning a little about it in Rogue Defender. Thank you.
CHAPTER ONE
Leo
The sole of my shoe catches on the polished tile floor. With an oof, I slam into the fridge. Its meager contents rattle, something inside topples over, and I curse my failing body. And the lack of carpeting in most of the apartments in Panama City.
Carefully, I open the door. An upended bottle of hot sauce drips all over the carton of eggs on the shelf below. Great. After I set it to rights, I grab a can of club soda. Cleaning up the mess can wait. I need to get off my feet.
My right leg aches with each shuffling step toward the patio. Nerve damage, deteriorating cartilage in my knee, and three missing toes don’t do shit for my balance on my best day, and this is nowhere near one of those.
Four hours of surveillance, and all I have to show for it is a mild sunburn. I’m starting to wonder if my client’s deadbeat husband might actually be dead. Working as a private investigator was supposed to be the easy life. Especially in Panama. The cost of living in this neighborhood is cheap enough I only need to work three or four cases a month. Assuming I can solve even one of them.
In the distance, the sun filters through the palm trees along Panama Bay. Five stories up, the sounds of the city fall away. If I were the kind of guy who believed in “inner peace” and all that bullshit, this would be the place I’d find it. Too bad I gave up on that dream a long time ago.
The scent of gardenias wafts up from the courtyard, and I pop the top on the can. Damn if I don’t still crave something a hell of a lot stronger. But that’s a dangerous road with nothing but darkness at the end of it.
My phone buzzes. I don’t have to look at the screen to know who’s texting me. Only one person has this number.
Trevor: How’s the weather? Clear skies after the storm the other day?
Seven years retired, and the man still talks in code.
Leo: You haven’t used an unencrypted mobile in a decade. Neither have I. You have something to say, just say it.
Trevor: Fine. I made some calls. The Chief of Station in Panama City is Moses Ferrier. Part Boy Scout, part pitbull. Stay on his good side. If I have to call in another favor with Pritchard, he’ll never let me hear the end of it.
Leo: Give me a little credit after twenty-two years on the job. I know how to fly under the radar. How’s Dani? Read her latest on the corruption in the Chilean Health Ministry. Riveting stuff.
Trevor: She’s good. Thank fuck she didn’t have to travel for this one.
Leo: What about you? Clear skies?
It’s a loaded question—one I don’t expect him to answer.
Trevor: Found a new therapist. I think he’s helping. Dani’s almost home. I’ll check in next week.
I cough, choking on a healthy swig of soda water. The damn stuff isn’t supposed to come out my nose. But the idea of Trevor Moana—who used to be one of the CIA’s most lethal assassins—voluntarily going to therapy isn’t one I was prepared for.
The man spent three days in the worst prison in the world—La Crypta in Venezuela—being tortured every fucking minute. When his team destroyed the facility and freed everyone the government had locked away deep underground, Trevor was a shell of the man he’d been only seventy-two hours before.
Sinking back into the chair and propping my good leg on the railing, I stare up at the faded blue sky. The club soda’s almost gone, but I can’t go back inside yet. Too many memories hitting me from all sides.
I stayed in the van while the rest of Hidden Agenda—a K&R firm out of Seattle—Dani, and the former head of the Joint Special Operations Command, Austin Pritchard, pulled Trevor out of that prison. But what I heard over comms brought back parts of my past I’d buried under too much rum and tequila.
And now that I’m sober, all those memories are here to stay. Trapped in the dark. Bound to a chair. Suspended from a beam. Beaten within an inch of my life.
Eight days as the Loma Collectivo’s prisoner. They used every enhanced interrogation tactic in the book—and a few no one had dared write about. I didn’t give them what they wanted. But I’d accepted my death. Hell, I begged for it.
They took my eye, most of the dexterity in my right hand, and left me with nerve damage so severe, half my face might as well be paralyzed. So what does it say about me that I blew through my mandatory shrink sessions and was back at work as soon as I got the medical all clear?
Something flutters in my peripheral vision. What little I have of it. The prosthetic eye looks real, but everything to the right of my nose is a void. Turning, I catch a pair of birds on the patio railing very clearly mating.
I’m about to give them some privacy when my neighbor opens her sliding glass door and steps outside. The lovebirds squawk and fly away. Her whispered, “Dios mio,” is followed by a soft laugh, and I stare at her through the whorls in the wrought iron divider. I haven’t lived here long—only a couple of months. We’ve yet to meet.
The few times we’ve passed in the halls though…I’ve cataloged everything about her. Her curves. Her dark brown hair. Her full lips. It’s training. Know your surroundings. Always.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
Something startles her, and she tenses. Sparing me only the briefest of glances, she rushes back inside while I polish off the last of the club soda.
Muffled—but tense—words make the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
None of your business. You’re a civilian, remember?
The phone call from Ferrier’s office the other day—the one that had me contacting Trevor for intel—warned me the Chief of Station wasn’t happy with an ex-CIA officer starting up P.I. work in his territory.
My neighbor’s angry voice carries through the open patio door, but before I figure out what she’s saying, the entire wall shakes.
A man with a rough, local accent says something in Spanish I can’t make out, then adds, “Shut up! Or you will be sorry!”
“Let me go!” my neighbor cries.
“Quiet, bitch!” Something crashes—close to the balcony. Whoever’s in her apartment made it past the front door.
Shit. Ferrier’s warning be damned. She’s in trouble. The soda can tumbles from my hand, landing on the small table with a hollow plink. Staring between her balcony and my kitchen table—where my chest harness hangs from one of the chairs—a dozen scenarios race through my mind.
Until her choked cry clears them all away and training takes over.
I lunge for the strap. Precious seconds pass as I struggle to get my right arm through the damn thing.
The sound of a fist hitting flesh sends my heart rate spiking.
Move it. Now.
Nerve pain arcs across my shoulder as the harness settles into place. I race back out to the patio. This is a bad fucking idea. But I want the element of surprise. Wrapping my hands around the railing on my neighbor’s side of the divider, I grit my teeth, bracing for the pain.
I vault around the wall and land in a crouch on the concrete. Pure adrenaline and the sight in front me are the only things that keep me from collapsing in agony.
The man’s at least six-three, wearing a rumpled suit, complete with wingtip shoes. But then I zero in on his hand around the woman’s throat. She claws at his arm. “You’re hurting me!”
“Back away, shithead,” I growl and cock the hammer of my Glock. My neighbor’s brown eyes widen. As the man focuses on me, she screams at the top of her lungs.
For all of a second until he squeezes her neck so hard, he cuts off her air.
“Let the lady go or you’ll find out how hard it is to piss when you’re missing half your dick.”
“Listen, American,” he growls as he shoves my neighbor to the ground and advances on me, “you shoot, and you’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in jail.”
He’s not wrong. I may have a license for this gun, but that doesn’t mean the National Police won’t send my ass to prison and throw away the key for killing a Panamanian citizen. If the Chief of Station doesn’t murder me first.
With a shrug, I holster the weapon. “Have it your way. Less blood to clean up.”
The man rushes me, and I duck my shoulder to catch him in the solar plexus. But my right leg wobbles, and we fly back, landing next to a low coffee table with him on top of me. His fist connects with the side of my face. Pain sings along my jaw. The edges of my vision shimmer.
“Fuuuck,” I groan.
A flash of dark hair moves behind him. I roll away just as something shatters. Dirt scatters over the polished tile floor.
“Stupid bitch!” he roars. A cactus tumbles off his back, all spindly leaves and silvery barbs. Before I can grab his legs, he throws a lamp, catching the woman in the side of the head. She crumples to the ground with a tiny moan.
This is bullshit. I’d rather take my chances with Ferrier than let this fuckwit go free. Lucky for me, nerve damage stole most of the sensation from my right hand. Tightening my fingers around the cactus stalk, I push to my feet. “Hey, asshole.”
He turns, and I hit him square in the face with the plant. “My eyes!” he cries.
Dropping the cactus, I let loose with an uppercut to his chin. He staggers back, then lands on his ass.
Slamming one of my shitkickers down on his family jewels, I relish the way his face twists in pain. “You picked the wrong apartment to break into.” A swift kick to the head, and he’s out.
Panting, I turn in a circle, scanning the rest of the living room. Along the back of the couch, a plain, dark blue throw blanket is folded neatly. I make quick work of ripping three long strips from it, flip the guy onto his stomach, and hogtie him. He won’t be going anywhere for a while.
“Wh-who…are you?” Pushing up on an elbow, my neighbor winces. Her eyes don’t quite focus on me. Shock? A concussion?
“I’m Leo. I live next door. Don’t move, okay? You could be injured.” I shuffle toward her, but she scrambles back.
“Stop.” She blinks hard, her gaze dropping to the gun holstered under my right arm. “Is he…dead?”
“No. He’ll live. Unless you’d prefer otherwise.” The joke fails, miserably, if her wide eyes are any indication. “He’ll be out for at least a few minutes. What’s your name?” I frown, suddenly aware that she’s staring at my scarred face. Does she notice that the right side of my mouth doesn’t move like the left? That my right eye doesn’t track her as quickly or as completely?
“Domina. Domina Sanchez.” She tries to get to her feet but collapses with a muttered curse.
I’m at her side in two steps, holding out my hand. “Domina, we need to call the police. Come next door with me. I don’t want you alone with him. And I should lock up my gun.”
She lets me help her up, but once she’s standing mostly under her own power, Domina shakes her head. “He...he broke in. My doorknob was rattling, and when I went to check on it, he snapped the chain and forced his way in. I don’t think he knew I was here.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything? He hurt you.” I still have a gentle hold on her elbow, and I can feel her shaking.
“You tied him up. I can call the police. They’ll take him away. Go back to your apartment, Leo. I will keep your name out of this.”
Keep my name out of this? “I hit him in the face with your cactus. He’s going to remember that. And me.”
She straightens her shoulders with a wince and steps back. “He will. But I work for Vice President Cortez. He will not want news of this in the papers with the election only a few days away. This man will go to jail, and he will do so quietly.”
“The hell? He attacked you, Domina. I am not leaving you alone with him.”
She rubs her swelling cheek. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Leo. But you can go now.”
In the distance, sirens start to blare, and the young couple from across the hall knock on Domina’s open front door. “We called the cops. Is everything okay?” the man asks. He and his girlfriend are ex-pats. I met them a few weeks ago, and they’re nosy as fuck.
“Everything is fine,” Domina says with a wave of her hand. “Thank you. Do not worry.”
The two stare at one another, then at the unconscious man on the floor. “Are you sure?” The boyfriend doesn’t look convinced. Can’t say I blame him.
As the young woman tugs on her partner’s hand, clearly ready to bolt, he meets my gaze, and I give him a nod. “You can go back inside. Ms. Sanchez is okay, and the guy’s restrained.”
The couple rushes back across the hall, slams the door, and flips the locks.
Domina lets out a sigh, then rubs her shoulder. “The police will be here in minutes, Leo. I can handle this.”
My instincts demand I stay. Stand over the asshole until he’s in cuffs. But Domina limps to the couch and rummages in her briefcase. When she pulls out a can of pepper spray, I give up.
“Fine. If the police need a statement, you know where I’ll be.”
She brushes past me, a whiff of orange blossoms almost intoxicating. As she leans against the back of the couch, a small smile plays over her lips. “You can use the door this time. If you want.”
“Probably smart.” My nerves are on fire. A thousand daggers pierce my leg from ankle to hip. With each step, I have to stifle a grunt of pain. “Put some ice on that bruise and lock the door behind me.”
I can’t read the look she gives me, and I trudge back to my apartment, unsure how I ended up feeling like more of an intruder than the guy who attacked her.
CHAPTER TWO
Domina
My door clicks shut, and I’m alone with the man who—only moments ago—had his hand around my throat.
I can barely move. Pressing against the back of the couch, I stare down at him. My hand shakes, my fingers clutching the pepper spray so hard, they ache.
The sirens blare louder. Thank God the police are almost here. Every swallow hurts. The terror of being unable to breathe tightens my chest. But I will be fine. Everything is under control.
Still, I pray he doesn’t wake up.
He was so angry when he saw me through the gap in the door. The security chain snapped like it was made of cheap plastic.
