Page 1 of Rogue Voice
1
Rogue
The hot, humid heat assaulted Rogue as he stepped out of the airport terminal. He checked his watch. Eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit, but so humid it felt more like ninety-nine. His black T-shirt stuck to his neck and armpits. He already smelled rank, after flying for close to twenty-four hours, and the humidity wasn’t doing him any favors.
Cartagena, Colombia.
The one place he’d sworn he’d never set foot in again. He’d once heard someone refer to Cartagena as the city of eternal spring.
Eternal spring, my ass.
He hoped the hotel Carrie had booked for him in the historic center had a working shower. It was meant to be a four-star—notfancy enough to call attention to itself, but not too shabby either. If he had to spend a few days there, it shouldn’t be a hardship.
He certainly needed some sleep. He’d been on two flights—first traveling under his real name from Zurich to Toronto, where his sister supposedly lived, and then a second flight from Toronto to Cartagena, traveling under the alias he’d used years earlier, the last time he’d been in Colombia—and hadn’t managed a moment of sleep on either flight.
His phone rang.
“How’s my favorite brother doing? Did you have a good flight?”
Rogue recognized Carrie, who was lots of things—including a good friend and an excellent analyst—but was most definitelynotRogue’s sister. His real sister still lived in Australia, and Rogue was glad she was far from this mess.
“Great. I only just left the airport terminal, and I’m already in love with the country,” he lied. “What will Ash say when he hears I’m your favorite brother?”
“He’s right here with me,” Carrie said smoothly. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“Ash. You should have joined me on this trip.”
“I’ve heard Colombians are very friendly,” Ash said. “How long do you think it’ll take you to make new friends?”
That was indeed the question. If Cruz was as powerful a drug lord as the DEA and Interpol both insisted he was, it might not take long. Rogue had his doubts, though. After all, he’d seen Cruzdie.
Granted, he hadn’t been at his most lucid at the time—fuck, the last few months of his stay in Colombia were a drug-filled haze—but he’d seen Cruz’s body and the man had been dead. Not sleeping. Not faking.Dead.
Rogue had trained himself not to think of Colombia. The only time the country figured anywhere near his mind was in his nightmares. Those, he couldn’t prevent.
A week earlier, two agents from the DEA and Interpol had come to their Zurich office for a meeting. That was rare, since Thorne didn’t like visitors and preferred video calls, but Rogue hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. It’d been a few weeks since they’d wrapped up their last mission, so he’d figured it was about time for them to get their next assignment. But the man and the woman—and Rogue still hadn’t figured out which one of them was DEA and which one Interpol—hadn’t come looking for the Chimera Force team. They’d come looking for Rogue, and it hadn’t taken him long to understand why. The man they were chasing—a drug lord who’d risen to the top of the food chain in just two years and who now controlled heroine and cocaine distribution along the entire East Coast of the United States—was someone Rogue knew well.
Ricardo Cruz.
The man who’d almost killed him.
The man who’d made him wish he were dead.
Even now, the name was enough to make Rogue shiver.
Two years earlier, Rogue had been part of the team tasked with bringing down the Cruz cartel. But apparently, they hadn’t done their job right, even though it’d almost cost Rogue his life. Not only had Cruz survived, but he’d apparently managed to rebuild and expand his empire.
“You still there, Rogue?” It was okay for Carrie to use his nickname, since this was where he’d picked it up in the first place. Cruz knew him as Rogue. After everything that had happened, Rogue had decided to keep it as a reminder. A reminder never to lose control again. Because he’d been lucky to survive once. He wouldn’t get that lucky again.
“I’m here. I’m good, sis,” he said, keeping up their story.
“Remember,” she said. “Don’t drink too much, and call me tomorrow, okay?”
Rogue almost laughed. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in two years, and never would again if he had any say in it.
He hefted the backpack higher onto his shoulder, retied his ponytail, pulling his brown hair back from his soggy forehead, and raised his hand in the universal signal for a taxi.
A banged up yellow car stopped almost immediately. Rogue opened the door and stepped inside quickly. If the taxi driver was surprised to see his customer had no luggage, he didn’t say anything.
