William “Wiley” Coyote should have known the “piece of cake” assignment his team leader, Deke Warrick, offered him would go sideways in a hurry. But he’d been lured by the promise of an all-expenses-paid cruise. A nice “fluffy” assignment after the last one spent escorting freighters through pirate-infested waters in the Strait of Hormuz. He was due a vacation, and he’d envisioned slipping into a chaise on the cruise ship’s deck while his target sunbathed nearby. Something his team leader had warned him might not be in the cards. After all, Deke’d had a similar, simple assignment when he’d been tasked with protecting a girl. And look what it had gotten his buddy. Shot at. Then married. Happily, it seemed.

Not that Wiley had marriage on his mind. No, sir. Not him. Everything he owned was stuffed into a duffle bag. He lived in hotel rooms, tents, and, now, a cruise boat cabin. No, he had nothing to offer a bride. Marriage wasn’t in his cards. And certainly not to some celebutante who couldn’t keep her picture off multiple social media sites on a daily basis. That sort of exposure, even by association, would be deadly in his line of business.

He’d listened intently when Deke outlined his assignment, determined to keep this job all business, despite the photos that had spilled from the envelope during his initial briefing.

“Every time she steps out of her suite, the room attendant will buzz you. You keep on her tail, but not close enough she notices. Her daddy said she’d raise hell if she knew he’d hired security after she refused a special detail.” At that point, Deke had grinned. “I think he’s a little afraid of her.”

Wiley hadn’t smiled. Instead, he’d grunted. General Shackleford wasn’t any lightweight desk-jockey. He’d seen his share of action.

The ship had barely left the Port of Miami before Wiley understood. The woman never stopped moving. Or talking. Sometimes loudly, if she didn’t like what she heard. If he could have worn earplugs, possibly his first impressions of her would have been very different.

Poppy Shackleford was a pretty little thing. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, lightly tanned, curves in all the right places. And maybe five-foot-two in her espadrille sandals. He’d had a girlfriend charge two pairs to his credit card years ago, so he knew darn well what they were and how much the cork-heeled things cost. Although he could appreciate the sexy curves the three-inch heels gave her toned calves, he wasn’t risking getting any closer. So far, he’d managed to operate under the radar. He had no doubts she’d know exactly what he was there to do if she got one good look at him. Nothing escaped her attention. Not the too-steep ramps leading onto the ship when they’d embarked. Nor the undercooked steak she’d been served last night in the dining room.

He’d begun to think she was deaf because she talked so loudly, but then he’d realized her complaints were on behalf of her fellow passengers, and this cruise had been billed as senior-themed. Most of the thousand passengers on board were over seventy. The dinner conversation surrounding him last night had consisted of tracking blood sugar levels as his companions pricked their fingertips and fed droplets of blood into their readers. Afterward, their conversation drifted to the best fiber to promote healthy bowels and where the captain would store their bodies if they happened to pass during the night.

“No kidding?” Deke had said after Wiley’s status update early that morning.

Wiley’s jaw ground shut at the snickering no hand over a receiver could muffle. “The Countess cruise line’s security seems pretty tight. Someone’s always nearby, although they’re better at blending in than I am.”

“You mean you didn’t pack any Hawaiian shirts?”

“Don’t own one,” he’d gritted out.

“How are you keeping from blowing your cover?”

Wiley grunted. “I haven’t shaved, and I have on my cowboy hat and boots.”

“So, you’re sticking out like a sore thumb.”

“She won’t expect a security detail to blend in quite like I do.”

Deke grunted. “Just remember you have people positioned around the ship. Channel two if you need them.”

Which would be great if his assignment was actually aboard the ship. The farther into the jungle their tour bus drove, the deeper his concern grew. They were on an excursion 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 vessel 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 Poppy was thorough, that she took her tour coordinator 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, although not from the physical wounds that had claimed both his 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 supporting wounded vets with additional therapies the VA was slow or unable to provide or seeking the latest in prosthetics and mobility devices. And the organization provided mentorship, one wounded soldier to another, to ensure 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 then moving on, and instead, 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 another narrow-eyed, flinty glance.

Wiley aimed a frown his way, hoping the old guy would mind his own business. The man was burly, surprisingly muscled for an old dude.

The old man leaned sideways in his seat 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?”

Not as invisible as I thought. Wiley blinked. “No, sir. I think she’s just another passenger. A noisy one.”

Shaking his head, Joe 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 into the overhead.”

Knowing there was no use convincing Joe he was just a guy on a trip to see a pyramid, Wiley gave him 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 asked.

“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 right 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. They had his face and his daughter’s plastered all over Facebook faster than Homeland and the FBI could take down the pages.”

Wiley almost smiled at how in tune the old guy was. “Nothing much gets past you, does it?”

Joe lifted his chin toward two older gentlemen seated across the aisle from them.

Wiley glanced over to find both old codgers staring back.

“We were in the same division, the 3rd, during Vietnam. We’re all that’s left of our company. Try to take a trip every couple of years. Went to Nam five years back. There were eight of us then.”

Wiley nodded his understanding.

“That’s Morty,” he said, pointing at the thin one with a round belly. “The other one’s Sly.”

Sly gave him a grin that displayed unnaturally white teeth.

Wiley gave both men a nod then turned his attention back to the front of the bus.

“She know you’re tailing her?”

How had the old guys figured out he was there for Poppy? He remembered how the old men had jostled him, cutting him from the rest of the group when they’d boarded the bus. He’d thought it unintentional, but now knew they’d meant to be seated beside him. Admiring their cunning, he shook his head. “She doesn’t know. Not yet, anyway.”

“Need a better cover,” Joe said, eyeing his boots and the scruff on his chin. “You could tell folks you’re my grandson.”

Wiley chuckled. Sounded like a better plan than the one he’d started with. “Just don’t get in the way. If things go down…”

“You could use another set of eyes—between the three of us, we might just make one good pair.” Joe tilted his head toward his buddies.

This time, Wiley laughed.

Joe grinned and gave a slow nod to his companions, who settled back in their seats and now directed their attention to the job at hand—and the woman wearing the pretty blue dress at the front of the bus.

Suddenly, the bus shuddered and slowed. Cries arose from those seated near the front.

“Fat’s in the fire now,” Morty said, pointing forward.

Wiley cussed. A pickup was parked sideways in the middle of the road. He began to rise, but then he noted the four men standing in front of the truck. All dark, but with features that were clearly Mestizo. So, bandits rather than terrorists. He settled back in his seat. He’d let this play out a bit before he gave himself away. As long as no one was hurt, he’d keep his cover.

Joe pulled out his wallet and quickly removed his credit cards, leaving the bills inside. The cards he stuffed into the tops of his socks. He glanced at Wiley. “You got anything in that pack you don’t want them to find?”

He did, but he was also keeping an eye on his target.

The guy with the clipboard pulled Poppy down into a seat.

When the bus came to a halt, the driver opened the door and quickly raised his hands.

Two men with bandanas covering the lower halves of their faces, one with a handgun and the other with a rifle held in front of him, boarded the bus. Their gazes swept the passengers then one man bent toward the driver. His Spanish spilled out too fast for Wiley to catch every word, but he got the gist. They were forcing the passengers onto the road to rob them.

As quietly as he could, Wiley glanced toward Poppy to check her position then unzipped his bag and drew out a long cylinder.

Joe glanced down and grimaced. “Think that peashooter’s gonna help?”

“Guess you’ll never know, so long as everyone plays nice.”

The driver stood and keyed his microphone. “These gentlemen request that you all disembark in an orderly fashion, front rows first. As long as you cooperate, no one will be hurt, and we’ll soon be back on our way.”

Knowing the bus driver was probably well-versed in these sorts of operations, Wiley stayed in his seat, breathing slowly to keep his heart rate steady. His mission had just grown exponentially from keeping an eye on one target to protecting a busload of elderly Americans. The last thing he wanted was to excite the armed men into doing anything stupid. Seeing the passengers in the rows ahead shuffle down the aisle, he stood, put on his cowboy hat, and waited for his three companions to move in front of him.

Joe was last and gave him a nod. “We’ll follow your lead,” he said under his breath.

Wiley patted his shoulder then followed him. As he exited, he noted Poppy’s position near the front of the row, her face pale, her mouth forming into a thin line. So far so good. She wasn’t drawing any undue attention. He and Joe followed the point of a rifle to stand at the edge of the highway.

One of the bandits, his weapon slung over one shoulder, walked down the row with a large open bag, waiting as passengers emptied their pockets, removed watches and jewelry, and dropped them inside.

His body tensed, Wiley’s gaze remained on Poppy.

The two men at the front of their line watched her, too. One raised a cell phone and took a picture. A moment later, the opening notes to Eye of the Tiger sounded, and he swiped the screen. His smile was slow and sinister. He leaned toward his companion to speak quietly then strode toward Poppy.

They’d made her. Not hard to do. She was “the face” of the charity, and her pictures had been plastered on the news channels when her father’s bounty had been reported.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He stepped behind Joe and lifted one foot, smoothed up his jeans to the top of his boot, and removed the strip of tape he’d applied to his ankle, which held the tranquilizer darts he’d prepared that morning. When he straightened, he removed one dart and pushed the strip into Joe’s right hand. “Give me one at a time.” He took the first dart, inserted it into his blow gun, then quickly lifted the end. A sharp, hard push of air sent it sailing toward the first bandit positioned toward the rear of the bus.

The dart struck him in the back of the shoulder. The man tried to reach behind him, but he lost his balance and melted to the blacktop, unnoticed by his friends. They were engaged in an animated conversation with whoever was on the other end of the cellphone as to what to do with Poppy.

Morty and Sly shuffled sideways to stand in front of the crumpled body.

The passengers nearest them tugged on each other’s arms and looked his way.

Joe shook his head and pointedly stared toward the men in front. Those around him quickly caught on. They edged closer together, masking Wiley’s movements as he loaded another dart, chose his target, and let fly.

Another group of men shuffled forward, setting their packs, pronged walking sticks, and their own bodies in front of the fallen bandito.

Again, Joe handed him a dart.

“I need to get closer.”

With his hand on Joe’s shoulder, the two men slipped behind the row and slowly made their way forward, toward Poppy and her two useless bodyguards. When they were only six feet away, Wiley squeezed Joe’s shoulder to bring him to a halt. Any closer and he’d never hide what he was doing.

“Clipboard Man” spoke furiously with the one who appeared to be in charge.

“This has to be quick,” Wiley said, under his breath.

Joe nodded but didn’t look back. Using Joe’s body to hide his blow gun, Wiley slowly brought it up over Joe’s shoulder and aimed for the back of the bandito standing next to Poppy.

The dart struck his right arm. He made a sound, a sharp cry.

Poppy looked downward, her gaze widening on the dart. She stumbled into his arm, as though shielding the sight from the last bandit still standing.

The man in front of her scowled, but the moment the one beside Poppy began to crumple, he raised his weapon.

Wiley shoved Joe out of the way, swept out his arms to get between the people in front of him, and dove for Poppy, all the while praying “Clipboard Man” had more than a damn pen to take out the bastard.