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Chapter Twenty
Coop
I didn’t blame Leo for being pissed, but I wasn’t about to get into everything in front of Aziza. She’d call the job off and ship me to the best doctor money could buy. Which on the surface seemed a great solution.
Problem was, taking Zee’s money—or OZ’s or anybody’s—would put me under that person’s thumb. Even if I survived the surgery, Zee would coddle and crate-train me, keeping me safe on Marakata Cay and never putting me on any decent job again. Worse, she’d stay by my side, not ever leaving the island, either.
Hell, she had more wild carnivore in her than me. Instead of hunting the great plains with me, she lived in a zoo like some sort of lettuce-eating lion. She didn’t need another reason to stay caged. She needed one to break free.
I hadn’t jumped at her offer to relocate to the island because I didn’t want to be one more excuse for her to continue living imprisoned the way she was. A part of me had hoped when I disappeared she’d chase after me. And while I might not have been motive enough for her to truly get away, I had somehow managed to steal her for a night.
And what a craptastic night it had turned out to be. All hell had broken loose. Who knew we had tickets for dinner and a shit show?
After Leo and I bailed, I saw Nik chasing after Thea. I considered going back to the table to try to salvage Aziza’s evening, but I wasn’t exactly good company and I didn’t want to have to explain Leo’s reaction.
Nor did I feel like running after my little brother. What could I say that would change the facts? I had a rock in my head and nothing was going to stop me from finishing this job for Zee. I’d leave her with at least that much.
I settled my frustrations by organizing and familiarizing myself with the equipment to bring the Ozma Emerald up. Just like Zaki had briefed us, we had access to both an underwater drone and a side scan sonar to help us map out the wreck site before choosing the best area to insert. Plenty of tanks and rebreather equipment. All top of the line. Aziza was nothing if not meticulous.
I couldn’t help but grin as I imagined her in her fuzzy pajama pants, sitting cross-legged on her ebony four-poster bed as she researched shipwrecks. Plucking at her bottom lip as she watched videos of treasure hunters bringing up canons and the like. Jotting little notes on how to fill up lift bags, like balloons, with oxygen from spare tanks. Placing hundred-thousand-dollar orders for equipment as easily as hitting the Buy Now button. All the while that overweight tiger of hers had probably been gnawing on some giant meat bone at the foot of her bed.
Who had a freaking Bengal tiger for a lapdog?
She was a real-life Princess Jasmine waiting for Aladdin to show up with his magic carpet. Little did Zee know, she didn’t need Aladdin. She already was her own magic carpet. She just didn’t know she could fly.
I, on the other hand, seriously needed that magic genie lamp.
Aziza’s freedom.
To live long enough to see it.
For my brother to have the courage tofight for the love of the one who got away.
Those would be my three wishes.
A couple of months ago my wishes would have been different, longer range. I’d envisioned a life with Zee, a true partnership in every sense. But between my TBI and the hang-ups I had from failed relationships, I needed mental clarity.
I’d always tried not to bury the awful things that happened in field. But the home front had been a whole different story. And perhaps not surprisingly, my past relationships had created more trauma than field ops had. The last thing I’d wanted to do was repeat my past mistakes with Zee.
I’d heard talk within the SEAL community of a therapy that had worked for both TBI and PTSD. The protocol was a psychological journey in which you unpacked your emotional baggage through guided psychotherapy.
Some of my trusted teammates spoke of a place in the Amazon that had jumped on the medical tourism trend. Nestled in the heart of the rainforests of Brazil, this world-class facility combined local tribal healing practices and Eastern medicine alongside experimental Western ones. In addition to cutting-edge surgeries and experimental therapies, they offered various protocols with the local shamans.
When I’d first heard about Ibogaine therapy, it had seemed desperate, insane, dangerous even. All the things I, myself, had felt. It had been my only hope. Yet, I’d known it would work. Once it had, I’d planned to suggest Aziza move to Dubai or anywhere with me. I just wanted her free of the island. Free of OZ.
But that was all before the clinic had discovered that my issues weren’t entirely from TBI. I had a ticking time bomb in my skull, a tumor that doctors in the US likely wouldn’t touch. But the clinic had had a surgeon they’d wanted to bring in.
Trouble was, Alvarez had become increasingly greedy and ruthless in targeting the financially successful medical facility. The cartel had become so entrenched in the region, the clinic had major issues getting specialized surgical teams and the medical supplies they required.
“We have the surgeon and all the medical supplies we need, but in order to get them here, we must pay, and it’s not just hundreds of thousands of dollars anymore. We don’t have this kind of money.”
I didn’t either. I’d given most of my earnings away over the years, not believing I needed it. My salary was icing on an already delicious cake, thanks to Aziza assuring all employees had access to whatever they needed. But just because I didn’t have the funds to pay off Alvarez didn’t mean I couldn’t solve the problem. An opportunity had come along, a job. And against my better judgment, I’d taken it.
Eradicating Alvarez had major drawbacks. The cartel weren’t good guys, by any means, but they also had connections, allies, who would see my going after Alvarez as a declaration of war on a tenuous battlefield. The bullseye wouldn’t be drawn on me or the clinic. It would be on OZ, and especially on his cherished emerald mine in the Bahia region of Brazil. The mines didn’t just hold gemstones either, they actually bunkered all of the hyper-secure databases of intel. The mecca of meta. But Beryl had the resources to protect itself, the clinic did not.
This wasn’t just about me and my surgical needs. My fellow military personnel as well as those who lived in the region and their future generations all benefited from the clinic’s impressive work. More inspiring, they’d found ways to retain their cultural traditions and practices while bringing in modern medical solutions as well. My plan was meant to ensure that not only the clinic, but the whole region, would no longer be under Alvarez’s gun.
Like all best laid plans, mine had gone pretty fucking astray. Alvarez may’ve been weakened, but he’d hardly been stopped. In fact, the past few weeks he’d been in a heavy recruitment phase to bolster his power. Now, not only did he have the clinic on lockdown from receiving any new shipments, but by not being successful in taking Marco out, I’d put a target on Beryl Enterprises. What was that saying about no good deed? Because I was pretty sure I was being punished.
