Until Now (Plan B Book 1) Read online

  Until Now

  Delaney Diamond

  Garden Avenue Press

  Contents

  Blurb

  Spanish Translations

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Also by Delaney Diamond

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  About the Author

  Blurb

  Shanice Lawrence has met the perfect man. He’s sexy, considerate, and best of all, he loves to read. She’s certain she’s found the man of her dreams—until she learns the real reason for his appearance in her life.

  Cruz Cordoba’s mission was simple: Get close to Shanice, retrieve the data, and kill anyone who gets in his way—including her. But he didn’t anticipate falling for the voluptuous bookstore clerk. Now he has to decide what’s more important—the mission or the woman.

  Until Now by Delaney Diamond

  Copyright © November 2020, Delaney Diamond

  Garden Avenue Press

  Atlanta, Georgia

  ISBN: 978-1-946302-36-6 (Ebook edition)

  ISBN: 978-1-946302-37-3 (Paperback edition)

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and e-mail, without prior written permission from Delaney Diamond.

  www.delaneydiamond.com

  Spanish Translations

  Acere – Cuban slang meaning bro, dude, buddy

  Cabrón – Bastard, jackass

  Ahí está! – There it is!

  ¡Ganamos! – We won!

  Hasta la proxima – See you next time, Until next time

  Lo siento – I’m sorry

  Mierda - Shit

  ¿Que bola? – Cuban slang meaning How’s it going? or What’s up?

  1

  Cruz Cordoba swam quietly along the edge of the pier and then slipped from the dark water, army-crawling up the grass toward the mansion with a pair of night-vision goggles over his eyes that cast a greenish glow on his surroundings. He flipped the goggles on top of his head and assessed the landscape. Crouching in the shadows in a black wetsuit, he’d be hard to see.

  There were three guards in his line of sight—two smoking and talking near the back door, another slowly walking the length of the second-floor balcony that ran along the back side of the house. All three were well-dressed with no visible weapons, but he recognized the gun bulge at their hips beneath those tailored suits.

  Through the floor-to-ceiling window to the left side of the house, guests milled around in floor-length gowns and tuxedos, sipping champagne and laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world. They had no idea the man their political party had nominated to represent the state of Maine was a lover of snuff films—that he starred in.

  Of course, there was also the money-laundering and rumors of using shell corporations to give donations to anti-government domestic terrorist groups, none of which had derailed his political career. Everyone knew he had presidential aspirations, but maybe a murder charge would finally do the trick before the piece of shit took down the whole country.

  Cruz checked his watch and set the timer so it started counting down from ten. Ten minutes max to get in, retrieve the video, and get out. The delivery to a local journalist would take place in another location.

  He eased to the edge of the brush and stayed low, waiting for the right moment. It was easier to take the men one at a time, but he’d tackle them both at once if he had to.

  He removed the KA-BAR knife from his hip, blade facing backward as he gripped the handle and waited. As luck would have it, one of the men stubbed out his cigarette and sauntered back inside, while the other—a blond—remained behind to finish his cigarette. The one at the top was on his way down to the other end of the balcony, so when the blond turned his back to walk the length of the building, Cruz bolted across the grass.

  Stealthy as a cat in his bare feet, he grabbed him from behind and slit his throat before he could scream. Nothing but the sound of a low gurgle escaped as Cruz supported him until he crumbled to the ground.

  He wiped the blade on his thigh to get rid of the blood and paused, ears cocked as he listened. No unusual sounds, so he was on the go again, moving swiftly in the opposite direction away from the window that exposed the partying guests. The agency had planted a waitress with the caterers, and if she did her part right, there should be an open window on the ground floor for him to crawl through.

  Cruz stopped at the window and tugged up, and it gave easily. He pushed it higher and slipped in, then eased it back down. Once again, he paused and listened, which gave his eyes time to adjust to the dark interior. The sitting room was filled with antique chairs and portraits on the walls and smelled stuffy, as if it wasn’t used often.

  He’d memorized the floorplan of the house and knew exactly where to go. He tiptoed across the carpet and cracked open the door. No movement in the hallway, but he could hear the distant chatter of the guests and the music playing from the live band.

  The office was at the end of the hall. He eased out and moved quietly as he approached the heavy oak door. He tried the knob and it turned.

  Perfect.

  This was almost too easy. A quick glance behind him showed the hallway was still empty, so he let himself into the room.

  With a quick glance at his watch, he saw four minutes down, six to go.

  He lifted the oil painting of the White House off the wall and, placing it on the floor, exposed the safe. He’d already memorized the combination, so he turned the dial according to the numbers and tugged open the door.

  Cruz couldn’t suppress a smile. Now for the treasure inside. He found the video easy enough—an old VHS tape sitting atop a stack of papers. Might as well take the papers, too. Who knew what nuggets of additional information could be found on those pages. He stuffed everything into the waterproof bag he lifted from inside his wetsuit, stuck it back in the suit and zipped up the front. That’s when he heard the door open.

  “Don’t move,” a gravelly voice warned.

  Dammit.

  Cruz listened to the faint sound of footsteps coming toward him on the soft carpet.

  “Who the hell are you!” the man demanded in a loud voice.

  Worried that his raised voice would invite other guards to come investigate, Cruz decided to defuse the situation by calmly asking, “Can I turn around?” He slowly lifted his hands to show he didn’t have a weapon.

  “Take. Your. Time,” the man warned.

  Cruz heard the safety disengage from the gun and did just that—took his time—not wanting to make any sudden moves that could cause his trigger-happy opponent to shoot—accidentally or on purpose.

  He turned and found himself face to face with the guar
d who’d stubbed out his cigarette. Dark-haired, he was about an inch taller than Cruz but not as wide, with a scowling face and shaved head.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the man asked.

  “Pablo didn’t tell you I was coming?” He needed to buy time, and bluffing helped him do that.

  Right away, he guessed one thing about the man—he didn’t want to pull the trigger. The gunshot would be heard by the guests and questions would be asked. Which meant he’d try to detain Cruz and find out what the hell he was doing there. All of which worked in Cruz’s favor.

  The guy frowned. “Pablo who?”

  Not too bright, this one.

  “You know Pablo. He works for Senator Peaslee.”

  “There ain’t no Pablo.” Finally, he was catching on.

  “Maybe I’m in the wrong place then. I should leave.”

  His attempt at humor didn’t go over well. “No way.” The guy scowled and moved closer, holding his hand straight out and pointing the gun at the middle of Cruz’s chest.

  Now he was in the perfect position for Cruz to disarm him. Attempting to grab someone else’s weapon was always a risky proposition, but he’d done it plenty of times. Wise men knew to remain at least a few feet out of reach so that if the victim moved quickly, you’d have time to fire off a round. Foolishly, the guard was standing too close.

  Distract.

  Grab.

  Kill.

  “You want to talk to Senator Peaslee about it? Go ahead, call him,” Cruz said, hands still raised in fake surrender.

  As the guard hesitated, Cruz snapped the fingers of his left hand. That caused the other man’s eyes to shift toward the noise. Within that split second, Cruz snatched the gun and stepped out of reach.

  The guard’s eyes widened, and he thrust his hands in the air.

  “Never hesitate.” Cruz pulled the trigger.

  The bullet hit the middle of his forehead as the sound blasted through the room. The man’s head tipped backward, and he crashed to the floor.

  Four minutes left.

  He tossed the gun to the desk and dragged one of the guest chairs under the doorknob. That should slow down anyone coming to investigate the noise.

  He closed the safe and replaced the painting. Hopefully they wouldn’t guess he’d accessed the safe and removed the video, thus taking them by surprise. Since he couldn’t go back the way he came, he lifted a window and swung onto the grass.

  “Hey!” a voice yelled.

  Two men in suits raced toward him. Cruz sprinted away from them, his long legs eating up the earth. The sound of handgun bullets cracked in the air. Clearly, they were no longer worried about disturbing the guests.

  Several rounds whizzed way too close to his ear as he dodged and ducked in the dark, weaving a crooked line toward the water.

  More voices yelling. There must be at least four of them now.

  Taking a deep breath, he dived into the bay and sank to the shallow bottom, curling into the smallest ball his body could contort into as he pressed his back against the embankment. Bullets rained into the water from above, but he kept still. Depending on angle and velocity, the bullets could penetrate the water up to seven feet, so he didn’t want to move and risk getting shot.

  He could hold his breath for six minutes but didn’t have that much time. He had three minutes tops to get out of there if he wanted to make the rendezvous location in time.

  The men argued. Cruz remained still.

  One minute. The voices moved farther away.

  Two minutes. No more sounds. To be sure they were gone, he stayed put.

  Three minutes.

  Now he’d take a chance.

  Cruz resurfaced under the pier and pulled air into his lungs. Above, through the cracks in the wood, he saw a man standing guard on the shore. Dragging the goggles over his eyes, he took another deep breath and dived into the bay, swimming underwater for a few minutes before returning to the surface.

  With long, steady strokes, he moved swiftly toward the rendezvous point—a boat that awaited him on the water. Pretty soon the senator’s men would come looking for him in their boats, and he wanted to be far away by the time they did.

  2

  Cruz slammed down his domino and pumped his fist in the air. “Domino! ¡Ganamos!”

  He high-fived his partner, an older Cuban man with dark brown skin and salt-and-pepper hair who’d talked so much trash Cruz had been worried they’d have to eat crow at the end of the game. The other two Cubans they beat grumbled in Spanish and shook their heads.

  “How much do I owe you?” Mr. Dominguez asked in Spanish.

  “Nothing. I won’t take your money, but I will take this.” Cruz lifted the Panama hat from the older man’s head and dropped it atop his own. “Perfect fit,” he said with a grin, popping an unlit cigar into his mouth.

  Whenever he was in the mood for a game of dominoes, he swung by Domino Park on Calle Ocho. This was where the old heads played and had been playing for decades. The air was filled with the scent of cigar smoke and the sound of Spanish as the men argued and laughed during the lively competition at multiple tables.

  Mr. Dominguez scowled at him. Laughing, Cruz stood, making ready to leave.

  “You can’t go now. Give me a chance to win my hat back,” Mr. Dominguez said.

  “Another time, señor. Hasta la proxima.” Cruz tipped his newly won hat at the three men and sauntered away.

  “Cabrón,” he heard one of them mutter.

  He chuckled to himself.

  Dominguez’s daughter walked toward him, sizing him up with her eyes. “Oye, Cruz. ¿Que bola?” She swung her head to look at him as she passed by.

  He turned to look at her, too, and was tempted to engage her in conversation but changed his mind, instead shooting her a grin and simply answering, “Estoy bien.”

  She was the kind who wanted a relationship, and he was nowhere ready for one. In his line of work, he couldn’t offer her anything permanent, anything real. And keeping his distance meant Dominguez wouldn’t try to shoot him on sight for messing with his daughter.

  Cruz hopped into his ‘84 Cadillac El Dorado and gunned the engine. The car hadn’t been much to look at when he bought her, but after a new engine and a paint job that covered it in pristine white paint, she looked as good as new and easily accommodated a man of his size. What he liked best was on a day like today, with the sun shining and the weather balmy, the long drive to Islamorada in the Florida Keys could be enjoyed with the top down.

  Donning sunglasses, he cranked up the music and took off. An hour and a half later, he pulled into his favorite beachside bar, Tiki Grill. As soon as Cruz stepped out of the car, another vehicle pulled in behind him. The black sedan parked in an empty space and a man exited from the back. This man was an unwelcome sight.

  “Miles,” he muttered.

  Miles Garrison was his contact at Plan B, the government agency he started working for twelve years ago, at the young age of eighteen. Plan B had no records and no budget. Officially, they didn’t exist but operated under the concept that America’s greatest threats come from within her borders. Greed, prejudice, and hate breed these problems, and a special team was needed to control the fallout when all else failed. Very few knew who they were. Some were assassins, others were spooks, and still others—like Cruz—a combination of the two.

  The fact that Miles had shown up in person couldn’t be good. His visit not only meant Cruz’s vacation was about to end, it meant his next assignment was major.

  A tall Black man with short-cropped hair and a full beard, Miles was completely overdressed in a three-piece suit and tie and carrying a briefcase.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Better when you weren’t here,” Cruz replied, heading toward his favorite table near the water.

  Miles chuckled, taking the dismissal in stride. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Who’s in the car?”

  “That’s what I need to talk to you ab
out.”

  Cruz glanced over his shoulder. Miles was no longer smiling.

  In the open-air restaurant, they walked to a table that overlooked the Gulf. It was mid-afternoon, with only a few patrons and a skeleton crew of staff at work.

  Cruz sat with his back to the wall and held up two fingers to the bartender, who nodded his understanding.

  “I hate to bother you since you just came back from that assignment in Maine, but this couldn’t wait. Good job with Senator Peaslee, by the way.”

  The senator had been placed under arrest once the news hit the papers and the airwaves. His whole house of cards was tumbling down—as it should be.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you never left your cushy office in DC. Since when do they send you on errands?”

  The bartender arrived with two chilled bottles of Corona.

  “Thanks,” Cruz said.

  “Since I’m on my way to the Virgin Islands on a family vacation, I offered to stop by and meet with you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Miles’s lips twisted into a slight smile. “Okay, fine. I was instructed to meet with you. I have a high-priority assignment that’s off the books.”

  This wasn’t an unusual request, since his services had been “loaned” out before to the governments of other countries. “Which country?”