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couple of weeks to receive his next assignment, which in all likelihood would be a temporary duty overseas—TDY. In reality, his current mission was going to take a while.
    Aside from himself, the president, and a handful of Lincoln Frazer’s FBI BAU-4 team, no one knew Burger had been murdered. Official reports were the guy had suffered a heart attack and the nation had grieved for the elder statesman. Killion didn’t know how many bad guys knew about the assassination plot, but at least one person did and he’d bet his government pension she was bleeding out in his backseat.
    He gritted his jaw as he realized something else. Lockhart could not be allowed to talk. Ever. If the world discovered Burger’s murder had been covered up, the man’s life and actions would be put under the microscope. Burger had been up to his eyeballs in dirty deals and international terror plots. The fact they’d deceived the public about his murder would be the least of their problems. World War III was likely if the truth got out.
    Thoughts raced through his mind as he assessed options. Plan A had been making sure the assassin knew the vigilante organization—The Gateway Project—was now defunct. Frazer’s people had been monitoring Audrey’s communications to see who she contacted and where she went, hoping to backtrack to the mastermind behind Burger’s murder. Killion glanced at the woman in the backseat who was panting heavily while gripping the knife in her side.
    Time for Plan B.
    He drove a few more miles and then swung west. Over the last twenty years the drug situation in Colombia had changed. Nowadays it operated on the same principles as a terror network with small groups only knowing about their piece of the operation. That way, if they were arrested, they couldn’t sink the entire cartel. Farmers cultivated small plots of coca in dense forest regions, easier to hide from spotter planes and government officials. Marxist rebels still controlled large swathes of land that were no-go areas. Colombia might be opening up to the tourist trade, but so was Mexico, and anyone who didn’t think that was a dangerous place to visit outside the hotel resorts had their head up their ass.
    He pulled down a quiet dirt road surrounded by plantations on both sides and parked up on the side of the road. There were no streetlights here. It was all dense vegetation and thick darkness. Locals barely had electricity. He climbed into the backseat and made room for himself by shifting Lockhart’s legs to the side. She cried out, but he didn’t have time to be gentle. He flicked on the overhead light. “I’m going to remove the knife and bandage the wound.”
    “No! That could increase the bleeding.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper that was too pained-filled to be even remotely sexy.
    “Lady, we don’t have a choice.” She’d already lost a lot of blood, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. “I need to get the knife out so I can get you away from this area before every member of Mano de Dios comes looking for us.”
    “The cartel is after you?”
    Time to cut the crap. “The clown you took out with your poison glove routine was Hector Sanchez—chief enforcer for Raoul Gómez, head of Mano de Dios .” Like she didn’t know. “And he was after you . Now that I rescued you, he’ll be after me, too.” Basic psychology. Reminding her she owed him for saving her life. “If you want to live you’re gonna have to do what I say.”
    Her brows drew together. “I don’t understand.”
    Jesus . “Sure you don’t.”
    “You’re the tourist from earlier.”
    Tourist ? Like he didn’t have “Spook” tattooed across his forehead?
    “You were with a family. Girlfriend.”
    “I don’t have a girlfriend.” He had hookups, contacts, assets, and coworkers, all helping him fight the seemingly endless Global War on Terror, whether they knew it or not.
    He reached into the rear compartment, dragged his bag over and