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  Weston’s Treasure

  Gemini Group

  Riley Edwards

  Weston’s Treasure

  Gemini Group Book 3

  Riley Edwards

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2019 by Riley Edwards

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design: Lori Jackson Designs

  Written by: Riley Edwards

  Published by: Riley Edwards/Rebels Romance

  Edited by: Rebecca Hodgkins

  Proofreader: Julie Deaton, Rebecca Kendall

  Weston’s Treasure

  ISBN: 978-1-951567-00-2

  First edition: December 24, 2019

  Copyright © 2019 Riley Edwards

  All rights reserved

  To my family - my team – my tribe.

  This is for you.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Riley’s Rebels

  Also by Riley Edwards

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Silver

  Weston Beil was infuriating.

  And what made everything worse was he’d been semi-right. Not that I lacked experience, because I didn’t. I had more time on the water than every man on the team Weston had put together, including the members of the Coast Guard.

  I’d grown up on the water. Literally. I’d lived on a boat since the day I was born. My dad was an adventure diver and instructor and part-time treasure hunter. Whatever money-making scheme he’d had always revolved around the water. Since birth, my father had been grooming me to take over his business.

  Not that I had taken over my dad’s diving company or decided to be a treasure hunter—instead I’d opted for a career as a professional mariner. A career path that at the moment was debatably the wrong choice.

  I was sure my father was probably out cruising the beautiful cerulean waters of the Caribbean enjoying the view from his wheelhouse while I was currently handcuffed to a water pipe in the hull of a motor yacht.

  Good times.

  That was the part Weston had been correct about.

  He’d warned me—the operation to stop the drug trafficking was dangerous. He’d repeated ad nauseam that criminals, and most certainly drug dealers, did not take kindly to someone stopping their racket.

  So, Mr. Know-It-All Weston Beil had been right. And the taste of crow made my stomach roil. Which sucked, because if I got out of this alive, I’d be eating a huge plateful.

  The yacht rocked back and forth, a motion I’d always been accustomed to but that now was making me queasy, as I tried to figure out a way out of this mess.

  I had no idea what the captain and the first mate had planned for me, but considering I was surrounded by bricks of cocaine; I didn’t figure it’d be pleasant.

  No one was coming to my rescue. If I wanted to live, it would be up to me.

  Damn, I wished Weston were there, and that thought churned my belly for a variety of reasons. I was not and had never been a helpless female and I wouldn’t turn into one now. But I couldn’t deny the big man was strong and the air of danger that surrounded him was intoxicating. Had he not been such a dick, I would’ve said he was probably the hottest man I’d ever laid eyes on. And there was the fact that despite him being a huge asshole I was half in love with him.

  Weston would know what to do. The captain wouldn’t have been able to overpower him and handcuff him to a fucking pipe.

  Shouting upstairs had me shrinking back against the steel.

  I needed to hurry up and figure something out before I turned into fish food.

  1

  Silver Coyle could write a book on how to annoy the fuck out of men. And if Weston got her out of her current situation, he was suggesting it.

  Actually, it wasn’t a matter of if they could do it, it was simply a when. The alternative would mean they failed their mission and Weston never failed—neither did his teammates. So it was a matter of time until the infuriating woman in question would be rescued. And she’d hate that. Hate that it was Gemini Group coming to her aid, most especially Weston himself. He’d warned her, yet she refused to listen. He’d told her she was skirting the line. But Silver, being as stubborn as she was brave, hadn’t listened.

  The game she was playing was dangerous, and just as he’d predicted she’d been burned. Now she was being held hostage by a group of drug traffickers and as much as Weston wanted to say I told you so, he wouldn’t. At least not until Silver was safely back at his house, under his watch and protection. Something else she was going to pitch a fit about and Weston couldn’t wait for the battle that would ensue.

  He’d never met a woman as feisty as Silver, not even his teammates’ women could hold a candle to her and that was saying something. Nixon and Jameson had chosen well, both of their women fit them seamlessly. Not that Weston was looking for a woman, but Silver had disaster written all over her, and if he didn’t lock her down, she’d fuck the whole mission. It was not because she was the only woman who he’d ever met who sparked something deep inside him. And it certainly was not because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. So much so, the woman had invaded his dreams. Nope, it was all about this mission.

  One that he and his team had been planning for the last month. It was a multiagency takedown and neither Homeland nor the Coast Guard needed her interfering.

  But she had interfered and now she was in the hull of a ninety-foot Feadship named the Dora B and Weston would bet she was not happy. He’d watched as she boarded the mega motor yacht to pilot it down the C & D Canal.

  Then he watched as she was pulled from the wheelhouse through the companionway and marched to the aft deck before she disappeared back inside. That had been an hour ago. Now that the team was certain they were clear of commercial traffic it was time to make the rescue. Something else Alec Hall, their contact at DHS, would be pissed about—dead drug dealers floating down the Chesapeake and Delaware canal. Thankfully it wasn’t his job to clean up the mess they were about to make.

  “Ready?” Nixon asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Weston answered.

  “I think you’re enjoying this a little too much.” Jameson chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “You’ve met her. Two birds, one stone.”

  “How do you figure that?” Jameson pressed.

  “We get to take out the
trash and piss her off at the same time,” Weston answered.

  Nix shook his head and smiled. “I think the pretty Silver has wormed her way under our boy’s skin.”

  “If you mean, she’s annoying as fuck—affirmative. If you're implying I have a hard-on for her, that’s a no. I’ll give you this, she is fine as hell, but she can’t follow directions—hence her current incarceration—and she has a gigantic chip on her shoulder. Couple that with the blinding, ‘I hate men’ neon sign she flashes and that’s a hard no for me.”

  “She’s just strong-willed,” Chasin joined in.

  “You think maybe we can get her ass off the boat and away from the bad guys instead of waxing on about the woman’s disposition? Which to add is irritating.”

  “Sure,” Nix responded, sounding amused at Weston’s frustration. “Holden,” Nixon radioed the last man on the team and the only one not currently on the small fishing boat tailing the Dora B. “We’re ready when you are.”

  “You have fifteen minutes, maybe seventeen until you have company,” Holden told them.

  “Five more than we need,” Nixon replied, then turned to his team. “Let’s roll.”

  A few minutes later Weston was climbing aboard the Dora B courtesy of a dive ladder that had been left in the water. His head peeked over the aft deck’s railing. Not seeing anyone, he hefted his weight onto the teak surface and motioned for the team to follow.

  Four men silently split up, each having a job to do to clear the boat. Weston made his way through the salon and easily found the crew stairs leading down to the cabins and storage below. With no guards patrolling the lower level, Weston made quick work clearing the galley and crew cabins. He reached for the last closed hatch and a volley of gunfire rang out above him.

  His heart rate ticked up and he prayed the team’s assumption was correct and Silver was being held below deck. Part of what had taken them so long to board was surveying the vessel. They couldn’t see much through the portholes but there had been no sight of Silver on the upper decks. The hull was the smartest choice for the drug runners, but then again, smugglers weren’t always the brightest and Silver could be anywhere.

  Weston may’ve thought Silver was too hard-headed for her own good but he didn’t want to see her hurt and he certainly didn’t want her dead. On that thought, and an overwhelming urge to protect the brown haired beauty, he went through the open door and looked around.

  Goddamn it, no Silver. Bricks of cocaine were stacked on pallets, and the stench of pot filled the room. Weston stepped farther into the small room, his rifle pulled up to his shoulder as he scanned. He moved toward the pallet of coke when he caught something in his peripheral flying toward his head. He quickly ducked, but a second object flew through the air, then another one, hitting the flash compensator on the end of his barrel. White powder exploded and dusted the room.

  Another brick of coke hit him in the head and he barely recovered as Silver darted out from behind the stack of drugs, arms flailing, lashing out blindly. A tiny fist made contact with his bulletproof vest. He knew it had to have hurt, but to her credit she never stopped fighting. Weston let go of his rifle—the sling attached swung it to his side—and he wrapped her up in a tight bear hug, trapping her arms.

  “What the fuck?” he growled.

  Her foot made contact with his shin and Weston winced as pain shot up his leg.

  “Goddamn it, Silver, stop.”

  Some of her fight started to wane, either from exhaustion or recognition, but Weston held tight.

  “Let me go,” she demanded.

  “Not until you calm down,” he returned.

  “I am calm,” Silver seethed.

  “You don’t sound calm.”

  “Seriously, Weston, you wanna do this now?”

  Silver was right, he didn’t have time to debate her bristly tone, and he really didn’t have the time to process why relief had washed over him when he’d pulled her into his arms.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Just my pride. And my wrists are sore from the cuffs.”

  “The cuffs?” he questioned. He glanced around the room and spotted a pair of open handcuffs and a chain lying on the powder-coated floor.

  “Just get me out of here and I’ll explain later.”

  Damn if she wasn’t demanding. And the fuck of it was, instead of being irritated he liked it. Something else Weston didn’t have time to think about.

  “When we go up, you stick to my back, and this time when I tell you something you listen without question.”

  Silver’s nose scrunched and her brows pulled together in irritation but she didn’t argue which was a damn miracle. The girl could bicker about anything.

  Weston pulled his rifle back to the ready and gestured for her to follow. They hit the stairs leading back to the upper deck when gunshots rang out. Silver moved so fast plastering herself against his back, Weston nearly stumbled forward. He needed to tell her she couldn’t keep her arms around his stomach in case he had to move quickly and fire his weapon, but he didn’t. He liked the feel of her clinging to him. Seeking his body for protection.

  They took the steps together, her behind him, still holding on, though loosely due to the incline. He stopped them at the top and maneuvered Silver so her back was to the wall as they sidestepped down the hall toward the aft deck.

  Jameson came around the corner, meeting them in the salon, and gave him a nod. “We’re clear.”

  Even though his friend had assured Weston there were no more drug smugglers still breathing, he didn’t move away from Silver—very aware of her body still pressed against his.

  “We’re out,” Nix declared as he joined them in the salon. “Holden’s ready.”

  The group made their way to the aft deck. Chasin went over the railing and down the ladder. With one foot on the gunwale and the other still on the ladder, Chasin waited to help Silver.

  “You’re next,” Weston said.

  She didn’t hesitate to climb over the side. Weston immediately felt it, the loss of her body next to his, her looking to him to keep her safe. The moment they’d shared was gone and back was the capable and stubborn Silver.

  And now was not the time to ponder why that left him feeling uneasy.

  2

  The time had come.

  The bird was cooked, it was plated, and now I was going to have to eat it.

  Weston hadn’t said a word during the quick boat ride back to the dock. He’d been quiet in the car as Nixon drove us to Kent County. The others had formally introduced themselves though I’d briefly met Nixon and Jameson the day I stormed into Gemini Group’s office and pitched my fit. But other than assessing I was not injured—though my ego and pride had taken one hell of a hit—I was surprisingly fine.

  The topic of why I was on board the Dora B was remarkably avoided. That was, until we reached an old farmhouse tucked away down a long dirt lane and surrounded by wilting corn. Though I didn’t grow up in the country, I’d lived in the area long enough to know the corn would soon be harvested. I vaguely wondered what the bare landscape would look like with clear views of the woods in the distance.

  Weston slid out of the SUV, reached in for my hand, and helped me out. But the minute my feet hit the dirt his face turned to granite.

  “Are you out of your goddamned mind?” he roared.

  I jerked in surprise before I squared my shoulders and prepared to go head-to-head with the jerk.

  “I had every right to board that ship. Delaware rules state anything over ninety-feet flying a foreign flag requires a pilot until they reach the Maryland line. So not only did I have the right, it’s my job.”

  “You knew the Dora B was on radar. You were under orders not to approach and certainly not to be the pilot to guide it down the canal. You were told to stand down.”

  “I don’t take orders from anyone, Weston. I had a job to do and I did it.”

  “And that’s the fucking problem. The sole reason I recommended you being
pulled from this operation. You don’t listen. You don’t know when to stand the fuck down and watch. You’re all gung-ho to rush in and I told you that was dangerous. I told you that was going to get someone hurt. I told you to stay the fuck away from the Dora B and let us do our fucking job. Now it’s fucked and you did that.”

  There it was—the ‘I told you so’. The crow I’d have to eat because he was right. He did tell me, and I did fuck everything up. But he was also wrong.

  “You’re right,” I spat the words out even though they tasted like shit and there’d be more where those came from. But first I was setting the record straight. “You did tell me all of that. But I didn’t rush anything. I boarded because it is my job. I was told to pilot the ship and I couldn’t say no. When I went aboard I didn’t ask questions, I didn’t look around, I didn’t check their charts, I did nothing but steer the ship.”

  “You couldn’t say no?” Weston asked incredulously.

  “No.”

  “Never crossed your mind to find an excuse?”

  “Excuse? Like what?”

  “I don’t know, maybe you had diarrhea. Maybe you started that time of the month and needed the bathroom. Maybe lying and saying you ate something bad and needed to throw up.”

  I couldn’t believe he said that. Who says that? Started ‘that time of the month’? What, was he ten and couldn’t say menstrual cycle or period? Not that that would’ve been any better and really, it was a hell of a lot better than discussing diarrhea.