Power Play: A Romance Collection

by Lauren Landish

  Twenty-four hours on US soil, and somehow, I’ve blown my mission, rescued the damsel in distress, and slayed the ‘douche canoe’ dragon, I think with an eye roll.

  Life’s not a fairy tale like that. There’s real drama and trauma tied up in those actions, a consequence for each step on the path and for each misstep. And fuck, have I made some of those. I need to refocus on those missteps, the ones Nathan Stone made when he had my Anna killed.

  But a wiggle in my gut won’t let me leave Carly right now, unsure if Gunze will somehow track her down. I know his type, but I also know it’s an excuse, so I say it loud enough in my head that I can pretend to believe it.

  Don’t leave her, Anna whispers in my soul. Keep her with you, keep her safe, stay with her. Kyle, I can’t be there with you, but she can, and she’s good for you.

  “Get cleaned up. Checkout is at noon and we need to be out of here by then.”

  Carly’s smile at the slip of “we” is bright enough to light every deep, dark corner of my soul. And even as I feel the warmth from it, I hate it, desperately wanting the cold bitterness, wanting the numbness, because she’s making me feel again.

  Feel so much.

  Chapter 31

  Nathan

  I’ve spent the last two days giving the guards a hard time, wandering the small area inside the boundaries of the airport, and talking with Nikolai’s men.

  They’re a remarkably vociferous group. Most of them are just regular Brazilians who look at Nikolai’s transporting drugs as a normal export business. My Portuguese is far from perfect, more minimal at best, but between my broken Portuguese and their broken English, we’ve been able to chat.

  “Listen,” one of them said as we shared a Coke during one of his frequent work breaks. In any other place, it’d be called lazy, but with the oppressive heat that saps the water from your skin almost as fast as you can drink it down, it’s necessary to avoid heat exhaustion. “Look at our country. You turn on the television, you see what? Cars, you see beautiful women, happy people, and smiling faces. But the truth . . . ah, the truth of Brazil isn’t in the Copacabana but in the favelas. It’s in the dirt lots, playing futbol or back-alley vale tudo.”

  “So what, you’re used to having two sides?” I asked, and the man nodded, grinning.

  “Like a coin, no?” the man replied, swallowing the rest of his Coke. “And if people want to put the loco powder up their nose, who am I to stop them?”

  Now, in the early morning as I walk another lap of the runway, I focus on my breathing. It’s a two-mile circle, just enough to let me get some sweat going as I let my body acclimatize more. It’s training, of course, knowing that I’m going to have to move through jungles and caves, but it’s also a way for me to probe Nikolai’s men, to see if they’re actually professionals or just thugs with guns.

  Luckily, the guise of mourning my father has let me do a lot without arousing suspicion. What they don’t see as mourning, they assume is just me being a stupid norte, despite my reputation. I can see it in their eyes, especially my three ‘escorts’. They think I’m a rich pretty boy who was gifted his money and doesn’t know what I’m getting into.

  That’s fine. While I’m near the airstrip, I’m perfectly happy to let them make their assumptions. There’ll come a time to use their arrogance against them.

  Still, it’s been weird to follow in my father’s footsteps, like he’s watching over me. Though I can’t tell if he’s proud or if he’s angry that I might accomplish the thing he never got to.

  I pause at the end of the runway, looking out at the dark green shock of jungle that starts fewer than a hundred meters away. It’s a common misconception, that the jungle is green. Maybe from up top . . . but at ground level, the jungle is dark, a forbidding, steamy dragon with wisps of smoke drifting up from its skin.

  I hear softly crunching footsteps behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see my conversation partner approaching, his darkly-tanned skin already glistening in the morning heat.

  “Flavio sent me to say get ready. Your guide’s going to be here soon.”

  I nod and turn back to look at the jungle, wondering. I’ve faced harsh climates before. I’ve stood in sandstorms so fierce that they would strip the paint off cars, leaving them gleaming in the sun afterward, and I’ve hurtled down mountains in the face of a blizzard so cold your piss would freeze before it hits the ground.

  I’ve faced many things, but am I still strong enough after my time in a suit to face the Amazon and walk out alive?

  “You know, I met your father,” my friend says, offering me a bottle of Guarana Antarctica, the local soft drink possibly more popular than Coke. “Here, you’ll need it.”

  “You drink a lot of soda,” I note, and the man laughs, nodding. “How’d you know my father?”

  “Oh, I worked at a cafe then. I was just a boy. But this norte would come in, he looked like you. Many of us know of the old ways, the people who lived in the rainforest, but their ways have watered down and are lost to time.”

  “It’s the way of the world, unfortunately,” I reply, and my friend nods.

  “But the norte, he talked like no time had passed, like the history played out before him like a movie only he could see. In some ways, it was inspiring.”

  It sounded like Dad, always the storyteller. The one thing he was good at. Although hearing this slightly positive interaction, it’s like a warm twist in the gut. My father could contribute to the world . . . he just never contributed to mine.

  My friend and I start walking back, sipping our bottles of Guarana as we do. “So, what do you do when you’re not working here?”

  “I have a family in Maraba,” he says, smiling. “I will go back, make sure my son hasn’t driven my wife crazy, and see what the world brings me. You?”

  “I have a business in America,” I reply, and the man chuckles. “What?”

  “Nothing,” the man says, looking at me with dark eyes. “I feel sorry for you, though. A man’s business cannot be there when he faces The Creator. His family can. Ah . . . your escorts.”

  We reach the warehouse where a jeep sits, my bag already waiting in the back. Flavio’s with them, his face amused. “You took your time.”

  “Wanted to enjoy my drink,” I reply, lifting my mostly empty bottle. I finish it off and hand it to my friend, who takes it before walking off toward the warehouse while I look at my bag. “You realize I’m going to check it myself?”

  “Your choice. The longer you take here, the less time you have out there,” one of my guards says, leaning against the side of the jeep. “You die of heat stroke, not my problem.”

  I’ve packed light, and I’m mostly worried about my sat phone, but it looks untouched. Five minutes later, I’m in the back of the jeep, Flavio giving the four of us a goodbye wave as we leave the fenced-in perimeter of the airport.

  For the next ten minutes, we make our way down a rutted, rough dirt road that looks like it’s been hacked out of the jungle that presses in on both sides until we come to a tiny village. Everything’s old-fashioned and poverty-strewn, wooden huts with corrugated plastic roofs built on wooden stilts, most of the people shoeless and wearing tank tops or less.

  “What do people do here?” I ask, and one of my escorts laughs.

  One of the men with me shrugs. “Farmhands, grunt work, whores. The cartel finds quite a few who sell themselves to get out of here.”

  The idea of girls selling their bodies to get out of this devastating poverty twists my stomach, maybe even more than when I was a merc and saw some pretty fucked up shit.

  We reach what I guess is the closest thing this village has to a square, a collection of white-ish buildings that surround a packed dirt space, a concrete fountain in the middle. Sitting on the edge is a small, spry looking old man with dirty clothes and missing teeth.

  Upon seeing the jeep, the man stands up, waving. My guard glances over his shoulder, telling me, “Francisco, your guide.”

  We
come to a stop, Francisco exchanging quick greetings with the guards, who pass him a folded wad of bills. I get out, grabbing my bag and slipping the straps over my shoulders. I adjust them, then see that my escorts are still in the jeep.

  “Coming?”

  Laughing, the same guard who two days ago was so willing to jack me against a wall looks at me like I’m crazy. “No. Only idiotas go in there. Most don’t come out.”

  I shrug, actually glad he’s not coming. “Suit yourself,” I reply, and the guard grunts.

  Reaching behind him, he grabs one of the very same UMPs that I brought into the country and places it across his legs, patting it. “Thanks for the tip, Norte.” He laughs again, tapping his partner on the shoulder, and they leave.

  In the muggy silence that reigns afterwards, it’s just me and Francisco, who shakes his head as they go. “Soft,” he says derisively. “Come.”

  Francisco leads me through the rest of the small village, stopping at what is obviously the village mercado to pick up his own bag, which is much smaller than mine, along with an ancient-looking bolt-action rifle.

  “We go.”

  “Wait,” I reply, digging into my bag. I pull out my knife and attach it to my hip, always wanting to be prepared, but especially when I’m heading into unknown territory. Francisco pulls out a worn but wickedly sharp looking machete, checking the blade but somehow making it seem relaxed and not threatening. “Anyone else?”

  “Sim,” Francisco says. “Come.”

  On the edge of the village, Francisco and I are met by two other men who are slightly younger, tough-looking, wiry, and crazy-eyed. I wonder if they test some of the jungle’s natural products.

  They lead me to a Jeep that looks held together with duct tape, spit, and wishes. “Really?”

  “In,” Francisco says, and I shrug, jumping in the back. The engine sounds like at least one cylinder is off, and the black smoke that pours out the back threatens to choke any of the surrounding wildlife as we embark on a bumpy ride through lush greenery for the next twenty minutes.

  I don’t try to talk with Francisco. His English is obviously limited to short commands, and my Portuguese isn’t much better than his English even though I learned a few additional phrases from the guys at the airport. Instead, when they park and gesture for me to get out, I silently grab my bag and adjust my straps, following them into the deep rainforest.

  Within minutes, the world’s gone dim and hot, like I’m walking through a sauna with the lights off. There’s so little sunlight penetrating the canopy overhead. Around me, I can hear a symphony of animal calls, from the screams of monkeys and the chittering of other small mammals to the cries of birds, the buzz of insects . . . I can’t even keep track of them all.

  But it’s the animals I can’t hear that I know I need to keep an eye out for. It’s what you don’t see that’ll kill you. Whether it’s any of half a dozen species of vipers, or poisonous frogs that’ll send me into psychedelic death throes, I’m not going to let myself be caught unaware.

  As we walk, the guys speak an even more mangled form of the local dialect that I can’t figure out in the least. But I hear them talking about the norte and laughing, so I know I’m the butt of their jokes and commentary.

  I don’t really care. I can’t worry about that when I’m this close. The cave is deep in the jungle and over treacherous terrain, while at the same time, we must go around Nikolai’s disguised fields and plantations. It’s a weaving, dangerous path, and I know it’ll take time.

  As the sun sinks, we find a spot to camp overnight. I’m tempted to push on further, but I also know the rule . . . once the sun sets in the jungle, it goes so black that the few predators who are nocturnal don’t use sight at all, except for maybe infrared.

  The temptation to just slump onto the ground is intense, but that’s a recipe for death. So instead, I pull out the ‘jungle hammock’ I packed and spend ten minutes setting it up while my local guides laugh quietly and climb into the nearest tree for their own rest.

  I climb into the hammock, feeling every minute of the day’s hike and my years living the cushy civilian life. Still, as I settle in, I can’t help but feel the little shiver down my spine as I wonder if I’ve overlooked something and if I’m going to greet the sunrise a dead man.

  Suddenly, there’s a ray of light that pierces the canopy overhead, and I look up, seeing a gorgeous moon between the trees. It’s brighter here, cleaner and almost pure white.

  I wonder if Emma is looking at the same moon.

  I miss her.

  Chapter 32

  Emma

  I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.

  When I begged Caleb for help, I didn’t know it’d be like this. But he’d told me I’d be sorry I asked, and as much as I hate to admit it, he’s right.

  Actually, I refuse to admit it because judging by the smug look on his face, he’s well aware that I’m freaking out a little bit as we ride in the helicopter over the Amazonian rainforest, so close I swear I could catch my boot on a tree branch if I reached out with a toe.

  Okay, I’m more than a little bit . . . I’m a lot of bit.

  This is some crazy shit.

  After I promised him that I was doing this without any FBI help, things have been a flurry of activity. Still, Caleb didn’t believe me at first, and it’s good to know he can’t read my acting versus my truth, because I have a sneaking feeling I need to keep a leg up on this sly guy.

  He may be charming and come off as a rather gold-hearted playboy when he’s not busy hating me, but after the past twenty-four hours, I know there’s a pretty significant brain ticking away under his blond highlights.

  I wouldn’t trust him at all except I don’t think he’d do anything to hurt Nathan. And though he left me behind, hurting me would hurt Nathan. I’m sure of it.

  I think.

  But once Caleb called for Grant, setting this chaos into motion, he told me he’d take care of everything. I should’ve known when I saw his maniacal grin that he was going to get some evil delight in torturing me. Exhibit A—my current status as a somewhat willing passenger on a black helicopter that just crossed the border into fucking Brazil.

  The first leg had been a whirlwind of luxury on a private jet with a catered meal Caleb had forced me to eat, telling me I’d need my strength for the next leg.

  He’d been right, though the delicious chicken in wine sauce now sits in my gut like a rock as the helicopter barrels over the canopy, hugging the terrain like it’s magnetically locked ten feet over the treetops.

  Suddenly, Caleb’s voice breaks the static in my ear from my headset. “Not too late to turn back.”

  “Why?” I reply, forcing a smile. “This is better than the roller coaster at Coney Island!”

  Caleb smirks, having already decided I’m going to give in, which pisses me the fuck off. Okay, so I’m not some super-agent Lara Croft type, and this is well beyond anything I’ve ever done or even dreamed I’d do.

  Hell, I might be walking into a situation that’s gonna stop my heart from beating forever. And that’s just from seeing Nathan, especially if he’s not happy to see me. It’s not even considering the whole cartel situation where, if TV has taught me anything, I think they’ll shoot first and ask questions later.

  If ever.

  I shake my head violently, talking myself into believing it’ll all be fine. Just fine. Despite my acting skills, Caleb must read the fear on my face because he laughs, the sound mostly drowned out by the whup-whup-whup of the helicopter blades through the open door, but I can tell how amused he is by the flashing of his perfectly white smile, and I swear I see a dimple.

  He’s a good-looking man, but mostly, his happy appearance just pangs my heart because he’s like a lighter version of my Nathan. But surprisingly, I find that I miss Nathan’s darkness, his bossiness, his fierce demands for every thought that runs through my mind, not willing to let me hold back a thing from him now that we’ve got everything on the table.


  Well, almost everything, my heart whispers.

  But he held back, and for that, I’m going to put my foot up his ass when I see him. I’m just not sure if I’m going to do it before or after I kiss him.

  He knew he was bailing on me and didn’t say a word, just set me up like he knew what was best for me and went on his merry way.

  Fuck that. I’m a lot of things, and I’m not perfect, but I’m a big girl and can make my own decisions.

  Oh, maybe he has some grand illusion that he was going to jet off and handle this whole thing with his dad’s legacy down here in the caves and then come back and pick up right where we left off like I’m some puppy he could kennel while he went to work.

  But despite Nikolai’s commentary, I’m not a dog and I don’t do the whole woof-woof thing.

  I catch Caleb’s eye and trigger my microphone. “How much longer? I have a bad feeling he’s gonna need backup.”

  There’s a part of me that wants desperately for Caleb to roll his eyes at my dramatics and tell me that Nathan’s fine, a soldier in his own right who can handle whatever’s going down on this trip. And I want to believe that so much.

  But when Caleb’s eyes flicker, I see the slight flash of fear in their depths and realize that he’s scared for Nathan too. Caleb had fought to come with him, argued to come in his place, and he got left behind too.

  “Nearest place the pilot can drop us off is still another half-hour or more,” Caleb says. “Be ready. It’ll be a real old-school, Vietnam-style battlefield drop off. I’ll . . . I’ll help you.”

  It’s a tentative one, but a truce. For now, we’re on the same side. Team Nathan.

  After what seems like forever, bouncing up and down to stay off the grid, the pilot comes over our headsets and tells up to prepare for landing. We swoop down, and once again, my gut goes into my eyeballs, so I just sit back and watch out the open door as the ground gets closer.