Hard Edge

by Pamela Clare

After almost two years of no sex, she deserved a little crazy pleasure.

  She slid her arms around his neck, gave herself over to his kisses, his lips doing wicked things to hers. Then he rucked up her T-shirt, his mouth moving to her breasts.

  It was heaven.

  She ran her hands over his biceps, his rock-hard shoulders, the shifting muscles of his back, the hard feel of him arousing her almost as much as the sweet tug of his lips on her nipples, heat building between her thighs until it was a fire. “Dylan.”

  He reached down, pulled off her panties, and got to work, bringing her quickly to the edge with clever fingers, making her writhe.

  The man had figured her out. That much was certain.

  Then he stopped, leaving her on the edge.

  She moaned and squirmed in protest, making him smile, his gaze soft.

  “Patience, mi amor.” He reached for a condom, tore the wrapper with his teeth, and rolled it over the delicious length of his cock.

  But she couldn’t let him call the shots.

  “Not so fast, sailor.” She put a hand on his sternum and pushed him away, gratified to see the surprise on his face. Then she turned onto her hands and knees, wiggled her bare ass at him, and watched over her shoulder as his eyes went dark. “You said you like me on my knees.”

  “¡Coñooo!” Fuck! He slid his palms worshipfully over the curves of her ass, his gaze all over her, a stricken look on his face.

  She didn’t have time for this. He’d built this fire. Now he needed to extinguish it. “Fuck me!”

  He filled her with a single deep thrust, the thick, hard feel of him making her eyes drift shut. “Is that what you want?”

  “God, yes.”

  He found a rhythm, reaching around to stroke her. The skilled action of his fingers. The silky glide of his cock. That sweet, deep stretch. He was driving her out of her mind, the blaze inside her flaring out of control.

  Harder. Faster.

  He rammed into her with thrusts that made the bed hit the wall and made her cry out, pleasure drawing tight inside her. And then she was there, on that shimmering edge.

  She came hard, her hands fisting in the sheets, ecstasy consuming her, white-hot and incandescent. Dylan drove her orgasm home, then shifted the rhythm, pounding into her, both hands grasping her hips.

  “Gabriela.” He came with a groan, finishing with three deep thrusts.

  He caressed her ass, pressed kisses along her spine, then withdrew, the two of them collapsing onto the sheets, smiles on their faces.

  Dylan drew her against him. “God, woman, I can’t get enough of you.”

  “Good.”

  He chuckled. “Are you going to go to confession over me?”

  “No. You have to be repentant. I’m anything but.”

  They ordered breakfast after that, talking about little things—where they’d grown up, their brothers and sisters, their parents. Then Dylan went to take a shower while she tidied up the bed and got dressed.

  “Hey, did you use my razor?” he shouted from the bathroom.

  “Of course! I have dark hair, and I haven’t shaved for almost two years!”

  Then his phone rang. It wasn’t check-in time. Had Cobra’s hack of the security system spotted something?

  She ran to the window, looked outside.

  No police. No Guachimanes.

  Just to be safe, she put on her shoes, checked the Glock, stuck her ID in one pocket and the firearm in the rear waistband of her jeans. Then she picked up the backpack and set it on the bed for him where it would be handy.

  “Mierda!”

  It must weigh fifty freaking pounds.

  That’s why he has all those muscles.

  Dylan strode out of the bathroom in his boxers, his face clean-shaven, his hair wet, phone to his ear. But it was the gravity of his expression that caught her eye—and made her adrenaline spike. “Copy that. We’re on our way.”

  He nodded when he saw her and reached for his trousers. “You’re ready. Good.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Agency put an asset into play for Cobra.” Dylan jerked his T-shirt over his head, reached for his firearm and holster. “A guy in a blue Chevy Aveo is going to stop out front. He’s driving us to San Cristóbal. From there, we make our way to Colombia. He believes you’re a nun, so I guess you get to be Hermana María again.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She hadn’t expected that, but it made sense, given the number of people the Agency was trying to protect. “What about the roadblocks?”

  He lifted the backpack, slipped it onto his shoulders. “He’s got some kind of government clearance that should get us through.”

  “He must work for the president or el SEBIN.” She followed Dylan to the door, looked back at the room, the hours she’d spent with him here suddenly seeming precious.

  It’s over.

  They had a long, dangerous road ahead of them.

  Dylan glanced around for a blue car. “Do you know what an Aveo looks like?”

  Gabriela pointed with a nod of her head. “He’s over there.”

  The two of them walked side-by-side toward the light blue sedan, Dylan keeping his gaze on the street around them from behind his sunglasses. “I don’t know this Sander guy, our driver, so I don’t trust him. Be ready for anything.”

  “If he was sent for us, then your people and mine must have cleared him.”

  “If they trusted him, wouldn’t they have told him your true identity?”

  “They trusted you and didn’t tell you.”

  “Okay, you have a point.” He bent down to look through the passenger side window and found himself looking at a middle-aged man with gray at his temples and a mustache and goatee. He spoke the words he’d been told to say. “¡Qué hay, Sander, mi pana! Vamos a tomar una birra.”

  What’s up, Sander, my friend. Let’s go get a beer.

  Sander smiled. “Climb in. I know just the place.”

  Dylan opened the rear passenger door for Gabriela, reminding himself that he needed to treat her like a nun once more. “There you go, Sister. Buckle up.”

  “Thank you.” She climbed in, put on her seatbelt.

  Dylan closed the door behind her and slid into the front passenger seat, shoving his backpack into the space near his feet. “We need to stop somewhere for bottled water and sunglasses for Sister María and maybe a baseball hat or something. She’s too recognizable.”

  Sander looked over his shoulder, his gaze moving over Gabriela in a way that made Dylan’s hackles rise. “She doesn’t look like a nun to me, but her face… I think you’re right.”

  Dylan lowered his voice, filled it with menace. “If you betray us or do anything to hurt Sister María, I will rip your tongue out through your asshole. Understood?”

  Sander looked both surprised and a little afraid. “Sí, señor.”

  Gabriela took a different approach. “May God bless you for coming to our aid.”

  His gaze still on Dylan, Sander answered her. “You’re welcome, Hermana.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Sander drove them to a gas station. “You can get what you want here.”

  Dylan took some cash out of his pocket, handed it to Sander. “I’m not leaving Sister María. You’re going to go in, buy her sunglasses, a baseball cap, and get several bottles of water and some food.”

  “Sí, Señor.” Sander took the money, got out of the vehicle, and went inside.

  “You scared him half to death.”

  “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

  “That was nothing compared to the way you looked at me when you first saw me in these clothes.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How is it different?” There was a note of humor in her voice now.

  “He doesn’t get to look at you like that.”

  Soft laughter. “I see.”

  “Watch him. You’ve got the HUMINT training. If you think he’s going to betray us, let me know.”

&n
bsp; “Of course.”

  Sander returned five minutes later with two plastic bags of junk food and water, a pair of sunglasses, and a black Leones del Caracas baseball cap. He opened the rear driver’s side door, handed the hat and the sunglasses to Gabriela, and set the food and water on the seat beside her. “I hope you’re a Leones fan, Hermana.”

  “Thank you, Sander.” She put on the hat and glasses. “Is that better?”

  Dylan looked back over his shoulder. “Definitely.”

  They drove through the streets of San Antonio, heading toward the main highway.

  “The first roadblock is just ahead.” Sander flipped on his radio, turned it to a station that played old-time Venezuelan music. “Just relax and try to act like we are having fun. It’s going to be okay. You can trust me.”

  Gabriela began a light-hearted conversation with him, asking him questions about himself—where he’d gone to school, his favorite soccer team, whether he was married, whether he attended church regularly, where he worked.

  She seemed to hang on his every word as if she were interested in even the smallest details of his life. It took Dylan a moment to realize that she was interrogating him, getting him to reveal himself.

  Yeah, she was good.

  Dylan couldn’t have done it. He didn’t have the patience or the training to make conversation. It was his job to be the hammer, to bring the pain.

  Ahead, traffic slowed and then came to a halt, but Sander left his lane and drove down the center of the road straight toward the roadblock, where men in familiar black uniforms checked IDs and searched trunks.

  Guachimanes.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.” Dylan put his right hand near his concealed pistol.

  “Don’t worry.” Sander took out some kind of government ID, slowed down, and held it out the open window.

  A Guachimán approached the vehicle, saw the ID—and waved them through.

  Dylan exhaled, the roadblock behind them now.

  “I told you.” Sander grinned. “With my SEBIN pass, no one will stop us.”

  Dylan hoped he was right.

  “They cannot vanish like mist or turn into birds and fly away!” Luis shouted into Mono’s stupid face. He stated what ought to be obvious. “They are either hiding in the city, waiting for us to give up, or they are trying to reach Colombia. How do we find them? We stop every car on every highway and check every person in every vehicle.”

  “Si, Jefe, we have been stopping—”

  “Knock on every door in San Antonio. Check every hotel between here and the border. Someone must have seen a nun and a gringo in military gear traveling together.”

  “It’s possible, Jefe, that they’ve gotten help—that someone is hiding them or driving them to Colombia.”

  Luis thought his head would explode. “You’re just thinking of this now? I am surrounded by idiots. Of course, someone is helping them! My brother-in-law, the stupid malparido, has made many enemies.”

  Why his sister had married the bastard, Luis couldn’t say. He seemed to delight in humiliating Luis. The longer this dragged out, the higher the chance that his brother-in-law would take notice from his presidential palace and drag Luis through the mud.

  “Listen, Mono.” Luis placed a controlling hand on Mono’s shoulder. “I don’t care how many people you have to drag out of their cars. I don’t care who you have to kill. Find the nun and that bastard commando—and quickly.”

  “I think you should increase the reward money, Jefe. The US government could be paying people, too, and they have a lot to offer.”

  Luis stared at his sicario, heat burning his face at the idea of the United States paying people to betray their country. “Where does the reward stand now?”

  “Ten thousand dollars US.”

  “Make it twenty.”

  Mono looked unimpressed. “Sí, Jefe.”

  “What? Is that not good enough?”

  “How badly do you want to find them? That is how much you offer.”

  “Make it fifty.” Mono started to speak again, but Luis cut him off. “Make it fifty for now—and I will think about it.”

  “Sí.” Mono frowned. “What I don’t understand is why the nun went with him. Wouldn’t she want to get back to the Mission? Why would she flee her own country?”

  “He abducted her. Didn’t we already discuss that?”

  Ten thousand US dollars was a fortune for most Venezuelans these days. And still, no one had given them up. His Guachimanes hadn’t found them either.

  What if they have already crossed into Colombia?

  If they had, Luis’ chance to redeem himself would be lost. He would be remembered not as the man who took millions from the US, but as the bastard who’d abducted gringos—and had them stolen away from beneath his nose by US special forces. Not that he had proof they were from the US, but what else could they be?

  His men had studied photos of the helicopter and tried to trace its origin but had come up with nothing. Photos of the soldier in the street had proved useless, too, his face concealed by goggles, nothing on his uniform to show he was from the US. Without the man as a prisoner, Luis had no victory, nothing to show his brother-in-law.

  As for Sister María Catalina, Mono had asked a good question. If Luis was wrong, if the gringo bastard hadn’t abducted her, why was she still with him? Had she chosen dick over Jesus? Or was she a prisoner?

  Luis decided to talk to the one person who might have answers. He picked up his phone, called Father Alberto at the Mission. “Tell me about Sister María Catalina.”

  “Have you still not found her?”

  “No, but we are close,” Luis lied. “What do you know about her?”

  “She was quiet, submissive, prayerful. She worked hard and rarely said a word. She came to us from a very strict convent in Peru because she wanted to help her people. The Reverend Mother there was very taken with her and sad to see her leave.”

  “I know she stayed in touch with the Reverend Mother. Pitón even let her send a letter.” Luis went back to his question. “She must have family here.”

  “I was under the impression they’d all died or left the country.”

  “Is there any chance she saw something while she was at the Mission? Could she have known what was in those trucks?”

  “I don’t see how she could have. I keep all the Sisters indoors when the trucks are unloaded. You know that.” Father Alberto was quiet for a moment. “But if she did, perhaps the DEA wants her as a witness.”

  And it all made sense.

  The US government believed she knew something and wanted to use her to get an arrest warrant for Luis.

  “You must find her, Luis. Mother Narcisa is quite distraught.”

  “I should have told Pitón to return her and shot him myself.”

  “But you didn’t, and now you have lost her.” Father Alberto’s disapproval was clear. “When is the next shipment arriving? We need more food here at the Mission.”

  Luis needed the money. “I’ll call Sergio and tell him we’re ready for more.”

  “He cannot delay. We are feeding hundreds each day.”

  Luis didn’t give a damn about feeding people. “If the nun shows up there—”

  “I’ll welcome her home—and question her.” Father Alberto paused for a moment. “If you find her, do nothing hasty. She is likely an innocent in this.”

  “Why would I hurt a nun?” Stung by this insult, Luis ended the call.

  He thought for a moment about what he wanted to say to Sergio. The bastard was as arrogant as Luis’ brother-in-law, but he took Luis seriously.

  Then it hit Luis.

  If the gringo was on his way toward Colombia, perhaps it was time to bring Sergio and his Andes Cartel into the search. They controlled that border. Against them, not even the United States had a chance.

  15

  It was an eleven-hour drive from San Antonio de Los Altos to San Cristóbal, but between roadblocks, toll booths, a
nd bathroom breaks, it seemed to drag on forever, boredom interspersed with bursts of adrenaline. Every time they had to stop for Sander to show his SEBIN pass, Gabriela’s pulse picked up.

  But so far, so good.

  Sander, it turned out, had led an interesting life, working as an accountant for Petróleos de Venezuela, S.A., the state-owned petroleum company, before the industry fell into ruin. After that, he’d taken a job with SEBIN, managing their payroll, a position that enabled him to see and hear much and which made him an ideal Agency asset.

  “If they find the two of you, I know what they’ll do.” He shared this as if Gabriela and Dylan had no idea they’d be interrogated and tortured. “There’s an area in the basement where they take prisoners for interrogation. People go in, but they don’t come out. That place is impenetrable. No one has ever escaped. They use torture and sensory deprivation to break—”

  “Why do you say things like that in front of Sister María? Are you trying to scare her, man? It’s your job to make sure we don’t get captured.”

  “Sí. Sorry, Sister.”

  “God will see us through.” And if God chose not to get involved, Gabriela had Dylan—and her Glock.

  They were on the outskirts of San Cristóbal when she noticed a change in Sander. He was speaking faster now and laughing more, his laughter louder and almost manic, sweat trickling down his temples despite the AC.

  He was nervous, panicking about something.

  From the top of a hill, Gabriela saw through the windshield into the valley below. Not far ahead was another roadblock, traffic backed up for a quarter-mile.

  She slipped out of her seatbelt, drew the Glock from the waistband of her jeans, and pressed it to the side of Sander’s throat. “Pull off the highway. Now!”

  Dylan’s gaze jerked to hers, then he drew his pistol, too. “Do it!”

  Sander tried to laugh it off, drove faster. “Why are you doing this? I’m your friend. Didn’t I get you out of San Antonio? The Agency paid me to—”

  “You’re about to betray us.”

  Dylan’s gaze was fixed on Sander. “Did you not hear the good Sister, amigo? Pull over. Now!”

  His shout made Sander jump.