by Anne Stuart
He remained calm and unmoved during her tirade. “Got anything else to say, Superwoman?” he taunted gently.
Her anger evaporated as swiftly as it had come. “All right. I’m sorry for flying off the handle. Why do you want to come with me?”
“Because it’s my butt you’re trying to save. I figure I have some responsibilities to myself, even if you won’t let me have any toward you. It would be nice if you could look upon this as a cooperative effort—you save me when the need arrives, I return the favor when the time comes. But I know you have problems with that, and that’s okay. I just don’t want to sit in the Holiday Inn waiting to hear what’s happened to you.”
Maggie laughed, a forced laugh, but a laugh all the same. “Tell you what. Keep your mouth shut and your shades on. As far as anyone’s concerned, you’re my husband, Jack Portman.”
“God, we’re back to him again?”
“We’re back to him again. I don’t suppose I’ll fool the RAO, but unless the informer at Third World Causes has been amazingly efficient, they shouldn’t suspect you at all.”
“You think there’s an informer? Is that how people managed to find us time after time? Is that why Peter Wallace wound up dead?” They were reasonable enough questions, ones to which Maggie had no answers.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m being paranoid again. But you’re not going to stay put and let me find out, are you?”
“You know me pretty well by now.”
Maggie shrugged. She did know him pretty well by now, and she knew he was determined to stick to her like glue. “Well, then, we’re just going to have to find out together. Let’s go.”
He’d already slid his feet back into his battered Nikes. “Yes, ma’am. I’m ready.”
The headquarters of the RAO had been moved, at the Honduran Government’s polite but inflexible request, from the high-rise office building in downtown Tegucigalpa to an unprepossessing location across the river in one of the less desirable neighborhoods. Everything looked prosaically normal, the neatly painted lettering on the plaque outside the soft pink building, the children playing in the streets. Even the armed soldiers standing guard outside the main entrance were relaxed and smiling. Until Maggie asked for Enrique Castanasta in her liquid Spanish.
“Who wants him?” the suddenly hostile soldier demanded in thickly accented Spanish. The expression in his dark, distrustful eyes suggested that no mere female could have anything of importance to discuss with such an illustrious person.
She hesitated. On the one hand, if she gave them her phony name it would give them some measure of protection. There was a good chance someone at Third World Causes was far too talkative and then she’d be in trouble. But Enrique Castanasta was not the sort to grant interviews to any American turista who happened to show up, even accompanied by a hulking, mute male. She was far more likely to get to see him and to find out where Van Zandt was if she told him a variant of the truth.
“Margrethe Bennett of Third World Causes, Ltd.,” she said. Mack didn’t make a sound, didn’t move a muscle, but she could feel his sudden tension. “This is my companion, Jack Portman. We’re good friends of Jeffrey Van Zandt, and we’re hoping General Castanasta could help us find him.”
The names meant something to him; she could tell by the flickering of his basilisk eyes. But which names—Van Zandt and Third World Causes? Or Margrethe Bennett and Mack’s previously used alias? Or all of them? His reply wasn’t illuminating. “Wait here.”
Maggie stood there with the afternoon sun beating down on her bare head, wishing she’d managed to arm herself with a pair of mirrored sunglasses like Mack’s. Her rumpled jumpsuit was already sticking to her in the heat, her feet hurt, and her nerves were strung as tightly as high wire.
“Why the hell did you give him your real name?” Mack muttered in her ear. “Weren’t you taking a big chance?”
“It was either that or not get in to see Castanasta at all,” she replied without turning. “Don’t bug me, Portman. I know what I’m doing.”
“I sure as hell hope so.” He stepped back as the soldier reappeared in the doorway.
“He’ll see you. Alone,” he added, waving his machine gun as they both stepped forward.
Maggie shook her head. “We go together or not at all.”
The soldier shrugged. “Suit yourself, gringa. I am certain it will make no difference to the general.”
Maggie’s shrug matched his, and her smile in the blazing afternoon sun was brilliant. “Perhaps,” she replied. “But I wouldn’t count on it if I were you. Many people would be distressed if the RAO didn’t help us reach Van Zandt. People of influence and power, people who support your noble cause with their hearts and their money.” She kept her voice neutral. Mack could probably hear the cynicism in her voice, if he even understood her Spanish, but the soldier in front of her took her words at face value.
“I will check.” Once more he disappeared into the building, once more he reappeared, gesturing the two of them in with the barrel of his machine gun. It took all Maggie’s willpower not to skirt the evil-looking weapon nervously.
“Senora Bennett, how may I help you?” General Enrique Castanasta was all shiny teeth and charm. His office was small and surprisingly luxurious, and everything was all affability. An affability Maggie instinctively distrusted.
“I’m trying to find Jeffrey Van Zandt. He’s aided Third World Causes over the last three years, and we were counting on his help on a small matter. We have reason to believe he’s working in a training camp somewhere north of the Nicaraguan border, and we hoped you might be able to help us.”
“If only I could, senora,” Castanasta said, the regret in his voice but not in his eyes. “We know of Third World Causes, though we are as yet unsure whether to count them as friends. And we know of Van Zandt and his training camp. Unfortunately the camp is not stationary, nor is it even always on this side of the border. For all I know, Senor Van Zandt might be in Managua at this very moment. Or he might be back in Washington.”
“Do you have any idea where there might be training camps?” she persisted.
Castanasta shrugged, smiling. “Who can say? I may be a general, senora, but I am merely a desk-bound bureaucrat. We exist here in Tegucigalpa to raise money and disperse it to where it is most needed. Two weeks ago we had two thousand troops on the eastern coast. Last week they were just north of El Paraíso. Who knows where they will be tomorrow?” He stood, and Maggie had no choice but to follow suit. She was aware of Mack behind her, silent, watching, waiting.
“I am sorry I can be of no further help, senora.”
“Do you suppose the ACSO might know of his whereabouts?” She came up with one last try.
It was the wrong try. The RAO and the ACSO were competing rebel factions, competing for media attention and money, completely ignoring the fact that they were ostensibly on the same side. Castanasta’s affable smile vanished, his small, rather cruel mouth snapped shut, and he moved to the door, the interview clearly at an end.
“Who can say with the ACSO?” he grumbled. “They are a pack of dogs, chasing their own tails. I would like to think the United States Government would be wiser than to waste the small amount of money they’ve allocated for us to fools like them. But that is probably a vain hope.”
“Do they have offices in Tegucigalpa?”
“Senora, I do not know. I do not know if there are any members left alive. The last I heard they had all run to Costa Rica and were trading thousand-dollar weapons for a few miserable pesos. Rabid dogs, all of them.” He hesitated. “They will be of no help to you and Senor Pulaski. If I do hear of anything, however, I will send word to the Holiday Inn Plaza.”
“How did you know where we were staying?” Maggie was suddenly aware of a cold trickle of unease sliding down her narrow backbone.
Castanasta shrugged, his smile firmly back on his face. “Where else would norteamericanos be staying?” he inquired. “I will be in touch, senora.”
&
nbsp; They had no choice but to leave. All of Maggie’s instincts were warning her of danger, but the faces of the RAO around them were bland, even helpful. But something was definitely wrong, and the center of her back prickled with the feel of a shotgun trained on it.
The two of them walked in silence down the dusty, deserted street. Their taxi had long since disappeared, and so had any other sign of life. They were at the corner when Mack finally spoke.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” he muttered. “Did you trust them?”
“No. But then, why should I? Members of their group or the ACSO tried to run us off the road in Arizona.” They turned the corner and headed uphill, back toward the center of the city. “I wish I could figure out what is bothering me about that meeting.”
“Something’s bothering me right now,” Mack said. “When we got here there were children playing in the streets, old men gossiping, women doing laundry, dogs and goats roaming around. And now the whole damned place is a ghost town. I think we’re in trouble, Maggie.”
She wanted to deny it, wanted to reassure him, but she couldn’t even open her mouth to do so. And then she realized what was wrong. “He knew your name.”
“What?”
“He called you Pulaski,” she said grimly. “I introduced you as Jack Portman, and he called you Senor Pulaski. We’re in deep trouble.”
The sudden silence of the hot afternoon was broken by an ominous sound. It was the unmistakable sound of a machinegun clip being jammed into place.
“Maggie,” Mack groaned. “I think we’d better get the hell out of here.”
“Pulaski,” she replied, “I think you’re right.”
thirteen
The empty, silent street suddenly turned into a blazing, white-hot nightmare. Maggie dived around the corner, Mack on her heels, as the roar of machine-gun fire shattered the stillness. And then they were running, racing down the rough cobbled streets with the certain, terrifying knowledge that their lives depended on it. Maggie didn’t even turn back to make certain Mack was following; she could only run for her life and hope he was doing the same.
The maze of narrow, twisting streets heading back toward the center of town aided their escape. She could hear the pounding of booted feet, the martial shouts and orders from behind them, and she doubled her speed. Occasionally a face would peer from a window, someone would start out a door and then quickly retreat. And Maggie and Mack kept running.
A volley of shots rang out just as Maggie careened around another corner. She saw the plaster spurt off the side of a house as she turned to check for Mack. He was keeping pace with her, showing no signs of tiring, no signs of panic. She wondered if she appeared equally stoic. She doubted it.
The soldiers were gaining on them. Both she and Mack were in good shape, and they were fortunately unencumbered by heavy artillery. But the pounding footsteps and rapid-fire Spanish were getting closer and closer.
One more corner, and Maggie dashed around it. To be confronted by a tall stone wall.
Mack raced past her, leapt over the top of an abandoned car, and was on a shallow rooftop before she had time to do more than assimilate the situation. “Move your ass, Maggie,” he shouted, his raspy voice raw with his heavy breathing.
The rebels were behind them, closing in. She had only a few seconds to spare, and it was a dangerous, possibly deadly, idea. But she was suddenly confronted with the chance that she might lose him, as she’d lost everyone else, through her stubbornness.
She ran to the wall, a wall she could scale in seconds, and held up her arms. “Help me, Mack.”
He stared down at her in complete dumbfounded amazement, not moving. Seconds seemed to hang like hours in the hot afternoon, and the footsteps grew closer. May as well go all the way, Maggie thought. I may die for this stupid idea. “Help me,” she said. “I can’t make it.”
She had a moment to admire the touching aspects of her plea. If she expected Mack to be similarly moved, she was in for a shock. A look of complete, absolute fury whitened his face, and without a word he leaned down, wrapping his hands around her wrists like steel manacles. He yanked her up, slamming her knees against the edge of the roof, just as the rebels rounded the corner. And then he jerked her after him, a second ahead of the next spray of bullets.
Finally they reached a different part of town. The streets, while still narrow and twisting, were free of litter, the charming pastel houses were newly painted and spotless. One or two older American cars could be seen parked along the side streets, and dogs and children, both clean and well-fed, roamed freely.
Mack dropped her wrist like it was leprous. “We’re out of danger,” he said flatly, and she could see the rage vibrating through his sweat-soaked body. A rage she couldn’t even begin to understand. “I’ll see if I can find us a taxi back to the hotel.” And without another word, he walked away from her.
She stood there on the neat, quiet street and watched him go. She’d betrayed herself, and her highest principles, to bind him to her, to give him what she thought he wanted. She’d given him the power over life and death, and instead of bringing them closer, it had enraged him. And the tension and panic of the last minutes faded into a rage of her own.
He was back, moments later, with one of the local taxis. They rode together in silence back to the center of Tegucigalpa. She could feel Mack’s anger, and her own fury matched his, until they both marched stiffly through the lobby, heading for their room with one infuriated accord.
“You realize that Castanasta knows where to find us?” Mack said angrily when they were alone in the elevator.
“Yes.”
“What do you intend to do about it?”
“Not a goddamned thing. If he wants to blow you up, he can damned well do it, with my blessing,” she said through gritted teeth.
Together they marched down the wide, luxurious hallway of the newly built hotel. She could feel him waiting, hovering on the brink of some sort of explosion as she fumbled with the key, and she found she was looking forward to it. They stepped inside the cool, dark room, and she closed the door, intending to turn around and confront him with his unreasonable behavior.
She didn’t have a chance. He caught her shoulders in a painful, iron grip, turned her around, and slammed her with a great deal of unnecessary force against the wooden door. “Don’t you ever do something like that again,” he said, his voice shaking with fury.
“What the hell are you talking about?” she shot back. “And get your goddamned hands off of me.”
His fingers only dug in deeper, and he slammed her back against the wall for emphasis. “That touching little scene in the alleyway. ‘Help me, Mack,’ ” he mimicked savagely. “ ‘I can’t make it.’ ” His voice was a simper. “The day you couldn’t make it over that wall twice as fast as I could will be a cold day in hell, and I know it as well as you do! What the hell do you take me for?” He was absolutely roaring with rage.
“I was too tired—”
“Bullshit! You were playing games, Maggie. You decided I was some insecure male who needed my ego stroked, so you figured you’d let me save your life. In doing so you risked both our lives, and all for some stupid whim. Let me tell you, lady,” he continued, thumping her against the wall for emphasis, “I don’t need you or anybody else stroking my ego. I don’t give a damn if you save my life time and time again. I don’t have any overweening macho pride that will make me reject you in the long run, and you should know me well enough by now to realize it.”
“If you’ll stop throwing me against the wall,” she managed through gritted teeth, “I’ll explain to you—”
“I don’t need any explanations. You may not know me, but I know you like the back of my hand. I know the way your mind works, and I know how you try to manipulate me so you can feel in control. Well, forget about control, lady. You’ve just blown it completely, and it’s a whole new ball game. From now on you’re going to have to be completely honest, with me and with yourself, and n
o more manufactured rescues, no more dewy-eyed little pleas for help. Got that?” He banged her against the wall one last time, and it was one time too many.
She lashed out with every ounce of her strength and knew immediately she was outclassed. He had been holding back when he’d jumped her in Utah, but now he was using every ounce of the power in his body to subdue her, and it was considerable.
But Maggie knew a few tricks of her own. She twisted, turned, slammed her foot down on his instep, then swiftly brought her knee up to his groin.
Thankfully, for both their sakes, he was faster than she was. He twisted out of range, still gripping her shoulders, and then they were on the heavily carpeted floor, rolling over and over as Maggie tried to punch and pound and hit him.
It was hopeless. He was much larger than she was, and his hands were everywhere. The silent afternoon was punctuated by the sound of their heavy breathing, the grunts and curses as she fought like a madwoman. All in vain. She ended up lying beneath him on the floor by the bed, her wrists held down by his arms, his body straddling hers, as she glared up at him, panting in exhaustion and fury.
She’d managed to connect more than once, she noticed with triumph. She’d split his lip by banging her head against him, there was a long scratch down one side of his face, and if she were really lucky, she might have given him a black eye. He just sat there, his weight holding her immobile, his face impassive.
And then suddenly the whole tension shifted and changed, from raw anger to a blazing sexuality that was free from rage. Slowly he leaned down and kissed her, full and hard on the mouth, and she could taste the blood she’d drawn. Without hesitation she opened her mouth to him, reaching out for him with a passion just as raw and overwhelming as her suddenly vanished anger.
He released her hands to rip at her jumpsuit, and she did the same, pulling his shirt off him, straining against him with a desperation that knew no bounds. And then they were naked on the rug, hot, straining flesh melting together. He entered her immediately, and within seconds she was arching around him, shivering and crying and moaning her release into his hungry mouth. And he joined her, his body rigid in her arms, and they sank together into that tiny death that was a triumph over the greater one they had just avoided.