by Sandra Brown
They were filthy. The stench of body odor and excrement was overpowering, a threat to Key’s full stomach. The man had been beaten about his head. His hair was matted with dried blood. His features were so distorted by swelling, bruises, and abrasions that Key doubted his immediate family would have recognized him.
The woman had probably suffered more. As she was shoved forward, several of the soldiers in the camp whistled and called out Spanish insults that Key had learned as a boy in Texas. It was easy to conclude how she had been brutalized. The trauma had rendered her insentient. Her eyes were vacuous. She didn’t respond to anything going on around her.
Sánchez left his chair in the shade and moved to the edge of the porch, where he looked beyond the bedraggled pair and addressed Key and Lara. “This man and woman were having sex while they were on watch. As a result of their carelessness, troops loyal to Escávez raided one of our camps. All of them died in the ensuing fight, but not before they killed two of my finest soldiers.”
“Por favor,” the man blubbered through swollen, discolored lips. “El Corazón, lo siento mucho. Lo siento.” He repeatedly muttered the apology. She was his betrothed, he said. They had loved each other since they were children. Having explained that, he acknowledged that they were wrong to have jeopardized the lives of their comrades.
“She’s a whore,” Sánchez calmly countered. “She lay with fifty men last night.”
The man sobbed but didn’t argue. He begged for mercy, swearing on the graves of his mother and father that he would never be so negligent in his duties again. He dropped to his knees and crawled forward until he was inches from the toes of Sánchez’s polished boots, appealing to his commander to grant them forgiveness and mercy.
“You admit that it was lust which cost the lives of your comrades? You are weak. A stupid lecher, a slave to your selfish passions. She is a whore, a bitch in heat who would offer herself to anyone.”
“Sí, sí.” The accused bobbed his head rapidly.
“The liberation of Montesangre is the only thing for which one should feel such unrestrainable ardor. We must all be willing to make personal sacrifices.”
“Sí, El Corazón, sí.”
“I could have you castrated.”
The sly, softly spoken threat sent the man into a paroxysm of pleading and promising, spoken in such rapid Spanish that Key had difficulty following it.
“Very well, I will not emasculate you.” The man began to cry and whimper with relief, croaking elaborate accolades to El Corazón’s greatness. “But such carelessness cannot go unpunished.”
As a surgeon would extend his hand for a scalpel, Sánchez thrust out his hand. Ricardo slapped a pistol into his palm. El Corazón leaned forward, pressed the barrel of the gun against the groveling man’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.
The woman jumped reflexively at the sudden racket but seemed impervious to the splattering of her fiancé’s blood and brain matter. At a signal from El Corazón, Ricardo stepped off the porch and moved behind her. He lifted her head by her long hair and, with a deft motion of his arm, cut her throat with a wicked-looking knife. When he released her hair, she crumpled to the ground beside her slain lover.
Key cut his eyes to Lara. She sat unmoving and silent. He admired her stoicism. This sideshow was for their benefit, but, like him, she refused to give El Corazón the satisfaction of seeing her react with revulsion and fear.
I might be next, Key thought, but the tightassed little bastard won’t see me on my knees begging for my life.
A hush of expectation fell over the camp. Activity was suspended. Key guessed that the anticipation had nothing to do with the two grisly corpses being dragged away, but rather with what would be his and Lara’s fate. Executions of enemies and traitors like those they’d just witnessed were probably commonplace, daily occurrences to enforce discipline and discourage disobedience. The camp followers, even the children, were inured to them. But having two American citizens to punish was a unique diversion that had captured everyone’s imagination.
It was Lara, however, who began the offensive.
“You were an intelligent young man, Emilio Sánchez Perón.” Her voice was soft with fatigue, but it carried to every ear in the camp. “You could have become a great man, an excellent leader, the leader who could have boosted Montesangre out of its rut of poverty and antiquity and into the twenty-first century. Instead you have regressed to what you accused me of being—a child. A petulant, cowardly, self-serving brat.
“You talk about freedom from oppression,” she continued. Scornfully her eyes swept the camp. “This community is the most oppressed I’ve seen in Montesangre. You aren’t a leader, you’re a bully. One of these days one of your followers is going to tire of your bullying and show you no mercy. You’re not to be feared but pitied.”
Those who understood English gasped at her temerity. Those who didn’t could accurately interpret the expression on El Corazón’s face. It became suffused with color. His eyes glinted malevolently.
“I am not a coward,” he said stiffly. “I killed General Pérez because his resolve was weakening.”
“I’ll be damned,” Key whispered. Sánchez was the usurper to whom Father Geraldo had referred. He was the soldier who’d murdered his own commander in order to seize control of the rebel forces.
“Yes, Mrs. Porter,” Sánchez was saying. “I see you are surprised. I want you to understand how determined I am to become the undisputed leader of my country. I will do whatever is necessary, although sometimes the tasks are unpleasant.” He glanced down at the fresh blood drying in the sun.
“Like shooting your own man point-blank?”
“Yes.” He broke into a smile that was so confident, so smug, that it was actually more bone-chilling than the brutal act had been. “Like that. And like organizing the ambush on Ambassador Porter’s car.”
Lara’s body jerked. She blanched. Even her lips turned white. “You?”
“Under General Pérez’s orders I coordinated the operation because I was familiar with the ambassador’s agenda. You were not scheduled to attend the birthday party. You and Ambassador Porter quarreled over it. He insisted that you go with him.
“You should have followed your instincts and refused. He was our target, not you. If you had stayed at the embassy I might possibly have sneaked you out before it was attacked. As it turned out, my hands were tied. It was too late to call off the ambush.”
“Ashley.”
Key didn’t actually hear her speak the name, but he saw her lips form it.
“Ashley.” As the implications sank in, her voice gained strength and she screamed, “You killed my daughter!”
“I did no such thing,” he said. “She was an unfortunate casualty of war. Actually I was rather fond of the child.”
His cavalier dismissal of her daughter’s violent death sent Lara into a frenzy. Suddenly she spun into motion, transforming into a whirling, ducking, rolling blur of limbs. The violent conversion was so instantaneous that it caught even her guards unaware. When they regained their wits, they naturally expected her to rush forward, toward Sánchez. They weren’t prepared for her to move backward.
By the time she stopped moving, the contents of the camera bag had been dumped into the dirt and she was aiming the Magnum revolver at Sánchez. At least two dozen rifles and pistols were cocked and aimed at her.
“No!”
Key leaped to his feet and threw a body tackle at Lara, knocking her to the ground. The searing pain in his ribs almost caused him to black out, but he held on to her, trying to restrain her thrashing arms and gain possession of the weapon. Cruel irony that it was, Sánchez was their only hope of survival. If Lara killed him, they would be as good as dead, too. As long as they remained alive, there was hope of their getting out of Montesangre.
With surprising strength, she fought like a hellcat. “Let me go! I’ll kill him!”
Several of the soldiers had joined the melee. Key was pulled away fro
m her. He didn’t know why the guerrillas hadn’t opened fire on the two of them and dispatched the threat to El Corazón. Not until he saw him calmly approaching did Key realize that he was probably protected by a bulletproof vest. And, it seemed, unless the camp was under direct attack, no one fired a single round without a direct order from him.
“Release her.”
At the sound of his voice, the guerrillas released Lara and backed away from her. She surged to her feet and, holding the Magnum in remarkably steady hands, pointed it at Sánchez.
“Lara, no!” Key hissed. He struggled with his captors, but to no avail. “Don’t do it. For God’s sake, don’t.”
“She will not kill me, Mr. Tackett.” Although he was speaking to Key, Sánchez’s eyes were fastened to Lara’s.
She pulled back the hammer of the pistol. “Don’t belittle me, Emilio. At this moment I’m capable of anything. Because of you, my baby died that morning. I’m going to kill you. Then I don’t care what your ragtag band of butchers does to me.”
“You will not pull the trigger, Mrs. Porter, because that would make you what you accuse me of being—a cold-blooded killer. You are a healer, someone sworn to extend life, not end it. You cannot kill me. It goes against everything you are.”
You smart son of a bitch, Key thought. Sánchez was grandstanding for his troops. This was the stuff legends were made of, and the little prick knew it. He was gambling that Lara would not pull the trigger, and the odds were strongly in his favor. He’d had years to study her while working at the embassy. He knew the kind of woman she was, knew of her dedication to healing. The ability to kill wasn’t within her.
“You bastard.” Tears left muddy trails in the grime on her face. The heavy pistol began to waver in her hands. “My baby’s dead because of you.”
“But you cannot kill me.”
“They put her sweet little body in a mass grave and covered it with dirt. I hate you!”
“If you hate me so badly, pull the trigger,” he taunted. “An eye for an eye. I should think that your killing me would be just retribution.”
Key refused to let Lara be made a fool. It would cost them their lives if she pulled the trigger, but he figured them for dead anyway. He decided to take out Sánchez with them.
“Call his bluff, Lara!” he shouted. “Blow him away. Aim for his smug puss.”
Her trembling had become uncontrollable. Even if she had been able to pull the trigger, her aim would have been off. Sánchez moved closer. “Stay where you are!” she yelled. “I’ll kill you.”
“Never.”
“I will!” Her voice cracked with hysteria.
“You never could.”
Confidently, Sánchez reached out and closed his hand over the gun. Lara put up token resistance, but he easily yanked it from her clutches. She covered her face with her hands and began to sob. Sánchez, smiling complacently, placed the barrel of the Magnum against the crown of her bowed head.
Key’s savage bellow was a torturous cry, the kind one would imagine coming straight from the bowels of hell.
Sánchez grinned. “Your sentiment is touching, Mr. Tackett. I’m afraid this disproportionate respect for human life, any human life, will eventually be the downfall of America. How typically, sadly American you are. You choose to save the life of your brother’s whore.”
“If you kill her, you’re history.” He spoke the warning through clenched teeth.
“You are in no position to issue threats, Mr. Tackett.”
“If I don’t get you in this lifetime, watch your back in hell.”
He struggled against the soldiers restraining him. He kicked backward and caught one in the kneecap. It crunched satisfyingly. He elbowed the other in the gut. Like his comrade, he went down. Freed, Key charged forward, but watched in impotent outrage and horror as Sánchez squeezed the trigger of the Magnum.
The empty chamber clicked.
Key skidded to a halt. Inertia propelled him off balance as his knees turned to gelatin. He pitched forward, landing hard in the dirt.
Sánchez laughed at the spectacle. “I am not a fool, Mr. Tackett. The bullets were removed when the gun was discovered in the camera bag. Your attempts to hide it were woefully amateurish.”
He tossed the revolver back into the bag, then used the pristine handkerchief once again to wipe off his hands. “I am indebted to you and Mrs. Porter for providing us with a morning of entertainment.”
“You fucking son of a bitch.” Key struggled to his feet and staggered toward Lara. No one stopped him, which in itself was an insult. He must have seemed too pathetic to pose any real threat.
Little did they know.
He had been destructively livid many times. He’d used his fists in brawls, bashing bodies and furniture. But he didn’t recall a single instance when he’d felt as though he could actually take another’s life.
Until this moment.
Given the chance, he could have literally torn Sánchez apart with his bare hands. He wanted to sink his teeth into his throat, taste his blood. It was an animalistic, primordial reaction that he would never have thought himself capable of experiencing, and it was frightening in its intensity.
“Why don’t you just kill us and get it over with?”
“I have no intention of killing you, Mr. Tackett. Is that what you thought?”
“You’re going to keep us here indefinitely? Why, so we can provide you with entertainment every morning?”
Sánchez smiled. “That is a tempting proposal, but I cannot be that self-indulgent. Actually I am releasing you. You will be returned to Ciudad Central and given accommodation in the finest hotel. Tomorrow at noon, you will be placed aboard a commercial jet bound for Bogotá. From there you will make your own travel arrangements.”
Key eyed him skeptically. “What’s the hitch?”
“When you reach the United States—I will make certain that the media and proper authorities are apprised of your illegal visit to Montesangre—you can make plain my message to your government.”
“Message?” By now Lara had stopped crying and was listening. Key had placed his arm around her shoulders, and she was leaning against him.
“The message is that I will stop at nothing to gain control of this country. President Escávez has neither the military muscle, the personal endurance, nor the public support to defeat me. His power is a thing of the past. In a few months his diminishing army will be completely destroyed. By the end of the calendar year, I plan to establish my government in Ciudad Central.”
“What makes you think the United States gives a shit about you and your pissant government?”
Sánchez bared his small, sharp teeth in a gross travesty of a smile. “My countrymen are in dire need of supplies, food, medicine. I would like to reestablish diplomatic relations with the United States.”
“I bet you would. What’s to make the offer attractive to us?”
“I could also make the same request of several South American countries who need an impartial corridor through which to transport drugs. Montesangre’s policy has been to resist this lucrative method of revenue, but these are desperate times.”
“How trite. You’re not going to say desperate times call for desperate measures, are you?”
Again Sánchez smiled his obnoxious smile. “We must consider all our options. Montesangre would be a convenient stopover between South America and the United States, and the dealers are willing to pay well for the privilege.”
Key thought about the landing strip designed specifically for drug runners. He’d told Lara the truth when he said he’d never flown drugs, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been asked or hadn’t been tempted. Percentages were strongly in favor of never getting caught, and the money couldn’t be topped.
But the thought of profiting creeps who turned adolescent girls and boys into prostitutes to support their habits went against his moral code. Contrary to what most people thought about him, he wasn’t entirely without conscience.
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br /> “What makes you think that anyone will listen to Lara and me?”
“Your trip here will be well documented by the media. Even if the government slaps your hands, your courage will be lauded. The public will be sympathetic to your mission and its regrettable failure. You will be in the spotlight.
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Porter’s reputation is dubious, therefore she does not inspire trust. But you are Senator Tackett’s surviving brother. No doubt he still has some loyal colleagues in high places. They will listen to you.”
“If I have an opportunity, I’ll pass along your message,” Key agreed tightly.
“You must do better than that, Mr. Tackett. You must give me your word.”
He had no intention of getting involved in Montesangren politics even from a distance. Once Lara and he were safely out, the whole damn country could slide into the Pacific for all he cared. But until that time, he would promise Sánchez anything he wanted to hear. “You have my word.”
Lara spoke for the first time. Some of her spirit had returned, though it was obvious she was functioning on adrenaline. “You’ll burn in hell, Emilio.”
“Still delusional,” he said retiringly.
“Oh, hell is real, all right. I’ve been there. The day my husband was kidnapped and my daughter was killed, and again last night when I saw the place where she is buried.”
“Such accidents occur during war.”
“War?” She sneered. “You’re the one nursing delusions. This isn’t war, it’s terrorism. And you’re not a warrior, you’re a hoodlum. You have no honor.”
Honor was a sacred thing in the Montesangren culture. Key feared Lara might have gone too far, insulting Sánchez in the most offensive way before a crowd of disciples. He held his breath, thinking that El Corazón might rescind his offer to release them. But with a brusque motion of his hand he ordered that they be returned to Ciudad Central.
Key didn’t give him time to change his mind. He climbed into the truck, then leaned down to assist Lara up. To his relief their hands were left unbound. The camera bag, their duffels, and Lara’s medical bag were tossed in behind them. Two soldiers took up positions on either side of the rear opening.