Angel Down

by Lois Greiman

  Crouching, he nudged her hands away and undid her laces. She straightened self-consciously, taking her breasts with her. He tugged off her footwear and tossed them aside. In a moment, she was easing out of her pants.

  Holy ever-loving hell, her legs were almost as spectacular as her breasts. And who the hell would have thought that was possible? They were pale, smooth, and as long as a thoroughbred’s. Her belly was flat, her panties red, and her sweetly rounded bottom almost entirely visible beneath the wet fabric.

  Sweat popped out on his forehead like dew on a lily. He jerked his gaze away and fiddled with the zipper on the sleeping bag, but it was stuck tight.

  “Could I have that?” she asked and reached toward him.

  He blinked.

  “Durrand?”

  “What? Oh!” he said, realizing belatedly that she was reaching for the sleeping bag.

  He handed it off and she wrapped it around her body. Still zipped, it left spare pieces and parts disturbing visible: her left shoulder, her right thigh. Jesus God, was she trying to drive him crazy?

  Visions of the night they’d first met flashed through his discombobulated brain. Maybe she wouldn’t be completely adverse to the idea of sex. In fact, hey! It would warm her up. Practical, really. And, at one time, she hadn’t seemed entirely repulsed by him. Some women found him mildly appealing. True, that was generally before he opened his mouth. And he’d pretty much done everything wrong from the moment he’d laid eyes on this particular woman. He had, at one point, threatened her life, and past experience with women, though admittedly sparse, suggested that the fairer sex didn’t usually appreciate that sort of thing. But she was standing very close, making his gut cramp up and his cock—

  “Does it hurt?”

  He stared at her.

  “Your hand,” she said. “Let me see it.”

  He didn’t know how long it should have taken him to respond. But he was pretty damned sure his silence shouldn’t last a full thirty seconds. “My hand’s fine.”

  “It’s bleeding.”

  He glanced at it. Yup, it was bleeding. “You should take off your…” He shook his head. For reasons entirely unknown, he couldn’t seem to say the word underwear in her presence. He considered undergarments but that seemed ridiculous, like some fastidious blue-haired woman in a PBS special. Unmentionables might make her wonder about his literary choices, and the term panties remained stuck in his throat like a goddamn cocklebur. “—the rest of your clothes,” he finished badly and squatting, untied his own boots. His fingers felt like chilled sausages.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

  He straightened, toed off the wet leather then pulled off his saturated t-shirt. “No.” The air felt like shards of ice against his bare chest. “I’m naturally hot-blooded.” Hot-blooded? Really? Shit.

  She stared at him, eyes bright as emeralds in the slow-waking sun. “What if you run a fever again?”

  “Not going to happen. I’m still on antibiotics and I have dry clothes,” he said then tugged a shirt from his pack. If he weren’t mistaken, at least part of one sleeve wasn’t entirely soaked.

  She drew a deep breath before speaking. “I’ll do better.”

  “What?” He glanced up sharply.

  “I won’t mess up again,” she murmured and something in her melancholy expression made his mind explode.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” His voice growled like a cantankerous bear, but she didn’t back down.

  “That pack was my responsibility. I should have been more careful crossing the river. I compromised the mission and for that I apologize.”

  He ground his teeth at her. “Listen, Edwards, this is my operation. I ordered you to cross the river knowing the risk factor was escalated due to fatigue and darkness.” Goddammit, he sounded like a fucking robot. Not to mention the fact that he was the one who had knocked her over. “Culpability is mine.”

  She drew a deep breath through her nostrils. Her nose was slightly upturned, and damned if he couldn’t make out her freckles even in the shit poor light. You know who shouldn’t be on deadly mission in the middle of a fucking jungle? Fairies with freckles.

  “Maybe I can find the GPS,” she said.

  He turned his head slightly, certain he had heard her wrong. “What?”

  “The guidance system,” she said. She was standing ramrod straight. “I dropped it when I fell, but it may not have hit the river. If you let me use your headlamp, I can check the east bank and be back before it’s fully light.”

  Is she fucking kidding? he wondered, but one glance into her ridiculously serious face assured him she was not. “Listen, Edwards,” he said, “mistakes were made. Things went south. Let’s not make the situation worse than it is. Try to get some sleep.” He pulled the half-soaked jersey over his head and glared at her over the top of the ribbed neck only to find that she was just jerking her gaze up to meet his.

  He froze. Holy shit! Was she checking him out?

  She lifted her chin. “I understand that you feel it’s your duty to keep me safe,” she said. Her gaze was as steady as granite on his now, and her cheeks had gained a little color. “But I’m a trained agent. I can look after myself.” She took another stuttering step toward him. “And I would appreciate the opportunity to remedy my mistakes.” Her tone was as stiff as her posture; her knuckles white where they clutched the edge of the sleeping bag, which brushed her thighs. Her bare thighs. Her long, smooth, hopelessly perfect bare thighs.

  His cock did a little check in, but he checked it back out.

  “Just get some sleep,” he said and forced himself to turn away before there was no hope whatsoever of doing something so painfully sensible. “That’s an order.”

  Chapter 36

  He was being drugged. Linus Shepherd was certain of that much.

  The room where he lay was windowless, but the mist in his mind had cleared a bit and his internal clock told him it was night. Approximately three hours had passed since he realized he was handcuffed to the bedrail, nearly that long since he had exchanged the original IV for another. Though an extra bag was hanging from the stand, he had no reason to believe it was untainted. Thus, he had searched until he’d found a still-sealed liter in a cabinet beneath his bed. Reaching that cabinet had not been an easy task. But he had managed. Eventually, the bag he’d stashed below the others would be found, but for now, a simple solution of electrolytes flowed into his veins.

  Fatigue still pulled at him, but he fought it, needing to think. He had tried to pick the lock on his cuffs, but his fingers were unwieldy. And even if he succeeded, what of the lock on the door? Surely there was one, not to mention a possible guard outside.

  It was clear that he would have to wait until he was more coherent to attempt an escape. His memories of the past few days were uncertain, vague, and undependable. Some suggested he had been roping steers from a fire-breathing dragon. Others involved conversations with his mother. In one, he had been sword fighting with Durrand. Then there was the affable gentleman who repeatedly asked why he had come to Colombia but had a strange habit of morphing into a catfish. All these scenarios seemed less than likely. Durrand, for instance, had been dueling with ambidextrous fluidity when everyone knew he couldn’t do shit with his left hand.

  A noise sounded outside the close walls of his room. Voices! Forcing himself to relax, he dropped his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

  The door opened a second later.

  Shepherd lay perfectly still, keeping his breathing shallow, his eyes shut.

  “What do you say, Curro?” The voice spoke in Spanish. Shep was fairly certain it was Doc, but was he also the man who questioned him about his reasons for being there? And what had Shepherd’s answers been to those queries? Everything was uncertain. But, apparently, he had not yet said anything damning enough to get him executed. Did that mean that his inquisitor was no friend of Herrerra, the drug lord Miller’s detail had been hired to displace? Or di
d it indicate that Shep had managed to avoid giving the real reason for his visit to this little piece of tropical hell? “Have you seen this man before?”

  Footsteps paced closer. The second voice was low and confident. “He does not look familiar.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “You’re certain? That is to say, he is distinctive, yes?”

  “American, isn’t he?”

  “Judging from his speech patterns and rather garbled statements I have surmised that he comes from the southern regions of the United States. An area known for its cowboys.”

  No response.

  “Do you know how cowboys are perceived, Curro? They are applauded for their toughness. Their…resilience.”

  “He does not look so very tough.”

  “Not to a man of your prowess perhaps.” The doctor chuckled. “But looks can, at times, be deceiving. For instance, sometimes a man can seem as if he is in your country for no purpose other than entertainment. When truly he has come for more nefarious reasons. But you say that none of the men Herrera hired to kill me have survived, is that not so, Curro?”

  There was the slightest shuffling of feet. “I watched each one die with my own eyes.”

  “Then who do you suppose this fellow is?”

  The shrug was implicit in Curro’s answer. “Someone foolish enough to stumble into Herrera’s hands, I suppose.”

  “Just another of Guapo’s hostages then? Some poor unfortunate tourist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time? A naturalist perhaps come to see the wonders of our humble country?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “We do indeed have a vast array of beauty. Do we not? Did I tell you I saw an oropendola just yesterday morning?”

  “No señor, you did not.”

  “Fascinating birds. There is so much we can learn from the wild. So many ways we as human beings can benefit from the amazing abundance around us. Ours is a country of vast diversity. There are means to cure illnesses, as well as ways to create poisons, right in our own backyard.”

  “Yes, señor.”

  “So perhaps this cowboy…” There was a pause as if they turned toward him again. “Perhaps he has come here to learn what he can of our world.”

  “That must be it, señor.”

  “I wonder, though…” The footsteps paced closer still.

  It took all of Shep’s self-control to remain as he was. Unmoving, unseeing.

  “Where would he get these wounds?” The doctor shifted the sheet aside. Shepherd stayed absolutely still as cool air touched his bare skin, perfectly immobile as the other tugged the bandage from the wound on his abdomen.

  There was a moment of silence then, “Herrera is not known for his kindness,” Curro said.

  The older man chuckled again. “Not like me, isn’t that so?”

  “You are indeed forgiving, señor.”

  “While Herrera is a bloody barbarian!” There was sudden passion in his voice, but it dissipated quickly. “Still, there are other wounds. Older wounds, long ago healed.” He slipped the sheet lower. Shepherd stifled a shiver. “This, for instance, just beside his hip.” He touched the aging bullet wound so disturbingly close to areas he had shared with only a few dozen affectionate women. “How would he sustain such an injury, do you suppose?”

  “I do not know.”

  “And this.” His finger trailed up Shep’s body to the ridge of scar tissue just below his bottom rib--the place where an unhappy jihadist had had the misfortunate of just missing Shep’s internal organs. “What of this?”

  “You said cowboys were known for their toughness. Perhaps he fell from a horse. Or was gorged by a bull.”

  “An interesting supposition, Curro. But you see, they are bullet wounds.” Doc’s voice was very soft.

  “These cowboys…” There was a shrug in his voice. “Do they not carry guns?”

  “Oh, Curro…” The chuckle again, good-natured and paternal. “Sometimes your childishness delights me.”

  “I am glad to entertain you, señor,” said the other but his tone suggested the opposite.

  Shep steeled himself. He had learned long ago to read the nuances of tone, to decipher body language. The playground had not always been kind to the son of a drunken womanizer.

  “I should not laugh at your naiveté, I suppose,” Doc said.

  “No, señor. You should not.”

  The older man chuckled again. “But you see, you have been watching too many…what are they called? Spaghetti westerns. The cowboys of today do not become involved in shootouts at the OK Corral or challenge the bad hombres to duels at high noon. Hence, they do not often sustain injuries such as these.”

  “I shall remember that.”

  “You know who does, though?” The elder man’s paternal tone had returned. It would grate on the nerves of a saint. Curro was no saint. That much was abundantly clear.

  “I should get back to the compound. We’re making a shipment today. I am to relieve Raul at the—”

  “The coca will wait. We’ll be done here in a moment. You know who does get shot with disturbing regularity?”

  No response.

  “Hired killers.”

  “You don’t think—”

  “Yes, I do think!” the doctor said and, suddenly, there was a hiss of noise. Footsteps stumbled backward.

  Shepherd snapped his eyes open. His gaze met Curro’s frantic stare. A syringe protruded from the side of his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was already falling.

  “I think a great deal,” the doctor added. “Something I wish you had done a bit more of. Then I’d have no need to hire a new head of security. But, you see, I do not pay you to allow Guapo’s thugs to trespass on my land. Neither should I be forced to deal with those thugs on my own. I am a doctor. A gentleman.” A chair toppled over as Curro crashed to the floor. “A healer. I cannot be seen killing another human being. But neither can I allow them to live. But what of this poor fellow? Was he one of the men I paid to see Guapo dead? The men who failed miserably! Was he nothing more than Guapo’s victim? Or could he be part of an intricate trap? What is his name? Where did he come from? And might he somehow yet be used to destroy that barbaric bastard? So many questions.”

  Curro lifted a frantic arm to point at Shepherd, who dropped his eyes closed before the doctor turned toward him.

  “A little late for you to worry about our guest,” Doc said. “Now is the time to catalog the effects of the golden frog on the central nervous system of an adult male of our species.”

  A gagging sound issued from the corner of the room. Metal clashed as Curro thrashed about.

  “Is it not amazing that such a tiny animal can bring down a bull elephant?”

  “Please…”

  “I have no proof that this is true, of course, but I see that it can cause my former head of security to plead for his life.”

  Heavy breathing filled the room.

  “There is the possibility, of course, that the antidote I have been tinkering with would revive you. And, truly, I wish you no harm, Curro.”

  “Señor...”

  “I will make you a deal, my boy…if you can crawl to me, I will forgive your shortcomings. If not…” The shrug was in his voice.

  There was a lifetime of labored breathing followed by the sound of someone laboriously dragging himself across the floor.

  “Well done. That’s it, son,” the doctor said but Shepherd could hear him backing away. After an eternity, the dragging noise stopped. The gasping halted. “So close. If only you had put as much effort into eliminating my assassins. Or, at the least, confessed your failings.” He exhaled softly as he turned toward the bed.

  “And what of you, young man?” he asked and placing a cool hand against Shep’s skin gently traced a line from one injury to the next. “Such a handsome lad you are. And strong. I can see it in you. You are a fighter. But do you lie to me, too? If I allow you to awaken, will you share the truth of your reasons for
coming here?” He sighed quietly, like a long-suffering father. “I believe it is time to find out,” he said and tugging the tube from the needle in Shep’s hand, inserted another in its place. “Time to learn if you will be honest or if I must employ other means of ascertaining the truth.”

  Chapter 37

  “Stay down.” Durrand’s voice was low and quiet, barely a rumble in the pre-dusk dimness, but Eddy heard him. They were lying on their bellies, hidden…she hoped to God…on a bank overlooking a coffee farm. According to their best intel and Durrand’s disturbingly accurate sense of direction, this was one of Herrera’s plantations.

  She skimmed the area two hundred yards below them. It was a tranquil scene. Coffee trees grew in rows ten feet high, shiny leaves bright in the late afternoon sun. The pickers chatted and joked as they dropped cherry-red beans into plastic buckets suspended at their waists, but it was the three men who dismounted from a nearby Jeep that held Eddy’s interest. Although they were dressed in loose fitting shirts and trousers similar to the others, there was something about them that didn’t quite mesh.

  “Overseers?” Eddy guessed quietly.

  “I doubt the coffee beans put up that much of a fight,” Durrand said.

  She scowled but didn’t shift her gaze from the scene below.

  Moving slowly, attention still glued on the workers, he handed over the binoculars he had remembered to stash back into his pack after the debacle with Javier. “Notice Red Shirt’s back.”

  Eddy carefully focused the glasses on the man he indicated. He was laughing as he spoke. His compadre chuckled in return, their attention caught on the third member of their party.

  “Looks a little lumpy around the middle,” Durrand added.

  Eddy zeroed in on the man’s midsection. Sure enough, the lay of his loose, button-up shirt suggested he had something stuck into the waistband of his pants. Something that was about the size of a 9 mm Beretta. She stifled a wince.

  “And Hat Man’s left pocket,” Durrand added.

  Eddy shifted her attention to Red Shirt’s friend. A couple of inches of hard, black plastic were just visible between the dark fabric of his pants and the edge of his rucked up shirt. The polymer handle of a Smith and Wesson would look just about like that.