No One Lives Forever

by Jordan Dane

  He couldn't face such a bleak future—not now. Somehow, he'd make it up to her, become the kind of man she deserved. With great effort, he cleared his mind, dismissing the guilt and the emptiness.

  He started to compile lists in his head, things he would need. Plans took shape. As it was, he'd be up half the night, packing and making arrangements. Only the mission to rescue Charboneau would take center stage now.

  But aligning himself with Jasmine would be tricky. With the holes in her story, he might bring down the wrath of Charboneau's syndicate on his head. And the dangerous tri-border area of Brazil would be no place to outrun a well-funded criminal organization. With his main operation in Chicago, what the hell was Charboneaii doing in Cuiabá, Brazil? Maybe he could pull something off the Internet. One more item to add to his growing list of things to do. Yet the answer to that question might be the key.

  His mind conjured up images of a face he'd never seen—his father. "You look just like him," Jasmine had said.

  If he would ever see Raven again, he'd have to dig deep and rely on his discipline and training to steer clear of trouble. He glanced into the rearview mirror, seeing his face wavering in and out of shadows. Given his distrust of Jasmine and the corrupt world of his notorious father, he found his only ally staring back.

  You better trust yourself, Delacorte. 'Cause you 're on your own, pal.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dunhill Hangar, Chicago

  7:47 a.m., Day five

  He smelled foreboding in the air like impending rain. A steel gray morning cleaved to an ominous night sky. Clouds darkened the horizon, masking the downtown Chicago skyline. He imagined the storm carried its usual rumble, but the incessant drone of airplane engines flying in and out of the private airstrip muffled the distant thunder. The ground crew had worked efficiently as they prepared the Dunhill jet for departure, but now the flurry of activity on the tarmac dwindled. Christian knew it was only a matter of time.

  Put up ... or shut up, Delacorte. No turning back, hero. With their imminent departure, he knew they'd beat the onslaught of rain once they reached cruising altitude. Still, the dismal morning made it tough to shake the blues.

  Raven's dark eyes haunted him without mercy.

  Slow and deliberate, Christian sipped his black coffee. Holding the steaming mug close to his lips, he stared out the window of the small waiting area, letting the heat linger on his skin. He half expected to see her.

  "You looking for someone, boss?" A familiar voice drew him back. As he looked over his shoulder, he heard the Dunhill man say, "We've got the jet loaded. Waiting for anyone else?"

  A faint smile crossed his lips. "I'm not your boss anymore, Coop." When the man shrugged and returned a grin, he added, "And no, not expecting anyone else."

  Christian turned back toward the window, his eyes on the front gate of the hangar. The cyclone fence gaped open. No sign of Raven. A part of him felt grateful she remained behind and would stay safe, but a nagging selfish side of his nature prayed like hell she'd drive through those gates, ready for round two. No such luck.

  "How's Mrs. Dunhill?" Cooper asked.

  "Holding up . . . considering. Thanks for having the balls to ask about her. Everyone's been walking on eggshells around the subject."

  Fiona being in prison, serving time for an age-old murder for hire scheme, had become the elephant standing in the middle of the room that everyone chose to ignore. Cooper's candor struck him as refreshingly honest by comparison.

  Once he'd uncovered the truth about Fiona being his mother, he kept the information to himself. No one needed to know. Most people asked too many questions, more out of morbid curiosity than from any real concern. Only a handful of Dunhill employees knew the real story of why he'd quit. He preferred it that way.

  "I've been working for Mrs. Dunhill too long not to ask about her. Doesn't mean she's not in my prayers." Cooper smiled, then added, "Anytime you're ready."

  Christian nodded his acknowledgment, gulping more coffee as the man left the room. Alone and rapt in his thoughts, he watched the gate, eyes fixed. Then a scent teased his awareness. He felt a subtle shift. A presence displaced the air in the room. Closing his eyes for an instant, he focused on his senses, waiting for her.

  With expectation tugging at his gut, he turned, fighting a smile as his heart lifted. But his mood quickly changed.

  "The detective isn't coming?" Jasmine entered the room so quietly he almost hadn't noticed.

  "No," he replied.

  The woman didn't bother to hide her amusement. It hit him the wrong way.

  "Don't read anything into it. Thelma isn't making the road trip, Louise. That's all." With eyes downcast, he looked into his empty mug and muttered. "It's for the best."

  Christian got a refill on coffee and stared steadfast at Jasmine. "I did some research last night on the Internet. Got a lot of hits off the name Charboneau."

  As expected, the woman flinched, a slight move he might have missed if he hadn't been watching. Feeling encouraged, he went on.

  "That genetics research facility Charboneau has been associated with? It was one of the organizations working on the human genome-mapping project, identifying the gene linked to drug and alcohol addiction a few years back."

  He stepped closer to her, a hand in his pocket. He nursed his coffee and waited for the right moment to bait her.

  "But I find it hard to believe a man who allegedly makes a living off the drug-addicted fringe of society would suddenly have a change in heart. How do you explain that?"

  "Ah, the key word is 'allegedly.' But as you well know, I am only a bodyguard. I know nothing about—"

  "Just . . . stop." He raised a hand and shook his head. "Save the bullshit for someone who might buy what you're slinging."

  The woman stood her ground, not backing down. To the contrary, she smiled and stepped closer. Jasmine placed a hand on his chest. A bold move.

  "Despite my preferences toward complete candor, I won't betray him," she said, her voice throaty and sensual.

  He clenched his jaw. Whatever she peddled, he wasn't buying. "Oh, yeah, you're a beacon for truth and the American way." Then out of the blue, a thought occurred to him, something he'd read between the lines. He followed his gut instincts and tossed out a zinger from left field.

  "Do you love him?"

  For an instant, surprise registered across her dark eyes. Recovering, she masked the reaction. Her expression morphed into her usual distant facade. She turned her back and walked to the window, arms clutched to her chest.

  "He is my employer."

  "Answer the question." He pressed, knowing he had crossed the line.

  She spun toward him, eyes flared with indignation. "That is none of your business."

  Her strong reaction forced him to replay something she'd told him yesterday about the enduring connection between Fiona and her old flame. Before he could stop himself, he voiced his theory. "You love him, but he still loves my—"

  "Don't say it." Cutting the distance between them, Jasmine strut closer with a finger raised in challenge. "Let's get something straight between us. We are here to intervene in Nicky's destiny, to save his life. That is all. If you have another agenda, then you're out . . . now."

  Her face suddenly animated, he got a glimpse of what it would be like to suffer the woman's anger. Most probably, he deserved her outrage for intruding on personal turf, but the woman bluffed—big-time.

  "Pretty cocky for someone who came begging for my help yesterday. And with the short fuse on this trip, you can't afford a Plan B." He called her bluff, punctuating his gall with a swig of coffee.

  Jasmine raised her chin in defiance. She spoke in a quiet rock-steady voice, eyes aimed with deadly accuracy.

  "It would not be in Nicky's best interest... no. But make no mistake. I will not tolerate mutiny, regardless of your connection to him. I would answer such a threat with my blade."

  Now standing within inches of his chest, she toyed with a button
on his shirt. Normally, the gesture would be flirtatious and seductive, but he'd seen the woman at work. Her moves had the signature of a coiled rattler, fangs bared, waiting for him to turn his back.

  Slowly, her eyes trailed up his chest. Nails in glistening red tugged at his shirt. Her expression softened with her voice. "Besides, you're curious about your . . . new father. Admit it. You have to know just how far you've fallen from the base of that magnificent tree, don't you, little acorn?"

  Anyone catching the scene might have assumed he was having an intimate conversation with a lover. But Jasmine worked best up close, her words as cutting as her lethal knife. Especially when her incisions stung with the harsh reality of truth.

  Still, he fought to maintain control. Little acorn, my ass!

  "John Delacorte will always be my real father. And from what I found out about Charboneau, I've decided any connection I have to the man is merely a result of adolescent libido." He grabbed her hand and shoved it aside. "No thanks, not interested in making a love connection with daddy dearest."

  She raised an eyebrow and curved her lips into a smirk. "Perhaps you should be the one to conserve on the bullshit, Christian. We might find a market for it in Brazil." In jaunty arrogance, she turned toward the door, not looking back. "Can we go?"

  Without waiting for his reply, she stepped out of the room, heading for the plane. In her wake, sounds of the airport intruded upon the stillness of the room, then dissipated as the door shut behind her. Dressed in pressed jeans and boots, Jasmine clutched at her blue windbreaker, drawing it to her body. He watched her walk toward the jet, her long dark hair wafting in the breeze.

  "If there's a market for bullshit in Brazil, I'd be a wealthy man," he mumbled under his breath. "But you, Jasmine, would be Oprah."

  Taking one final look toward the gate, Christian looked off into the distance and sighed before heading for the door.

  Next stop—Cuiabá, Brazil.

  Cuiabá, Brazil,

  Marechal Rondon Airport

  8:58 P.M.

  Christian didn't need this. The airport was a hive of activity . . . and not in a good way. After flying via private jet, he'd hoped for a simpler process to disembark. But the last bank of commercial planes arrived at the gates about the same time the Dunhill jet touched down. The influx of people crowded customs and bottlenecked the process.

  Bad luck followed him like a shadow, hard to shake.

  Despite the hour, travelers with places to go hauled bags through the bustling corridors . Their faces told a mixed tale. Some were energetic and filled with impatience to begin their Brazilian adventure, while others looked frustrated and tired.

  Christian identified with the latter.

  Several large groups of tourists arrived in a rush and were now being ushered to buses waiting on the curb outside baggage claim. The terminal echoed with the language of Portuguese, Spanish, and other dialects. Christian heard very little English spoken. The predominance of dark skin and hair, coupled with the bulk of the facial features appearing native, reminded him of his foreigner status.

  By the time he got through customs and the baggage claim process, he felt every hour of travel deep in his bones. Even Jasmine, the Queen of Serene, couldn't hide her exhaustion. It showed in her eyes and in her sullen mood.

  "I have to make a stop." She led him to a large locker along one of the corridors off the baggage claim area. She fished a key from her pocket, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door. A black duffel bag inside. And another smaller carryon. "This is the special arrangement I spoke to you about. We'll need a porter now."

  Weapons and whatever else she carried. The woman always came prepared. She either maintained the locker year-round or had arranged it before she left Brazil a few days ago. She hailed a man in an airport uniform hauling a cart. As the man approached, Christian reached into the locker for the smaller bag on top. Feeling its weight, he shook it and turned his attention to Jasmine.

  "What's in here? It's lighter than I expected."

  At first he wasn't sure she'd answer. Eventually, she did.

  "Nicky's clothes. He'll need something fresh when we rescue him." The words made her sound self-assured, but her eyes betrayed her.

  "Good idea," he nodded, unsure what else to say.

  Acting as a convenient and well-timed distraction, the smiling porter loaded their bags onto his cart and followed them through the airport, jabbering in broken English. Christian only understood every fifth word, his mind too fatigued to listen.

  Outside, the dense air felt like a wall of moisture, the heat sustained even after dark. With evening temps like this, what would tomorrow bring? Diesel fuel and smoke mingled with humidity, making it hard to take a full breath.

  Several uniformed men directed traffic with exaggerated hand gestures and the shrill sounds of whistles. The porter took control, stepping in front of Christian and ordering a taxi with a shout and a commanding wave of his hand.

  Two cabs surged forward from the mix of vehicles, nearly colliding to gain advantage in driving the foreigners to the city. Neither driver blinked in their game of chicken. After a few well-chosen hand gestures and an exchange of colorful local lingo, one man reaped the spoils. He leapt from his taxi with a smile and a nod, now the picture of hospitality.

  "Welcome. Where you go?" The cabbie hustled to open the door.

  Jasmine avoided looking at the man. "Hotel Palma Dourada," she answered as she slid into the backseat of the bright yellow cab, fanning herself with a map of the city. The cabbie left the door open for Christian to join her.

  Still standing on the curb, Christian watched the porter load up the last of their bags into the cab. With the trunk slammed shut, he slipped U.S. dollars into the porter's hand and started to join Jasmine. But an unmarked police car rolled past the tour buses to block the taxi from taking off, a rotating beacon of red fixed to the dash. A car door opened and one man emerged.

  "Welcome to Cuiabá, Mr. Delacorte." Hands against the police car, a lean man in khaki uniform with steely black eyes glared at him. No cordiality on his face. "Please allow me to accompany you to the hotel. You ride with me."

  Christian raised his chin and eyed the man with wariness.

  "How do you know my name? And my ETA?" He asked the questions, but suspected only one answer. No doubt the man had an informant within customs.

  "You will find nothing escapes me in my town. I make it my business to know such things. Please ... I must insist." The man gestured with a hand, indicating the passenger door.

  "He's the police captain who followed me," Jasmine whispered from inside the cab. "Be very careful. I do not trust him."

  Seeing the woman's reaction to the cop raised a red flag. On the issue of being trustworthy, Jasmine hoisted stones from her house of glass. By his way of thinking, if she didn't trust the police captain— that alone would be a ringing endorsement—making the cop the lesser of two evils. Yet by the looks of the man's stern expression, Christian couldn't tell if he'd be friend or foe. The guy looked scrappy, a street fighter. Not as tall as Christian, he had a muscular build, looking native, with his dark skin and hair. His piercing stare commanded respect. An age-weathered face framed the severity of his eyes and sent a clear message.

  This was not a man to mess with.

  According to the research on Brazil Christian read on the jet, corruption had become a major thread woven into the fabric of this country—an accepted practice to supplement low wages. Was the man standing before him getting his fair share, or fighting against others who did?

  One thing was certain. Cuiabá was his town.

  Christian considered Duarte's invitation and shut the taxi door, with Jasmine grimacing at him from inside. With reluctance, he walked toward the man's car.

  "How could I refuse such hospitality?"

  Once Christian slid into the passenger seat, the man introduced himself, without offering a hand in greeting. This was not a social occasion. "My name is Captain Lu
is Duarte. I wanted us to have a moment alone, you and I. Your female companion and I have already had the pleasure."

  As the man spoke, he turned off the red cherry and pulled from the curb, heading for town. With the windows rolled down, Christian rested his elbow on the car door. He glared out the front windshield, only his peripheral vision on the man behind the wheel.

  Once beyond the airport terminal, a canopy of stars filled the night sky, fading near the horizon with the lights of the city ahead. Headlights drilled the blackness, luring insects from the gloom. And Duarte's face ebbed in and out of shadows, silhouetted by the eerie light from the dashboard.

  As it usually did, darkness closed in on Christian, weighing heavy like a vise around his chest. It squeezed tight, a constant pressure. To distract himself, he kept his eyes focused on the road ahead, glancing in the side mirror at the taxi following close behind.

  With effort, he tapped into his senses, almost a heightened meditative state. Hot wind whipped through the car, buffeting his hair and shirt as Duarte drove. The hum of the engine and the drone of road noise absorbed the lull in conversation. His thoughts drifted to Raven, his calming mantra ritual. Eventually, the essence of this strange world washed over him like cleansing rain, invigorating his spirit.

  "Yes, Jasmine mentioned your interest in her . . . activities." Christian heard his own voice like an out of body experience. "Do you always greet visitors to your country with such a warm reception?"

  "No, but I made an exception for you. Then again, you are not just any tourist. You are here in Brazil to search for Nicholas Charboneau, are you not?" He didn't wait for an answer. "How do you know him?"

  Christian took a gamble that the police captain didn't know everything and skirted the truth about his relationship to Charboneau.

  "Actually, I've come because of Jasmine. I've never met the man." He didn't exactly lie.

  "So you are not connected to his ... organization? The syndicate in Chicago?"

  Duarte had definitely done his homework.