Which made no sense; no one should know he was here. Besides, he hadn’t done anything secret or underhanded in Mexico.
“Lately,” he muttered.
Bobby gave up worrying about the reasons as he tried to make some time. But having to stop and hunt for clues kept slowing him down.
The kidnappers weren’t following a path, or at least not one Bobby could see. The jungle was dense, and the ground dry. But he wasn’t called G.I. Joe for nothing. He might lose the trail once in a while, but he always found it again.
Dawn gave way to midmorning. Bobby headed into the thick of Quintana Roo. They were traveling away from Puerto. Didn’t that just figure?
He came to a small river, what they’d call a creek—pronounced crick—back home. Bobby knelt at the edge and doused his head.
With water trickling over his face, down his neck, he let his gaze wander over the area. A patch of garish yellow stuck out of the shallows on the other side.
Bobby strode across, letting the just-cooler-than-tepid water soothe his feet inside his boots. Bending over, he snatched a stray piece of cardboard from the silt.
To anyone else, it was garbage. To Bobby, a billboard. Jane was alive and kicking.
With a thin smile, he tucked the empty container of animal cookies into his pocket, then stilled. A splash was his only warning before someone knocked him over the head.
Or tried to. The instant he heard the sound, Bobby ducked, twisted, turned. The butt end of a rifle slammed into his shoulder.
He gritted his teeth against the pain, then grabbed the weapon and yanked it out of the hands of what appeared to be a guerrilla fighter.
Bobby popped him in the jaw. His attacker went down, and he didn’t get up.
While he was sleeping, Bobby relieved him of all of his toys: AK-47—weapon of distinguished evil-doers everywhere—9 mm Beretta and a huge machete. The guy wore camouflage pants, shirt, military boots, he’d even painted his face to match the rest.
“An awful lot of trouble you went to, amigo.”
When the guy’s eyelids fluttered, Bobby pressed the machete tightly against his throat. His eyes shot open.
“Who are you?” Bobby asked.
“No habla.”
“You better habla quick or you’ll be habla-ing without an Adam’s apple.”
He pricked the skin and blood welled. So did the words. Unfortunately, they were all in Spanish.
“Hold on,” Bobby barked.
The man knew enough to shut up. Probably more from the knife at his throat and Bobby’s tone of voice than anything else.
People north of the Rio Grande believed that everyone south of it spoke a good deal of English, but they didn’t. Spanish was their language. Only Americans believed that everyone in every country should be able to converse in English at their command.
Bobby searched his tiny arsenal of español.
“Quienes?”
“Roberto.”
They had the same name. How convenient.
“Qué pasa?”
He felt foolish saying “what’s happening?” like a sitcom star or a guy in an annoying beer commercial, but his options were few.
The guy started blabbering again. Bobby grasped a few words. Mujer. Woman. Perro. Dog. That much he knew.
“Por que?” he asked. Why?
“Ella debe morir.”
That was a toughie. Ella meant she. Debe? No clue. But morir, he kind of thought that meant die. But if they wanted Jane dead, why had they kidnapped her?
He didn’t know how to ask that. But he could ask where.
“Dónde?”
“Dónde?” The man’s beady black eyes shifted left, right, back to Bobby’s, then left again. “No sé.”
“You don’t know? Why don’t I believe that?” He pressed the knife harder against Roberto’s throat. “Dónde?”
Roberto spilled everything he knew. Too bad Bobby didn’t understand any of it.
He didn’t have time to decipher the directions, nor to query why the guy hadn’t just shot him—or at least tried to. Bobby tied up Roberto, tossed his guns into the water, then continued to follow Jane’s trail.
Despite the time-out for questioning, Bobby caught up to the others by midafternoon when they stopped at a hut very similar to the one where Bobby had found Jane. Several more guerrilla types loitered outside, fingering their weapons and smoking their cigarettes.
He would have thought he’d wandered into a revolution, except those guns were too modern and too expensive for a rebel force. Only illegal narcotics bought such hardware.
Circling the area, Bobby tried to figure out what they were up to. He also wanted to make sure Jane was actually inside before he did anything drastic.
As he inched around the south side of the hut, a familiar snarl froze him in his tracks. He peeked past the structure and found Lucky tied to a tree, kicking up quite a ruckus.
Even without the expensive weaponry, Bobby would have been able to detect drug dealers in the vicinity by the force of Lucky’s fury. He only hoped they didn’t shoot the dog just to shut her up.
Considering her lack of an eye, Lucky saw pretty well. Her head swiveled in Bobby’s direction and he tensed, afraid she’d give him away. Instead, she stopped snarling and lay down—as if she knew he was here to rescue her; she only had to be patient.
If he’d been in the Middle East, suitably disguised and briefed, Bobby would have walked into that hut and pretended he was one of them. Even without the bright blue eyes, American weapons and army fatigues, he sucked at this language, and he had no idea how many people were inside, let alone what they were up to.
If he went in, guns blazing, people would die, and while that didn’t bother him when terrorists or evil drug lords were involved, it did when innocent civilians got caught in the crossfire.
When the innocent civilian was a woman with a sharp mind and an even sharper mouth, soft skin, sweetly scented hair and a body he wanted to spend a week getting to know, Bobby was bothered a lot. Almost as much as he was bothered by his feelings for her in the first place.
So he played it smart. He disabled the guards one at a time, then he peeked into the single window, hoping for a lightning bolt of inspiration that would allow him to extract the doctor with the lowest possible body count.
One look at the scene inside, and he had a hard time remembering why he shouldn’t kill them all.
CHAPTER SIX
JANE HAD BEEN BERATING herself for her stupidity from the moment the Little General’s men had carted her away.
One of his minions had grabbed Lucky mid-snarl and wrapped her snout with tape. Not that Lucky hadn’t continued to snarl, anyway. Jane had been terrified they’d kill the dog to keep her quiet, but they hadn’t. Jane had a very bad feeling they were saving that for a later bout of persuasion.
She’d dubbed her captor the Little General because he reminded her of Napoléon. Dark skin, hair, eyes and disposition—no doubt his height was an issue there. She had no idea who he was, but he knew her.
However, he didn’t know Bobby, and that fact seemed to have made him slightly unbalanced.
“Who is the American soldier?” he demanded. “Why is he here?”
Jane stared straight ahead and didn’t answer.
He backhanded her, and she tasted blood where her teeth had frayed the inside of her lip the last time he’d hit her. Wasn’t there some rule about name, rank and serial number?
Or was that only for actual soldiers? Regardless, she wasn’t going to tell them about Bobby unless she had to. So far, they hadn’t done anything that had made talking inevitable.
“Why would an American soldier rescue a foolish Yankee doctor?” the General demanded. “This makes no sense.”
Lucky suddenly stopped snarling. That couldn’t be good.
Jane’s gaze slid toward the window, and the General pounced. “You think he will come for you? That will be a bit difficult, since I sent Roberto to slit his throat.”
Jane made her first sound. She laughed. Right in the General’s face.
His eyes widened. His face reddened. He backhanded her twice this time. Left cheek, right cheek—he was ambidextrous. She was going to look like she’d gone ten rounds with the champ.
Jane had lived in rough places for the past few years, but she’d always been protected, cherished, respected. No one had ever touched her with violence—until today. She wasn’t sure how long she’d last before she cried.
“The idiots should have gotten rid of him when they came for you, but they were afraid.” His lip curled in disgust before he turned on her again. “Why are you being so stubborn, Doctor?”
The General spoke impeccable English. He must have gone to school in the States. But despite his cultured voice, Jane saw the animal lurking in his eyes. Showing a man like this her fear would be like showing fresh blood to a wolf.
“What is he to you? Mercenary bodyguard? Protection bought by the disillusioned Doctors of Mercy?”
As if the Doctors of Mercy could afford a mercenary. Which was why she’d been gifted with Enrique, who’d obviously been more mercenary than she knew.
Jane continued to stare straight ahead. The General leaned down to study her face—not much of a stretch.
“Lover?” he murmured, and she was so shocked she actually glanced at him. He smirked. “Interesting. You will join him soon. So be not afraid.”
Jane rolled her eyes.
“You do not think you will die? That was not the original plan, I must admit. But the orders have changed. Since Enrique botched the job, I must complete it. We have already been paid. However, it disturbed me greatly when one of my men brought the expensive military items he uncovered in the jungle.”
Which explained where Bobby’s stuff had gone, though not how it had been found. Perhaps an accident, after all.
Jane wanted so badly to ask who had paid the General and why that her lips parted. The man beamed, thinking, no doubt, she would spill her guts in exchange for one more minute of life. He didn’t know her very well.
A gunshot sounded. Jane flinched, anticipating the pain of a bullet, afraid one of the minions had lost patience. He’d no doubt die for disobeying orders, but she’d already be there ahead of him and in no condition to gloat.
Her mouth fell open farther when the toady nearest the door dropped. The one at the window followed before he could even raise his gun.
The cavalry had arrived.
The General called her a vile name in Spanish—one most kids picked up on the street. You’d think a native speaker would have more imagination. He pointed his gun at the dark figure coming through the door, but he couldn’t manage to squeeze off a shot before Bobby did.
The man slammed into the floor at Jane’s feet, and he didn’t move. Nevertheless, Bobby disarmed him and the others before untying Jane.
“Lucky?” she asked, terrified of the answer but needing to know.
“Alive and busy grumbling about the tree she’s tied to outside.”
Jane let out the breath she’d been holding, then drew it in again as sharp needles of pain shot through her hands when they were released from bondage.
She started to rub them together, but Bobby yanked her into his arms. Shocked, she could only sit there woodenly as he hugged her. He was shaking, but there was nothing sexual about it. He seemed scared, and that made no sense at all. She hadn’t thought Bobby Luchetti would be scared of anything.
“You okay?” she asked.
He didn’t answer at first. Jane could have sworn he took a whiff of her hair before passing his palm over her head, then releasing her.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured.
Jane glanced at the General. “Yeah, you probably shouldn’t have shot him.”
Bobby’s eyes narrowed. He reached out with the tip of one finger and touched her right cheek, her left and finally her mouth. Jane began to tremble.
“He hurt you,” he said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.
They stared at each other for several charged seconds. Something had changed between them, but Jane wasn’t sure what. Then Lucky gave a short, impatient woof and the spell was broken.
Bobby began to go through the General’s pockets. “Got any idea who this bozo was?”
“None.”
He jerked his thumb at the bodies. “How about the bozettes?”
Jane shook her head.
“No ID. Big shock.” He searched the others and came up just as empty. Sitting back on his heels, Bobby frowned. “What did he want to know?”
“Who you were. Why you were here. Some of his flunkies found your stuff near the village. That seemed to flip him out.”
Bobby’s shoulders slumped, and he rubbed his hand over his face before lifting his gaze to hers again. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
“He didn’t say please.”
Bobby’s eyebrows rose.
“Besides, once he found out, he’d have killed me and Lucky. I was trying to avoid that.”
“You couldn’t have avoided it forever.”
“I only needed to stay alive until you got here.”
“How did you know I’d get here?”
“You’re soldier boy. Isn’t that your job?”
Bobby heaved himself to his feet, shaking his head, then peered out the hole in the wall. “It was my job to rescue you from a kidnapping by drug dealers.”
“You just did.”
“Then see you out of this country safely.”
“I’m not dead yet.”
“I messed up.”
“I’m the one who walked into the jungle, alone in the dark. That was stupid.”
“I should have—”
“Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Let’s just get out of here.”
He turned with a puzzled expression. “Weren’t you scared?”
“Hell, yes.”
“You didn’t seem to be.”
“Wouldn’t have helped. Would probably have hurt. Jerks like these enjoy frightening women. I enjoy screwing up their enjoyment.” Jane nudged the General with her foot. “I enjoyed it even more when you screwed up the rest of his life.”
“I thought you were a pacifist. That you had no use for guns and soldiers.”
“I thought so, too. But I have to admit, Luchetti, I’m glad you were here.”
SHE WAS GLAD HE WAS THERE. How was that for a change of heart?
Too bad Bobby still felt like a loser.
“Why shouldn’t I have shot this guy?”
He dipped his chin to indicate the man who’d dared to hit Jane. Bobby considered shooting the guy again, but decided that would make him appear a little too gung-ho.
“He said he’d have to finish the job of killing me since Enrique botched it. They’d been paid already.”
Jane walked out of the hut and Bobby followed. She made a beeline for Lucky, who began a hyper dance of joy as soon as she saw her mistress.
“Paid?” Bobby asked. “By whom?”
“No clue.” Jane released Lucky, then allowed the dog to bathe her face with love. “Which is why you shouldn’t have shot him. At least not until he blabbed a name.”
“You think he would have?”
“Guys like that always want to tell their victims everything, just before they kill them.”
“In the movies, maybe. In real life, not so much.”
“Really?”
Bobby nodded.
“I guess you’d know.” Jane glanced around the clearing. “He did say their original orders weren’t to kill me. I wonder why they changed.”
“Guess we’ll never know that, either.”
Thanks to his happy trigger finger.
“Should we bury them?” Jane asked.
“They wouldn’t have buried us.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“We don’t have time. When these bad guys don’t show up at bad-guy headquarters, other bad guys will come searching for them.”<
br />
Jane frowned. “You don’t think this was bad-guy headquarters?”
“Let’s find out.”
Bobby headed for the stream, planning to requestion the guy he’d tied to a tree, since Jane’s Spanish was much better than his. Unfortunately someone had gotten there before them.
He stopped, and Jane ran into his back. He tried to keep her from seeing the body, but it was too late. She made a soft cry of distress at the sight of the man with the machete in his chest.
Bobby urged her into the trees. “We need to get out of here.”
“You think they’ll come after us because of him?” Jane glanced over her shoulder.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m sure you had to. But won’t that make the others mad?”
“You think I killed him?”
Her eyes met his. “Didn’t you?”
Bobby searched her face—she didn’t seem disgusted or scared—merely curious. The woman continued to amaze him.
“I tied him—alive—to the tree. I couldn’t have him warning his pals that I was on the way. But there wasn’t any reason to kill him.”
“Then who did?”
“Some guys we really want to avoid,” Bobby muttered. “We need to get to Puerto. Preferably yesterday.”
“How far?” Jane asked.
“I’m not sure. They dragged you in the other direction.”
Jane’s shoulders drooped, even as she nodded in acceptance.
Her face was pale, which only made the bruises and the blood stand out even more starkly than before. Bobby wanted to kill those guys all over again.
He withdrew a bandanna from his pocket. “Stay here,” he murmured, then glanced at Lucky. “Watch her, girl.”
The dog sat down and stared at Jane as if she were the last steak at a barbecue.
“Where…?”
Bobby held up a hand. “Two minutes.”
He slipped back to the creek, did a quick perusal of the ground around the dead man. Bootprints. How helpful.
He could probably take the machete along, get it dusted for prints. But what were the odds that the guy who’d killed an assassin in Quintana Roo would have his prints on file with the FBI or even Interpol? Not high enough to warrant touching the gory souvenir and carrying it to the States.
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