"Yeah, just to be sure that…um, well, you know the…ahh, shit. Yeah." Tweeter looked at his trembling hands. "God, I'm a fucking mess. My baby sister…God, she's Walsh-tough, but she never should have come here without going to a doctor. Shit, just shit. How am I going to tell Dad and Mom? Fuck, Ren, she came to save my hide."
He understood Tweeter's feelings of guilt for what his sister had suffered. Somehow it was all tied together—the trap, her attack in Boston and, goddamit, SSI. His own guilt lay on his heart like a lead blanket. He hoped the flash drive had some insight for them. He had a driving need to seek retribution.
He closed Keely's robe then pulled the top sheet and fluffy comforter over her. He turned to Vanko, whose face was etched with concern. "Get the doctor. Get the ointments, too. And see if there are any shops open." He glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows with their glorious views of the mist-covered falls. Dusk had fallen. "Keely will need clothes. We will also—we'll be here until Keely is well enough to travel to Idaho."
Vanko's eyebrow arched. "We are staying here while the little one goes to Sanctuary?"
"Trujo has to be taken care of—once and for all." Ren hated to think of what might have happened if Keely had arrived after the firefight had already begun. "Call Price and Trey and get them down here." He glanced at Tweeter. "Keely will go home to Idaho with her brother. You okay with that?"
"Oh, I'm fine with it." Tweeter shot an affectionate look at his sister, who'd curled up on her side like a kitten. "But she won't be. She'll think she has to stay here and cover the intel end, which she is exceptionally good at, by the way."
"I have no doubt, but she can do intel at home. I want her out of it, far away from Trujo and his fucking band of murdering thugs."
"Whatever you say, boss." Tweeter tugged the duvet even further up around Keely's shoulders. "But be prepared to be argued into the ground."
* * * *
Ren sat at the suite's dining room table and ate the room service food Vanko had ordered. It could be five-star gourmet fare, but to him it was just tasteless fuel.
Vanko had gone shopping with the assistance of the very attractive room service girl he had befriended earlier. The curanderia was the girl's grandmother and lived on the outskirts of the park area. She also knew a shop owner who would open up for the kind of business they promised. Money talked.
The doctor, a gray-haired, old school local, hadn’t batted an eye when he and Tweeter stood by the door for Keely’s exam. Nor had he cared that she was still unconscious while he checked her out. While battered and abused, there had been no internal signs of bruising or tearing which would have been present if she'd been raped. All the damage was external. Ren had all but gone to his knees with relief. Tweeter had cried.
He glanced toward the open door to the bedroom where she lay asleep. He'd managed, with Tweeter's help, to get some water and soup broth down her, then the antibiotic tablets crushed into mango sorbet. It had definitely taken both their efforts since a febrile Keely tossed and turned and whimpered in a semi-state of consciousness. He'd had to go in several times in the last couple of hours to hold her through similar bouts of restlessness. Her sleep, while no longer fevered, continued to be fretful. Only his touch seemed to soothe her. He smiled—unconsciously she accepted him. It was a start.
He glanced at his watch. In another thirty minutes he'd get some more meds down her, then maybe he'd lie next to her and take a nap—that way he'd be there in case she needed him to soothe her through whatever disturbed her sleep. At least that was the way he rationalized it to Tweeter who'd smiled knowingly and said "sure, Ren."
"Boss." Tweeter gestured for him to come to the end of the table where he had Keely's laptop open. "You need to read this. It all started years ago, but baby sis's project for NSA allowed her to find the patterns just recently—said patterns jumped out at her since SSI seems to have been involved in several of the incidents, all National Clandestine Service contract jobs."
He pulled up a chair and read the screen. He glanced at Tweeter, a frown creasing his forehead. "Shit. We had several close calls on those cases. Lost a good man on one of them."
"Yeah." Tweeter ran a hand through his dark blond hair. "So, to summarize, it looks like my sister discovered a pattern of someone high up in the Department of Defense, most likely in the DIA, selling out special forces teams and private contractors like us to the enemy they were sent to eradicate and/or collect on-the-ground intel about. Keely reports said patterns of bad acts to NSA as required by her contract with them. They say they'll handle it, but Keely continues to monitor and the bad acts continue. Then two days ago or so, she stumbles across the trap set for us—and decides enough is enough."
"Trujo wants us out of the way because we've interrupted his major lines of drug distribution while working in conjunction with several S.A. countries," added Ren. "So, he contacts the government baddie and has him send false intel to NCS, our government employer, who asks us to meet and evaluate a new informant on al Qaeda activity in the hot Triple Frontier area."
"Baby sis—who loves me a lot—hot tails it down here when she can't reach me."
"But she said she called Sanctuary and spoke to Quinn. Why didn't she have him call us off?"
Tweeter frowned, then something crossed his face that had Ren's gut clenching. "She suspects a mole at Sanctuary and she doesn't know anyone there she could trust."
He nodded. "I don't like it, but that makes sense. She could've made our situation even worse. The trap could've been sprung earlier. She wouldn't take that chance." He slammed the table, making the lap top bounce. "We've got a fucking traitor in SSI. But who?"
Tweeter shook his head. "I don't know. I've trusted all those guys at my back." He scrolled down some more files, then clicked on another one. "Yeah, she documented her suspicions after she spoke to Quinn. She has a plan for catching whoever it is, though. She always has a plan."
Ren read the screen. "Yeah, that'll work and it should lead us to the DoD turncoat to boot." He snorted. "She even has it set up that NSA will pay us for the work. Hmm, I see she had planned to come back with us to Idaho anyway. So I don't have to worry about forcing her there." He glanced at the bedroom. "She's restless. I'll go give her the next set of meds and see if I can get her to drink." He hesitated. "Um, what did your mom do about bathroom breaks when you were out of it?"
Tweeter's lips twisting with amusement, he stood up. "I'll take care of it, boss. If she roused enough to see you putting her on the john, she might break your nose. I'll call you in when it's all clear." He pushed away from the table and strode toward the bedroom and closed the door.
Ren pulled the screen around and scanned files. He wanted to know what had happened about the time she decided to leave for South America to warn them. Who the fuck had brutalized her? Her bruises dated to about that time.
Finding a file dated two days ago at the bottom of the list, Ren opened it and began to read. His jaw clenched as he read the detailed and succinct description of the attack in a dockside warehouse Keely had managed to live through. She confirmed the doctor's conclusion—external bruising but no penetration. It was all there in black and white—and he saw red.
Pushing away from the table, he left the file open for Tweeter. He walked to the window and stared at one of the most beautiful waterfalls in the world and attempted to let nature calm his anger. It didn't work.
The door to the suite opening and closing had him reaching for Keely's Bren Ten, which he had put in the pocket of his robe.
Vanko, loaded down with packages, walked toward him.
"Drop the packages and read the screen on the laptop. Also read the other two opened files. Then go with me to the hotel gym. I need to do something to get rid of this rage or I'll start tearing the suite apart with my bare hands."
Vanko nodded and sat at the table and began to read.
Ren strode toward the packages and found some sweat pants and a t-shirt that w
ould fit him and do for a good bout of kick-boxing—and hallelujah, a bottle of single malt Scotch. He put the clothes aside and opened the alcohol. Grabbing a glass from the bar, he threw a couple of cubes in it and poured two fingers of Scotch. Tossing it back, he poured two more fingers, then fixed a drink for Vanko. He took both drinks and sat next to Vanko as he read.
His friend glanced at him, his eyes darkened with rage. "How could she even think to leave the country after…that…" He pointed to the screen and the report of her abduction and abuse at the hands of four men whom, she'd surmised, had been hired by the DoD traitor to silence her, thus confirming her findings had been spot on. "The fact she managed to escape and kill two of them, then travel here to warn us—I cannot wrap my mind around it."
"Never again," vowed Ren. "She'll never have to fight like that again."
"We will definitely hunt the remaining animals down." Vanko clicked the other files and read swiftly. "Ahh, the little one stumbled into a very nasty nest of vipers. But I see she has a plan—a good one." Vanko looked at him. "If directed by her from the safety of Sanctuary, she should be fine."
"Read the next file." Ren tossed back the rest of his Scotch, the warmth not managing to take away the chill of knowing he harbored a traitor in his midst.
"Dermo." Vanko grabbed the drink Ren had made him and drank deeply. "She has a plan to catch this piece of excrement also, yes?"
"Yes."
The door to the bedroom opened and Tweeter walked out. "All personal needs are taken care of—and she took her meds and drank like the little angel she is. And, thank the Lord, her fever finally broke." He smiled at Vanko, then frowned as he sensed the tension in the room. "What is it?"
"Read this file." Ren opened the one about Keely's attack. "Vanko and I are going downstairs to the workout room to toss each other around for a while. Guard your sister. I'll be back to take over so you can go hit something, too."
"Will I need to hit something?" Tweeter approached the laptop as if it might bite him.
"Oh yeah. Killing some fuckers would be better, but hitting will be on the agenda."
Ren threw off the robe and walked naked to pull on the clothing he'd chosen to wear.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ!" Tweeter pulled out his cell and viciously punched in numbers.
"Who are you calling?" Ren walked to join Vanko who held the door to the hall open.
"My Dad. He needs to get some damage control going. There are two fucking dead guys in a Boston dockside warehouse. They're probably smelling by now. Dad needs to make sure there's nothing there to incriminate Keely."
"Shit, I didn't think of that." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Should we detour Trey and Price to Boston and have them handle it?"
"No, you need them here. I want to get Keely to Sanctuary as soon as possible. Dad and some of my brothers can handle it. Trust me. If Loren or Paul are stateside—and by the notes Keely made, she had issued the family distress call—they are, then the twins and Dad will take care of it."
Ren nodded. "Good. I don't want Keely touched by any of this any longer."
"That might be hard to stop, Ren. She placed herself in the eye of the storm," Tweeter said.
"And I'm taking her out of it." Ren followed Vanko out and shut the door firmly.
His warrior sprite would not be used as bait. No way. No how.
Chapter 5
KEELY woke up slowly. Turning to lie on her back, her gaze skimmed the surroundings. She was in a bedroom, a large, airy room with ceiling fans providing a light breeze. Floor-to-ceiling windows covered by shades filtering the sun took up one whole wall. Under her were soft-to-the-touch sheets on a comfortable mattress. A feathery light duvet covered her body.
She peeked under the bed covers and found herself in a cotton tank top and sleep shorts. Thank God, someone had bought her some clothing. She'd left Boston too fast to pack a proper bag; she hadn't wanted to take the chance the person or persons who'd had her kidnapped might not manage to do so again. She'd grabbed her computer and her med kit and fled.
Vague memories surfaced. They weren't the nightmare ones of Boston, or even those of her hurried trip to Argentina and the events in the village, but more recent, pleasant—unbelievable—memories. Ren holding her in a tub, bathing her, touching her intimately, touching her gently.
Her cheeks burned as other hazy scenes flitted across her mind's eye. Ren feeding her. Sponging her feverish, naked body. Rubbing cooling ointment on her bruises and wounds. Holding her against a lot of hot, firm masculine skin. All the while he cared for her, he alternately crooned soothing nonsense and swore vilely at the men who'd harmed her.
He'd slept with her! Cared for as if she were precious to him. Why? She could've sworn the man thought her a nuisance—and wanted her gone. Maybe her subconscious made up all the images. She was attracted so she dreamed about him.
She sat up and looked to her left. She rubbed her hand over a man-sized depression in the mattress pad. She swore she could still feel his warmth on the sheets. Leaning over she inhaled. Citrus and a male musk uniquely Ren's. Sweet Jesus! He'd slept next to her; it hadn't been a figment of her imagination, so the other memories must be real as well. He'd taken care of her day and night. Her cheeks burned even hotter at the thought of him nursing her through the fever.
For how long? She glanced at a bedside clock radio—for three days! How could she lay next to an uber-alpha-male for close to seventy-two hours and not awaken? Man, she must have been really sick. And where had her brother-protector been? Had he lost his mind? He never let men close to her.
Swinging her legs out of bed, she stood. Whoa, big mistake. The room tilted. Her arm shot back to catch her if she fell. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she waited to orient herself to the use of her legs once more. When she thought she could take a step without falling on her face, she headed for the bathroom. She wanted a shower, clothing and food. Lots of food—and the Pepsi she vaguely recalled the men promising her if she'd only wake up.
The thought of the sugary caffeine nectar from the gods had her diverting to the main room of the suite. A quick glance showed no one present. She spied the familiar red, white and blue cans sitting on the bar. Like an addict needing her next fix, she made a beeline for them. Filling a glass with ice, she popped open a can and added the soda to the glass, stopping to sip the foam from time to time. She moaned and swore she felt the caffeine and sugar hitting her blood stream. After several sips of the drink, she almost felt like herself again.
With the glass in her hand and an extra can in the other, she listened for signs of life in the other rooms. The suite was very quiet. The guys were probably sleeping, after all, they'd taken care of her for three days.
But then Ren had obviously slept next to her, so where was he? Had he gone out?
She frowned. If he was going after Trujo, he'd need her help. The narcotrafficante was slipperier than the eels found in the drainage canals alongside the roads in Puerto Iguazu. She knew where the bastard holed up in the Triple Frontier. She'd researched the notorious and powerful drug lord for the NSA. She'd show the guys her findings. They needed to see what they'd be up against. Three men versus a small army did not slant in favor of the good guys.
Now to see who was here, because neither her brother nor Ren—who'd obviously displayed more than brotherly concern for her person over the last three days—would have left her alone and helpless.
Ren. Just thoughts of his scent and warmth surrounding her in bed made her heart race and her womb spasm. His devotion to her care could be just gratitude on his part, but it felt like more. His actions seemed lover-like as in male-to-female love and not the paternal or sibling kind. Of course, there had been his ever-present hard-on in the village and the rain forest—that physiological response was definitely not the reaction of a brother. Her only conclusion? He was sexually attracted to her. But was there more there than just lust? And how did she feel about it if there were?
Ren as a lover? Her mouth went dry and her vision blurred—probably just low blood sugar. She took a sip of Pepsi. She'd never really thought about taking a lover before. For one, she was young and had overprotective men surrounding her most of her life. Secondly, there had been no time. Her college classes and later her teaching and research had taken up the majority of her time. Third, she was not a believer in casual sex; she wanted a long-term, loving relationship like her parents had. And, finally, most of the men she'd met either treated her like a freak because of her genius or like a sex toy.
Keely shuddered at the memory of the four men who'd kidnapped, abused, promised her rape, and, ultimately, death. She'd killed two of them. After their buddies had gone off for food and to report to their boss, the two left had attempted to rape her. When they made their move, they underestimated her. They freed her hands and feet, then one held her for the other. Freeing her had been a major mistake, and she took advantage using all the dirty tricks her brothers had taught her. Weakened by their abuse, it had been a perilous fight. Killing them was the only way she could free herself and escape. It had been a close call, one she would only admit to herself. She regretted having to kill, but there had been no way she'd allow them to rape her. Plus, she had to escape to warn her brother.
Idly, she wondered if the police had found the bodies in the dockside warehouse. An anonymous phone call before she boarded the plane in Boston had given the police the general location.
Thrusting the thoughts of the kidnapping and its aftermath back under old news, she set her drink aside and carefully opened the door to one of the suite's three other bedrooms. Empty. At the second try, she found her brother sprawled on his stomach, clothed in just his boxers, on top of the bedspread. The sun beat on his naked back through the large windows. She could see the sweat beading on his skin even in the air-conditioned room. Damn humidity. She flicked on the ceiling fan and then tiptoed to the window and lowered the shade in an attempt to cool off the room even more.
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