Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  The man standing beside the Jeep didn’t smile back. Nor did he respond to Mason’s question. Instead, he pressed the gun barrel harder against his throat.

  “Uh… Parlez-vous français?” Mason tried again.

  Still the man offered no reply. For long moments, Mason studied him, taking in the tangled hair, the several days’ growth of beard, the thin frame, and the dark eyes that reflected nothing of what he might be thinking. Not that the gun against his neck didn’t give Mason a vague idea. Still, the man obviously wasn’t in good shape, which could either help or hinder the situation—it was still too soon to tell.

  No doubt he was a member of one of the unnamed rebel forces that had been trying unsuccessfully to overthrow Papitou since as the general assumed power. Now those groups were living off what they could find in the jungle instead of returning to their former ways of life, for fear of being arrested for treason. Mason had mixed feelings about most of these bands. On one hand, he didn’t blame anyone for mistrusting Papitou’s claims of reform. And some of the rebel factions that had risen up during the civil war on Sonora had been honestly concerned about the welfare of the island and its people. But Mason also knew that, often, groups formed in times of social unrest only did so to take advantage of a situation ripe for looting and pillaging. He only hoped the man who had stumbled upon them this morning was a member of the former group.

  As he searched his brain for something else to say, the rebel was joined by three others who emerged from the jungle behind him looking as bedraggled and underfed—but as well armed—as the first. Immediately, Mason thought about Lou sleeping in the back seat, and he prayed to every god he could think of to protect her from harm. Hands still in the air, he slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder, expecting to see her sleeping soundly, oblivious to what was going on. But she was wide awake and sitting up straight, staring levelly at their visitors with an expression that showed no fear or concern.

  Assured she was all right for the moment, Mason turned slowly back toward the men, afraid to see how their expressions might have changed upon realizing the gender of their additional prisoner. But they seemed unfazed by, and even uninterested in, Lou In fact, they relaxed somewhat. The gun barrel pressed against his throat suddenly lowered, and Mason gulped in an eager breath.

  “Are you okay?” he asked Lou over his shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. Rebels. But I’m not sure which faction.”

  “What do you think they want?”

  He took his chances and turned fully around to look at her. “I don’t know. I’ve tried speaking Spanish and French both, but I can’t get a response.”

  “Maybe if I tried,” she said.

  “No,” Mason told her. “I don’t trust these guys. Just stay quiet and pretend you don’t speak the language.”

  Lou narrowed her eyes at him, an expression that could have meant anything. Then she turned to look at the group of men watching them.

  “Parlez-vous français?” she asked.

  “I already tried that,” Mason grumbled.

  All four rebels exchanged nervous glances, then the first one who had found them replied in a rusty voice, “Oui, je parle français. Qui êtes-vous?”

  “Nous sommes Americains,” Lou replied, identifying their nationality.

  She’d been told—and had experienced for herself—that Sonorans liked Americans. Thinking their occupations might also help their case, she added she and Mason were journalists working for the Capitol Standard, which was recognized even down here. Maybe they were the kind of rebels who had a story they wanted the rest of the world to hear.

  All four men lifted their eyebrows in surprise and immediately launched into an animated conversation among themselves, a rapid-fire exchange of the local language. Lou had picked up a handful of words while she was on the island, but these guys spoke too quickly for her to understand what they were saying. She looked at Mason to see if he could offer any insight, but found him staring back at her angrily.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He glared harder as he said, “I told you not to draw attention to yourself.”

  “You said they wouldn’t talk to you,” she reminded him. “I thought they might respond better to me. I mean, why would they talk to you with you glowering like that?” she added. “Sometimes you intimidate people, Mason. If you’d just—”

  “Lou, I was trying to intimidate them. I want them to go away and leave us alone so we can find our way back to Madriga. I know it’s crazy, but I kind of thought you might want that, too.”

  “That is crazy,” she told him. “Mason, this could be the journalistic opportunity of a lifetime. An exclusive interview with one of the factions still trying to oust Papitou. Look at them,” she added, gesturing toward the group of men still engaged in their heated discussion. “Aren’t you curious about why they want to carrying on their campaign when they’re obviously in no condition to continue?”

  Mason followed her gaze briefly then looked at her again. “No. I’m not. I know why they’re doing it. Because they think Papitou is a crook. And he is.”

  “No, he isn’t,” she assured him.

  “Yes, he is,” Mason replied.

  “He is not.”

  “He is, too.”

  “Is not.”

  “Is, too.”

  “Mason—”

  “Lou—”

  When they realized silence had descended around them, Lou and Mason looked over at the group of rebels to find them staring back with equal curiosity. Just when Lou was sure they were going to smile and wave them on their merry way, all four men lifted their rifles with unmistakable intent and gestured for them to get out of the Jeep.

  “Great,” Mason muttered as he climbed down. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  As he helped her out of the back seat, Lou snapped, “Well, if you hadn’t offended them to begin with by scowling at them the way you were, none of this would be happening.”

  They continued to grumble at each other as the rebels instructed them to place their hands on the backs of their heads and move forward, down a path that led into the jungle. Because two of the men preceded them and two brought up the rear, Lou knew there was little chance of escaping. And it would be foolish to tear off into the jungle and become hopelessly lost anyway. So she and Mason continued with their disagreement as they hiked through the dense foliage.

  By the time they came to a primitive camp set up in a clearing cut out of a thick grove of trees, Lou’s clothes were soaked with perspiration, and her skin was covered with dirt, seemingly thousands of mosquito bites. Mason had fared no better, and, judging from his expression, his disposition was every bit as unpleasant as her own.

  The rebel who had spoken to Lou in French earlier turned to her and instructed them to follow him. Along with his compadres, he led her and Mason to a tiny, camouflage-spattered tent squatting at the edge of the encampment and ordered them to enter it. Inside, the air was heavy, hot and difficult to breathe. She and Mason were told to sit on the floor and wait until someone came back for them. As she dropped down onto the canvas-covered ground, something squishy beneath it crawled to the other side of the tent. She squealed and jumped up, then, when she realized there was nothing but ground to sit on, gingerly dropped down to her haunches again. Mason sat down in a cloud of dust in the corner diagonally opposite her—clearly wanting to put as much distance between them as possible—then shook his head at what she was sure he considered her typically feminine reaction to something icky.

  “It was a rat or something,” she said lamely. “A really big one.”

  She watched silently as he stood again—stooping because the tent didn’t accommodate his six-foot-two-inch frame—then strode to the tent opening and pushed aside the flap…only to be greeted by the all-too-familiar barrel of a rebel rifle. Putting up his hands, Mason let the flap fall back into place, then returned t
o his former position in the corner. It occurred to Lou they were positioned as two boxers would be before coming to the center of the ring to beat the hell out of each other. Finally, his eyes fastened on hers in the dim, dirty light of the tent and he sighed.

  “Well, Nellie Bly, now what?” he asked.

  Lou settled her elbows on her knees, placed her head in her hands, tangled her fingers in her hair and inhaled a long, deep breath. But that just filled her lungs with dust, making her hack until she feared her chest would explode. Suddenly, she felt a hand patting her back, and she looked up to find Mason gazing at her in concern. She smiled at him gratefully, expelled another ragged cough, and then palmed away her tears.

  “Thanks,” she said hoarsely. She lifted a hand to let him know she could breathe on her own. “I’m fine now.”

  He still looked concerned. “You sure?”

  Lou nodded.

  Instead of going back to the opposite side of the tent, Mason sat down beside her, drawing up his knees. For a long time neither of them spoke, only stared at the emptiness enclosed by the four canvas walls. All Lou could think about was how nice it was going to be when they got back to the hotel so she could enjoy a nice, long soak in a bath full of bubbles. She’d use an entire bottle of the spicy-smelling stuff the hotel provided. And the water would be cold, she thought further as a trickle of sweat streamed down her neck to settle between her breasts. And after her bath, she would call room service and order prime rib. For dessert, she wanted Häagen-Dazs ice cream. Key Lime and Cream. Yeah. A whole pint of it. Two pints even. Why not? Then she’d take another cool bath and—

  “Lou?”

  She was reluctant to let Mason interrupt the fantasy that had taken root in her mind, but the tone of his voice tugged at something deep inside her, and she knew she could never ignore him. When she looked over at him, it was to see his pale blue gaze fixed on her intently, as if he were thinking about the most serious topic in the world. It was all she could do to keep herself from reaching out to him.

  “What is it?” she asked softly.

  “I… That is… About last night…”

  She put up a hand to stop the flow of words she didn’t want to hear. “Don’t,” she said. “You’ve already explained. Let’s not dwell on it, okay? Let’s just…” She sighed quietly. “Let’s just forget last night ever happened, all right?”

  A flicker of something hot and impatient flashed in his eyes at her suggestion, but it was gone before she could identify what it might be. After a moment, he nodded then started to say something else. Unfortunately, whatever it might have been was cut off by the entry of one of the rebels into the tent, his greeting the usual pointing of his rifle at their chests followed by an order to stand.

  Both Lou and Mason rose and then followed the man back outside, squinting against the bright afternoon sunlight. Once more they were told to put their hands on their heads, and once more they were accompanied by the gang of four as they were led across the compound. At one point, the lead rebel’s steps slowed, and the man turned to gaze back at the two of them curiously. For a moment he seemed to be weighing an important decision in his mind, then as if making it, he veered to the left, back into the jungle. After walking about a hundred yards, he stopped before a huge mechanical device, a menacing and dangerous-looking construction of twisted metal and rusting parts.

  Mason had seen some pretty scary things in his years as a journalist and had found himself in some pretty frightening situations. But he’d never been threatened with torture. At the moment, however, he was pretty sure his luck had run out. He’d never seen anything like the machine looming over the small group, but it looked capable of creating unspeakable pain. For the first time in his life, Mason Thorne wondered if he would make it through the day alive. But as worried as he was for himself, it was nothing compared to the terror racing through him for Lou.

  He turned to speak to her for what could be the last time, but was silenced by the expression on her face. Of all the responses he might have expected from her—fear, regret, anguish, sorrow—none would have caused her to smile as broadly as she was smiling now. Wow. She was already scared senseless.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She dropped her hands from the back of her head and began to chuckle. “I don’t believe it.”

  “What?” he repeated urgently. “What is it?

  She stared at the huge contraption for a moment longer and then turned to look at Mason. But she only continued to laugh.

  “Lou, dammit,” he ground out. “What the hell is that thing?”

  With a few final chuckles, she said, “No worries, Mason. It’s a still.”

  Chapter Seven

  “It’s a what?” Mason asked incredulously.

  Lou shrugged as if they’d just stumbled onto the most common piece of machinery in the world and smiled. “It’s a still,” she repeated. “You know, a homegrown version of a distillery.”

  “I know what a still is,” he said. “I’ve just never seen one quite so…elaborate before.”

  Lou took a few steps closer, seemingly oblivious now to the rebels who still turned their rifles toward them. “It is kind of an archaic design,” she agreed. “But not a lot different from my great-granddaddy Lofton’s.”

  “Your great-grandfather was a moonshiner?” Mason asked, wondering why he was surprised. At this point, nothing about Lou should surprise him. What did surprise him was how he kept forgetting she was from a tiny mountain community where things like stills were nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Sure,” Lou told him proudly. “Great-granddaddy had one of the best recipes in the Appalachian and Blue Ridge mountains combined. People came from all over to buy it.” She turned back to Mason and grinned. “If I’d known this still was so close, I could have whipped us up a little nightcap last night. As long as you don’t mind your liquor being aged twelve hours instead of twelve years.”

  Mason shook his head in wonder. This was getting a little surreal. “So why have these guys brought us here?”

  “Good question,” Lou said. She posed the same question to the rebel leader in French. After a lengthy discussion with the other man, she turned back to Mason and explained. “He says it’s broken. They want to know if either of us knows how to fix it.”

  Unbelievable, Mason thought. Lou had been right earlier when she’d described meeting up with the rebels as a journalistic opportunity of major proportions. But this was ridiculous. Here they were lost in the jungle on an island plagued by political tension, and of all the rebels who could have kidnapped them and given them a sensational story, he and Lou had to be carried off at gunpoint by a band of party animals in search of happy hour.

  “Don’t look at me,” he said.

  Lou rattled off something else in French to the four rebels, and they lowered their rifles as she approached the metal monstrosity. She fiddled with some of the twisted copper coils and adjusted several tubes that went from what looked like a cast-iron cooking pot to a huge wooden vat before finally emptying into a small aluminum washtub. At one point, she even scaled one of the big palm trees so that she could get an aerial view of the contraption. When she scrambled back down again, it was with a new sense of purpose, and she went back to one of the mangled copper coils.

  “Here’s your problem,” she told the rebel. When she realized she was speaking in English, she pulled the coil from its fastening and approached him with it. “Voila,” she said, bending it for his closer inspection before gesturing back toward the still and telling him she knew how to fix it.

  Several moments of animated conversation followed, then, to Mason’s amazement, Lou and the rebel leader went to work fixing the still together. He spent the hour that followed seated on the ground beneath a palm tree, marveling at the sight—Lou and the four rebels hunched over the still as if conducting the most analytical and momentous of scientific experiments. They talked and laughed like old chums, and when the operation was complete, each of the me
n slapped Lou on the back as if she were one of them. Any minute now, Mason thought, one of them was going to say something about it being Miller Time, and then he was really going to lose it. Instead, they all turned to Mason with big smiles on their faces and said nothing.

  Finally, Lou broke away from the group and came to sit beside Mason. There was a streak of dirt decorating her cheek, and her bangs were plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her olive shirt and pants were beginning to take on a gray tinge,, and if he were perfectly honest, she was becoming nearly as gamey as he. Crazily, he realized she had never looked lovelier in her life. Her brown eyes were bright with the light that came from having done a good job, and she had clearly enjoyed herself since stumbling upon the still. No doubt she and the rebels were indeed old chums by now, and Mason couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the four men. They’d obviously become victims of Lou’s easy charm and subtle beauty and would probably be pining for her for a long time. Which was just too damned bad for them, because Lou Lofton was his.

  Oh, no, she wasn’t, he immediately corrected himself. She wasn’t his at all—not like that anyway. He didn’t want her to be. Lou Lofton was his to watch out for and take care of, that was all. There would be no pining involved.

  “The operation was a success,” Lou told him. “Manolo, Étienne, Francisco and Bruce are all very pleased with how it turned out.”

  “Bruce?” Mason asked, still distracted by thoughts that had been bothering him since awakening beside Lou the night before. “Manolo, Étienne, Francisco and Bruce?”

  “His mother was born in New Jersey,” Lou said, as if that should explain everything. “Are you ready to go?”

  He blinked at her in confusion. “Go where?”

  “Back to the Jeep.”

  His confusion deepened. “Just like that?”

  Lou nodded. “Just like that.”

  “They’re letting us go?”

  “Uh-huh.”