Exactly how Kate felt. Until she spied Max, making his way around the village in plain sight.
He spoke to the gaping women in Spanish. “Norteamericano,” he said, pointing to himself and showing his pistol, now stowed in its holster. He continued, but she couldn’t follow his Spanish.
After a flurry of translation by one of the younger women, they rushed to him, all smiles.
He’d done it.
The laughter, the voices, the gunshots—he’d used them to frighten away those disgusting men. A nova of warmth burst inside Kate, and her throat tightened. The man she loved had stopped that savagery.
The words blared in her ears. The man she loved.
Time slowed, pacing itself to the deliberate beat of her heart. She was in love with Max. She’d thought distancing herself and avoiding sex with him would stop the inevitable. But her foolish heart succumbed.
To a brave, compassionate man. But a man who thrived on adventure. A man who’d be gone all the time. A man who lived on the edge.
A loner who wanted no woman’s love.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The villagers thanked and welcomed Max and Kate in Yucatec Mayan and halting Spanish. The girl Max had saved from rape came forward with her mother and the old man. She handed him a pink flower and smiled shyly.
Max hunkered down to her level and accepted the flower. He pressed it to his heart. Touched deeply, he cleared his throat to find his voice again. He called her a brave girl and promised those bad men would be punished.
The woman translated for the child, who beamed.
Then the old man said, “Mi nieta Mora,” my granddaughter Mora. It was her Spanish name, the one used with outsiders, not her Maya name. He held out his hand. “Gracias.”
The old man and his daughter, named Jimena, escorted Max and Kate to another hut. For honored guests, Jimena told him. Recovered from her frightening experience in the way only children can, Mora skipped and pranced ahead of them.
Thank God. If his ruse hadn’t worked, she’d have had a much worse trauma to deal with.
“What about the other women?” Kate’s brow furrowed. “The two who were raped.”
He translated for Jimena. She told him in awkward phrases that the women were being tended by their healer. They would be all right, but their husbands would want vengeance.
Kate’s indrawn breath said she understood. If the information gave her the same idea it did him, he might have an easier time than he’d expected obtaining her cooperation. Or at least, overcoming her objections.
As soon as they settled in their hut, smaller than a one-car garage, other women brought them food—a simple meal of roasted chicken and onions wrapped in banana leaves, black beans, and small plum-like fruits. Everyone sat on low stools placed on the packed-dirt floor.
Although windows gaped open and air flowed through the hut’s pole sides, the heat was stifling. Years of charcoal fires coated the ceiling with creosote. After the meal, they shared strong, bitter coffee and honey-drizzled corn tortillas.
Kate put her hands together in the classic gesture of appreciation. She thanked them in their language. “Yum botic.” To Max she said, “Such generosity from people so poor. I wish I could help them somehow.”
“There may be a way.” He stuffed his mouth with a honeyed tortilla. Explanations could wait.
By the time they finished eating, the village men were straggling home from their labors. Two hunters carried a deer carcass. Those from the fields arrived with baskets of corn and yams.
In small groups, every adult in the village came to welcome them and express thanks. They brought more food, more flowers, and carved wooden animals in tribute. Max’s cheeks ached from so much smiling.
As night fell, women propped lit torches in holders by the guest hut and around the space in front of its door. The smoke carried a sharp, sweet resin smell, apparently a natural insect repellent. The clouds of mosquitoes that gathered at dusk evaporated into the darkness.
Jimena and two other young women escorted Kate to their cenote, where she could wash.
At last Max had what he needed—time away from Kate to talk with the men. Nobody knew the jungle better than these people who lived here. Nobody could pass through the jungle unseen and unheard better than they could. Compared to the Maya hunter, Max was a howler trumpeting his presence.
One of the hunters who brought in the deer spoke passable Spanish. Franco explained that for a time he had worked in Cabo Blanco but missed his village and the jungle. While he was tracking the deer, he saw where the malvados, the bad men, were camped. Max had no difficulty convincing him and the best hunters to join him in a raid.
Convincing Kate to stay behind was another matter.
***
Kate’s chest throbbed as Max geared up for battle. He smeared his face and neck with charcoal from the fires so he’d blend into the midnight jungle like the darker-skinned Maya. His eyes had the look of stone, but the camouflage made the rest of his expression difficult to discern.
How could she stand by while he put himself in danger? Mortal danger—confronting those vile men and retrieving their equipment. Her body knotting with tension, she’d offered to do her part. But he’d convinced her she’d only be a liability.
Tears clawed at her throat and eyes. The urge to weep and rage threatened, but she swallowed it. “Go then,” she choked out. “I’ll wait here.”
He lifted a hand toward her but she backed away. If he touched her, she might shatter.
“Max, I—” I love you. She swallowed the words. “Be careful.”
His incandescent grin nearly brought her to her knees. “Always.”
She watched until the group melted into the cave-black jungle. The Maya knew what they were doing. They had machetes and rifles. Max had two pistols. He was a trained, experienced soldier, an expert fighter. They would be all right. Max would be all right.
Everything would be all right.
Holding that thought as a talisman, she tucked a curl behind her ear, brushing against the elaborate braid woven by one of the women after she bathed. These women were skilled and generous, creating healing and beauty from natural materials from the jungle where they lived.
At the cenote, she had washed with a soothing green soap that Jimena told her was made from a root. Another woman, their healer, smeared salve on her scrapes and insect bites. Immediately the itch and sting stopped. Clean and with her injuries treated, she felt a thousand times better.
Until Max informed her she must stay behind.
Fighting tears, she walked through the quiet village to the guest hut. The coatimundi chattered atop his perch. Burning torches hissed and crackled, their herb-scented smoke perfuming the night air.
Jimena and a few women and older children sat on stools and talked outside the guest hut. In a mix of halting Spanish and Mayan, Jimena assured her the men would capture the four malvados and return safely.
A wide-eyed boy of about ten pulled at the woman’s sleeve. He blurted something in Mayan. Jimena stared at him, disconcerted, then reprimanded him in a harsh tone. Whatever it was about, the boy stuck out his chin and stood his ground. He repeated what he’d said, this time in a jumble of Spanish and Mayan.
Although Kate feared she wouldn’t understand the answer in either language, she asked, “¿Que pasa?”
Dark eyes troubled, Jimena struggled to explain. Her son Tomás happened on the ragged men’s campsite yesterday. Today when he saw them approach, he hid in the underbrush. One of them remained hidden like him, watching the path that led from the sacbé. The others had gone into the village.
The implication hit Kate in the gut before Tomás said the words. “Cinco hombres, no quatro.”
That Spanish she understood. “Five men, not four.”
Max had seen only four when they stole everything at the temple. They must’ve had a guard in the jungle then too. The villagers didn’t see the fifth man either.
Acid bubbled up, sour
and stinging in her throat. She swallowed hard and fisted her hands at her sides.
Her pulse racing at warp speed, she rasped in air. No time to waste. She forced her fingers to open, her shoulders to lower, and her breathing to slow. She must focus like Max did, on the situation.
If Tomás could lead her to the bandits’ encampment, she might be able to warn Max about the guard. Risky, yes. Foolish, probably. But if she did nothing, the guard could alert his companions to the raiding party’s approach. In a firefight, some of the Maya men could die.
Max could die.
She pointed in the direction the five criminals and their trackers had taken. Where was one of the few Mayan words she knew. “Tu’ux?” she asked the boy. For insurance, she repeated it in Spanish. “¿Donde?”
***
Max and his native team slipped through the trees and undergrowth, not even disturbing a pair of owls hooting to each other. Around them insects chirped and clicked. An hour of pushing through the dark jungle took the raiding party close enough to see the red glow from the Colombians’ small campfire.
With Franco’s help translating, Max directed the men to encircle the camp. They were to wait for his signal, a rock tossed away from the camp to distract their quarry. Or, in an emergency, he’d fire a shot.
To a man, they nodded. In silence, they vanished into the dark.
He crept to the edge of the campsite. Man, if only Thomas Devlin could see these Maya operate. He’d have given his last promotion to have them in his A-Team. Silent, stealthy, and secure in their objective. On the other hand, they were hunters, not warriors. He doubted they’d ever attacked other humans. But the invasion of their village and the rape of their women forged them into warriors reminiscent of their fierce ancestors.
He and Franco edged in behind the stolen tent. Low voices, laughter, and smells of wood smoke and unwashed bodies feathered the air. In pursuit of a moth, a bat flitted between Max and the tent. He scooped away a spider web for a better view.
Two of the Colombians sat cross-legged on the bare ground. The others sprawled in comfort on the stolen sleeping pads. Guns were within easy reach—three rifles, Remingtons like he figured, plus a couple of H&K 9mm pistols. The two backpacks lay propped against each other, their contents strewn in small piles as if the men had divvied them up. No sign of Kate’s phone.
The two lounging on the pads were taunting the others about not having gotten laid. They laughed and poked each other in the shoulders.
Max suppressed a snort. With each lie, their noses should be growing as long as their vaunted virility.
One of the listeners, the man wearing Kate’s cap, shifted on his scrawny ass. His mouth twisted and his face grew red. The other, his brow lowered enough to blind him, stabbed a pointed stick again and again into the hard dirt.
Dissension among thieves could work to Max’s advantage.
Rustling and a high-pitched cry of pain outside the camp circle halted the bragging session. All eyes turned toward the sounds. Yellow Cap reached for his H&K.
A man stepped into the campsite. He was greeted with accusation. “What are you doing? It’s not time yet.”
A fifth man. Fucking five?
Max slipped the safety off his Glock.
The fifth man’s right hand gripped a pistol. His left hand held something behind him, still out of sight in the inky shadows. Cursing, he dragged a prisoner into view.
Firelight gleamed on golden hair.
“Let me go! You’re hurting me!” she spat in English. Crimson blotches stood out against her pale cheeks. She thrashed and kicked at her captor’s shins.
Max jerked, almost dropping his gun. The sight of that fucker’s hand manacling Kate’s slender wrist branded his brain. All the air in his lungs froze. Adrenaline rolled through him like summer thunder.
The other men’s jaws dropped and their eyes widened. Otherwise they didn’t move, mesmerized.
Franco’s hand on Max’s arm sobered him. He clenched his fingers around the rock he held. Think, dammit, think!
That was it. They were as stunned as he was. Give them no time to think. No time to regroup.
Kate kicked her captor in the knee. He yelped in pain and backhanded her with his pistol. She cried out and crumpled to the ground.
Seeing his opening, Max dropped the rock. Took aim with his automatic. Fired. The H&K exploded from the offender’s hand.
The man howled like a wounded coyote and clutched his wrist.
From all sides, Maya warriors roared into the campsite.
Franco knocked one man’s pistol from his hand with a swipe of his rifle. Before the others could reach their weapons or push to their feet, they were spread-eagled on the ground with machetes and deer rifles jabbed in their necks. Franco cut pieces from a length of rope, and his men tied their wrists behind them.
Max reached Kate as she clambered to her feet. Blood dripped from her right cheek, where the bastard hit her. Already swollen and purpling. His hands shook.
“Max,” she said, her voice rough as if her throat needed oiling, “I had to warn—”
“Shh. We’ll talk later.” He pulled her into his arms, needing tangible proof that she was whole. He splayed his hands across her back and held her flush against his body. Dios mío, he’d almost lost her. “Just let me hold you.”
The familiar rumble warned him before the ground shook. He spread his feet for better purchase and held onto Kate while the tremor raged through.
Almost lost her? Another tremor rocked him to the core, one that had nothing to do with Kizin. A seismic shift within him that realigned everything. His mouth tightened, the only outward sign he permitted.
She lifted her head. “And the earth moved. Isn’t that a line from an old song? Glad that’s over.”
Numbly, Max nodded. And the earth moved.
What the hell was he going to do now?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Two hours later, Kate sat on a stool in the guest hut with all their belongings spread around her. Rain pattered on the palm-thatched roof. While Max helped secure the prisoners, she sorted through the retrieved items by the light of the village’s only kerosene lantern.
The villagers had greeted the successful raiding party with joyful cheers. The captured thugs were tied to poles beneath a thatched roof, but open on all sides. The Maya men roughed up the offenders but Max persuaded them to let the authorities handle the rest of the punishment.
In the morning, a runner would be dispatched to a village where the people possessed a generator-powered radio. He would contact the national police.
Kate had sent young Tomás back to the village as soon as he pointed out their campsite. Before going to the guest hut, she checked on the boy. Jimena told her he was fast asleep.
The healer applied a salve to her wounded cheek that eased the ache. The woman left a jar of medicine, an analgesic made from yet another native root, thick, with a tangy scent. Her eyes sparkled as she related that when she bandaged the injured man’s hand and wrist, she didn’t have salve for him.
Kate couldn’t bring herself to pity him. He’d slugged her and all of the bandits would’ve raped her given the chance. They’d have killed her when they were finished. He deserved pain for his other crimes.
She stood and stretched her back. She recoiled at wearing clothing those men had handled, especially the yellow cap. At least, the soap and other toiletries looked untouched by the filthy beasts.
The borrowed smock dress, embroidered with flowers and birds on the bodice and pockets, was clean but reached only to mid-thigh. Perhaps in the morning, there’d be time to wash some clothing. Except for their meager store of food, everything seemed to be here.
Including her satellite phone. Unharmed. And no record of calls, from the kidnapper or anyone else. A relief. Sort of.
The sound of Max’s rumbling voice coming closer revved her heartbeat. When he’d charged into the campsite, eyes blazing and his skin smeared with black, she’d never
been so happy to see anyone in her life.
The way he stared at her, as if she’d risen from the dead, and the intensity of his embrace dispelled her panic at being captured. And remembering now turned her insides and her muscles to melted butter. She shouldn’t draw any conclusions from his relief she was safe.
He’d clenched his jaw, demanding to know why the hell she followed the raiding party when she promised to remain in the village. Her explanation received only monosyllabic acknowledgment. She said, “It worked, didn’t it?”
Then he crushed her to his chest again. She hardly cared he smelled of sweat and charcoal. In Max’s arms she felt safe, secure, and cherished. Maybe this closeness, this intense connection was what she needed, not the refuge of a nine to five. Or was it an illusion, a fiction woven by the danger surrounding them? What did she really want? Need?
Outside Max continued talking—in English—but she heard no one else. Probably checking in with Devlin headquarters.
When Max entered the hut, she bit her lower lip against the urge to throw her arms around him. His jaw was clean shaven and his hair sleeked back, dripping and glistening in the lantern light. He’d washed away the charcoal and the two days of grime and wore clean clothes. He looked solid and tough and gorgeous.
“Any word on Doug?” she asked.
He laid the phone on his pack and crossed the hut to kneel beside her. “Nothing yet. But it’s hard to hide a norteamericano in a wheelchair. Mara said DSF sent a second agent to nose around Cabo Blanco.”
Kate closed her eyes in silent prayer Doug was still alive. When she opened them, she looked into Max’s unsettling gaze, direct and decisive.
“You gave me a heart attack when I saw that low-life creep drag you into the light. I hate to admit it but your dramatic entrance was the element of surprise we needed.” He tucked a finger beneath her chin and turned her head to check the damage to her cheek. His touch licked fire across her flesh and deep in her body. “Looks better. Does it hurt?”
On Deadly Ground (Devlin Security Force Book 1) Page 21