by Rachel Lee
“Sarita.”
Maybe if she just feigned sleep a little longer, Teresa would stop tugging at her sleeve.
“Sarita, el gringo is gone. Is he coming back?”
Sarah opened one eye. The little girl’s worried face hovered against the filmy background of mosquito netting. Sarah turned her head to survey the empty bedroll next to hers.
“Will he come back?”
The fear in Teresa’s voice tore at Sarah’s heart. According to Maria, the six year old had lost both parents and two siblings in a devastating flash flood that all but destroyed the village last year. Since then the child had attached herself tenaciously to whoever offered security.
Maria had taken her into the clinic while church and government officials worked through the lengthy, complicated adoption process. In the interim, the little girl had become the nun’s second shadow, following her everywhere. After Maria’s death, Teresa had immediately transferred her attention to Sarah. For the past two days, Sarah hadn’t been able to take a step without the dark-haired girl in the faded blue flowered dress beside her. When the rebels swept through the village—oh, God, was it only last night?—Teresa had clung to Sarah with terrified, instinctive trust. Frantic with fear herself, Sarah had thrown on Maria’s robes in the hope they would protect her and the children. Running out of the clinic, she had sought safety for them all in the darkness of the jungle.
Only they hadn’t found safety. And it appeared Teresa had already recognized the fact that her survival might depend on someone other than the woman whose sleeve she was tugging at.
“Will he, Sarita? Will he come back?”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure he will.”
Sarah struggled into a sitting position. Only then did she see that Eduard was awake, as well. Unspeaking, he lay propped in the hammock, Ricci curled into a tight, sleeping ball beside him.
At the sight of his solemn face and unfathomable black eyes, Sarah felt again the enormity of the responsibility she’d so rashly assumed. Her dry throat closed as she fought the panic that threatened. How was she going to get them to safety?
She dragged in a deep breath. One step at a time.
“Why don’t you go look in that backpack?” she suggested to Teresa. “Maybe there’s a comb or a brush in it, and we can make you pretty.”
While the girl fussed with the buckle on the knapsack, Sarah ruthlessly suppressed the memory of the mercenary’s reaction the last time she’d appropriated one of his personal possessions.
The mercenary. El gringo.
Sarah made a moue of distaste as she washed her face with tepid water and a corner of her sleeve, then attacked her mouth with the toothbrush she’d appropriated earlier. If she was going to be stuck with the man until she got herself and the children out of this mess—and it looked like she was, she couldn’t go on calling him “the mercenary.” She searched for a name that would fit him, one she’d give him herself, since he wouldn’t give her his. One that would suit a man too masculine and hard for handsomeness. Too lean and tough for politeness. Too lost to all concepts of right and wrong, she thought, for her to ever trust.
No, Sarah decided with an involuntary shiver. She didn’t want to give him a name that reminded her of his disgusting profession. It would be better to come up with one that made him more human, more within her ability to manage. The image of her father’s chief of staff flashed into her mind. Perfect.
With Teresa settled between her knees, Sarah went to work on her tangled hair with the black plastic comb the girl had found. She’d finished Teresa’s and was attacking her own when the sound of the door swinging open caught her arm in midtug. She angled her head to see the gringo—Creighton, she reminded herself firmly—step inside.
A look of surprise crossed his face when he saw her sitting cross-legged on the folded-up mat, her long white-gold hair draped over one shoulder.
“Here,” he said curtly. “Wear these when you’re inside the hut.”
Sarah arched a brow at his tone and caught the items he tossed at her. Obviously, the man didn’t like her appropriating his comb any more than he did his boot. “I think it’s better if I stay robed.”
“I’ve got enough problems on my hands right now without you coming down with heatstroke. Put those on and keep them on. But only in this hut. When you go outside, cover yourself up. Especially that hair. Not that it’ll help much,” he muttered.
While Teresa scrambled to her feet, Sarah shook out the garments and held them up. Her eyes widened at the tattered skirt, in a bright pattern of pinks and greens, and the well-washed cotton blouse.
“Are there other women in camp?”
“Yes.”
The terse reply irritated her. It was only a comb, for heaven’s sake. “Wouldn’t it be better if the children and I bedded down with these other women?” she asked stiffly. “Then we wouldn’t have to…impose on you.”
He flashed her a sardonic look and started to reply, but Teresa’s timid voice interrupted her. “I want to stay with el gringo.”
“Don’t be silly, Teresa. We’ll be more comfortable with the other women. Then el…then Creighton here wouldn’t have to bother with us.”
He frowned. “Creighton?”
“You remind me of someone by that name. Since you won’t tell me yours—not that I really want to know it, you understand—I’ll just call you Creighton.”
His upper lip curled in distaste. “Creighton?”
Sarah struggled to her feet, yanking at the heavy skirts that threatened to trip her. “Really, I appreciate what you’ve done for us, but I think it would be better if you show me where the other women—” She broke off, gasping, as he moved to her side with the swift, silent grace of a jungle cat.
“You don’t want to bed down with the other women, Sister Sarah. Trust me.”
“I—”
“Trust me.”
It took a moment, but Sarah finally got the message in his eyes. “Oh.”
“Right. Oh.”
After a moment, he tugged off his floppy-brimmed hat and raked a hand through his dark hair. “Look, I need you to just lay low until I figure out what the heck I’m going to do with you, okay? I don’t trust any one of those scumbags out there.”
“And you’re suggesting that I should trust you?” Although she didn’t say it, Sarah’s tone indicated that she considered him just as much a scumbag as his so-called business associates.
He gave her a nasty smile. “I don’t see that you’ve got a whole lot of choice, Sister Sarah.”
Well, that much was true. She turned away, gripping the blouse and the gaudy skirt in both hands.
Jake stared at the fall of blond hair that formed such a startling contrast to the black of her robe. How in hell was he was going to keep the men’s hands off her? he wondered with increasing desperation. How did he dare leave her alone in camp long enough to get to the backup radio transmitter that was hidden a couple of kilometers outside camp? He’d raised enough lewd remarks when he went to barter for some clothing with the husband of the vacant, glassy-eyed woman. The men’s deep cultural inhibitions about abusing a religiosa were straining already.
“I’ll be outside,” he told her abruptly. “Send one of the children out if you need anything.”
When he walked out the door, the tension knotting the muscles in Jake’s neck kicked up another notch. Che was coming across the clearing toward the hut, his beefy, red-faced lieutenant at his side.
“So, gringo, you’ve rested from your night’s adventure?”
“As much as I need to,” Jake replied evenly. “Why?”
“I go to meet with our backer and arrange another drop.” His dark eyes were carefully devoid of any expression. “Do you wish to accompany me?”
Jake felt a quick rush of adrenaline. His mission was to take down the American middleman who was scarfing up drug dollars in exchange for stolen arms smuggled out of the States. The narcs were supposed to take care of the elusive drug lords pr
oviding those dollars. But if Jake could get a bead on their location… Cold, sobering reality brought him up short. He couldn’t leave the sister alone.
Jake gave a negligent shrug. “I’m not interested in where you get the dollars to pay me. Just that you get them.”
He sensed at once that he’d given the right answer. Although Che’s expression didn’t alter by so much as a flicker of an eyelid, his hands shifted imperceptibly on his belt, to a less rigid grip.
Jake smiled grimly to himself. If he’d started out on the journey with the rebel leader, the chances were pretty good that he wouldn’t have finished it.
“I will also discover why the government troops were in our area,” Che continued. “Those who sent them will pay for it.”
“Good.”
If Che didn’t find out through his sources, Jake intended to through his. There’d better not be another botched drop, or someone’s ass was going to be in a sling, big-time. And it wouldn’t be his. He hoped.
“Enrique is in charge in my absence. I’ll send word of the new drop date and location as soon as I arrange it. You will go with the men, gringo, to inspect the merchandise before any money changes hands.”
“Suspicious bastard, aren’t you?” Jake offered with a half smile.
Che allowed a small answering twist of his lips. “Yes, my friend. I am.”
As Jake joined the rest of the men squatting in the center of the clearing for the noon meal, a swift, heady feeling of relief coursed through his veins. With Che and half the camp gone, he ought to be able to manage the remaining dozen for a few days. Enrique, pig-eyed brute that he was, sported more brawn than brains.
Now, if Jake could just figure out how to keep the prickly nun and her charges safe without blowing his cover, he might just pull this damned thing off after all.
“I’m telling you, Adam, it’s the only way.”
Maggie paced the thick carpet in front of her boss’s mahogany desk and sent him an impatient look.
Impeccably groomed and wearing a hand-tailored gray suit that had probably cost more than Maggie made in a month, Adam sat back in his black leather chair and listened while she stated her case.
“We haven’t heard from Jaguar in almost twenty-four hours. Not since the emergency signal he sent yesterday saying he was in place and had a neutral on board.”
“It also said to stand by.”
Maggie swung to a halt in front of his desk. “That was before we got a positive ID on the remains. Now we know that Sarah Chandler is the neutral with Jake. What’s more, we’ve had confirmation that three kids disappeared the night of the raid. Jake’s got his hands full, if they’re all with him.”
“He’s handled more difficult situations.”
“True, but we’ve got a wild card in this situation that none of us anticipated—Senator Chandler. He’s liable to mount his own rescue operation if we don’t do something soon.”
When Adam didn’t respond, Maggie pressed her point.
“Remember how he chartered his own plane and flew into Somalia to negotiate the release of the downed chopper pilot last year? The one who just happened to be the son of one of his constituents?”
“I remember,” Adam replied coolly. “Somalia wasn’t our operation.”
“No, but Cartoza is. Chandler could get Jake killed if he blunders in down there.”
“So you want to go in instead and work the extraction, if possible?”
The fact that Adam didn’t reject her plan out of hand told Maggie that he’d been considering alternative courses of action, too. Still, she’d have to talk fast to convince him to send her in instead of another agent. She knew he was reluctant to relieve her as Jake’s control.
The relationship between field agent and controller was critical to any mission. The tie between them grew so intense, the ability to communicate instantly so vital, that the partnership transcended that of mere co-workers. It became a nexus, a bonding such as soldiers experienced in combat. But in this instance Maggie’s instincts told her she could help Jake more on-scene than in the OMEGA control center.
“I won’t break the communications loop. Samuels will relay Jake’s transmissions to me real-time. And Cowboy can take over as controller for us both. He’s recovered from his last mission, and knows almost as much about the area as any of us after his years as an attaché. Besides,” she added, “he owes me one.”
“I take it you’re referring to the incident at Six-Shooters?”
Maggie glanced at Adam in mingled surprise and exasperation. “How did you know about that? That was personal, between Cowboy and me.”
He merely quirked a brow.
“Okay, so you have your own sources.”
She should’ve guessed Adam would hear how she’d rescued the handsome, easygoing Cowboy a few months back from the tough-as-nails EPA attorney who’d sunk her claws into him and refused to let go. Her disguise for that little private operation had been perfect. Not even Cowboy, as good as he was in the field, had recognized the streetwalker with the frizzy blond hair and thigh-high black plastic boots who’d sidled up to him in D.C.’s version of a country-western bar. Maggie’s husky whisper that he didn’t have to worry anymore, she’d been treated at the clinic for that little inconvenience, had made him sputter into his beer. It had made the attorney gasp, snatch up her purse and sail out.
The quick, irrepressible grin that was Maggie’s alone flitted across her face. Among the dozen or so OMEGA agents, she was the acknowledged master when it came to impersonations. And the most outrageous. She’d perfected a chameleon-like ability to adopt the smallest nuances of any environment. That, combined with her ear for the rhythm and cadences of a local dialect, had gotten her in—and out!—of the most unlikely, impenetrable target areas. And she knew just the ticket to get her into Cartoza.
“If you agree that Cowboy can take over as controller, I have the perfect cover,” she announced. “I’ll go in as one of the sisters of Our Lady of Sorrows.”
She caught the quick, involuntary glance Adam sent skimming down her figure. So her brilliant turquoise above-the-knee tunic wasn’t exactly nunlike? So her tight black leggings hugged her calves? Adam knew that she could go from flashy to demure in the blink of an eye, or vice versa. She much preferred vice versa, Maggie acknowledged with an inner grin.
“I must admit, the idea of seeing you in a nun’s habit is an intriguing prospect,” Adam admitted, his blue eyes gleaming.
She leaned forward and placed both palms on his desk. “It’s perfect, Adam. The sisters move freely in the country, and their chapter house in Cartoza’s capital is less than twenty minutes by helicopter from Jake’s last known location. Assuming he hasn’t moved, and assuming the senator’s daughter is still with him, I can get to the target area as soon as he calls for an extraction.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll do some intelligence gathering of my own among the locals, and at least be prepared if Senator Chandler decides to play his own hand.”
“Jake hasn’t called for backup,” he reminded her, playing devil’s advocate. “He might not appreciate you jumping into his operation.”
She worried her lower lip a moment. “I know. But I just have this—”
“Prickling sensation at the base of your spine,” Adam finished dryly. He rose and flicked down the cuffs of his icy blue silk shirt. “All right, Maggie. Go down to Cartoza. I think I can hold off Senator Chandler at this end for a while.”
The cool assurance in Adam’s voice convinced Maggie that he could hold off a half-dozen Senator Chandlers. For as long as he wished. Not for the first time, she wondered just where and how Adam Ridgeway had developed his air of authority.
In his public life, he was the son of a wealthy Boston philanthropist, had served a brief stint in the navy after college, and then settled down to the serious pleasures of an international jet-setter. His friendship with and very hefty campaign contribution to the dynamic young congressman
who had become President had led to Adam’s appointment as special envoy.
During his jet-setting years, however, Adam had also led a private, secret double life. The agents at OMEGA knew that over the years he’d provided the government with vital information that only someone who frequented the big-money world of casinos, Greek shipping magnates and international art auctions would have access to. But none of them knew exactly how he’d collected the bullet wound that scarred the flesh of his upper chest. Or how he’d gained his sharp, incisive knowledge of field operations, a knowledge that made them trust him implicity with the lives they regularly put on the line.
Someday, Maggie thought, she just might find out.
Right now, however, she had a mission to prepare for. Flashing her boss a quick grin, Maggie whirled and left his office.
Adam’s private secretary paused in the act of arranging a bouquet of daffodils in the crystal vase set on her delicate Louis XV desk. “Well, did you get the go-ahead?”
Maggie gave Elizabeth a thumbs-up. The gray-haired woman had worked for the special envoy since the position was created and was a favorite with the OMEGA agents. Multilingual, well-groomed and unfailingly polite, Elizabeth also qualified each year as an expert marksman with the handgun she kept in a drawer at immediate hand level. Specially loaded with Teflon bullets, the weapon was devastatingly accurate at close quarters and would do serious damage to anyone unwise enough to try to force his way past the security screens on the first floor. Even the specialists who regularly tested OMEGA’s state-of-the-art security systems joked that they wouldn’t want to test Elizabeth.
She gave Maggie the motherly smile that so endeared her to the occasionally cynical and hard-bitten agents. “I’m glad to hear someone’s going in, dear. I’ll admit I’ve been worried about Jaguar. Although now I’ll just worry about you, as well.”