by Rachel Lee
“Point it at the ground, for God’s sake, then hand it to me.”
When she’d complied, he tried to give her and the children assurances he was far from feeling himself. “Don’t worry, we’re going to bluff our way through this.”
“Bluff?” The word came out in a strangled squeak. “How?”
“I’m guessing Che wants to talk to me because this dumb son of a b—because Pig-face here is too drunk to understand the specifics on the drop. Che’s probably furious with him and wouldn’t object too strenuously if I put him out of action for a while.” Jake smiled grimly. “You may get the chance to practice a few of your medical skills on this goon when he wakes up. If he wakes up.”
Sarah’s blunt-tipped fingers dug into his arm as he swung away. “Be…be careful.”
“I always am. But it probably wouldn’t hurt if you say a couple of prayers in the next few minutes.”
In fact, Jake thought, it wouldn’t hurt if she said a whole basketful of them. Using the flashlight to guide him, he made his way across the clearing to the shack Che had designated as his headquarters, kicked open the door and strode inside. Half a dozen startled faces turned at his entrance. With a twist of his shoulders, Jake dumped Enrique’s inert bulk on the floor. His compatriots gaped at the sprawled body. Ignoring them, Jake crossed to a rack of portable communications equipment arrayed on a rickety table.
“Get Che for me,” Jake rapped out to the man seated on a stool before the radio. “Now.”
“He’s…he’s standing by.”
With a jerk of his head, Jake motioned for the man to vacate his seat. Picking up the hand-held mike, he pressed the transmit button. “This is the gringo. What have you got?”
“Arrangements have been made for another shipment. Our supplier will deliver it personally. He was most unhappy that the last shipment was diverted. There will be no mistakes with this one.”
Che’s voice bore the sharp edge of anger and frustration. Poor bastard, Jake thought cynically. He had to choose between a lieutenant he couldn’t rely on and an americano he despised.
“It will arrive at approximately 1100 hours on the twenty-seventh,” the rebel announced.
The twenty-seventh! Jake swore viciously under his breath. That was three days from today. He had to make it through three more days in this camp. Three more days of keeping Sarah and the kids safe. Two more nights of lying beside her.
“Give me the coordinates.”
“Enrique has them,” Che said coldly.
“Enrique may not survive the night,” Jake drawled. “He’s starting to annoy me, big-time.”
Che drew in a swift, sharp breath, audible even over the radio. “Enrique will survive long enough to lead you to the drop site. After you show us how to operate the missiles, I don’t care which one of you puts a bullet in the other’s head.”
“That’s what I like about you, pal. You’re such a warm, caring son of a bitch. So tell me, what did you find out about the federale presence in our sector?”
Jake smiled to himself at the frustration that almost sizzled through the receiver. “It appears it was an unannounced exercise. A stupid scheduling mistake by some staff officer at the headquarters. The patrón is most displeased.”
“Just tell him to make sure it doesn’t happen on the twenty-seventh. One more screwup and even your patrón won’t be able to afford my fees.”
The radio went dead. Jake tossed the mike onto the tabletop and swung around on the stool to survey the occupants of the room. They stared back at him with varying degrees of anger, wariness and interest on their faces. Pig-face lay sprawled in the dirt before them, like one of the huge, hoglike tapirs he resembled.
“Is that tequila?” Jake asked, nodding to the cloudy bottle standing on the table amid a litter of grease-stained cards and half-full glasses.
“Sí,” one of the men answered cautiously.
Jake rose and stepped over Enrique’s bulk. “Pour me a drink. It may be a while before your friend here wakes up and we settle matters between us.”
A thin, slumping man who’d been one of Sarah’s patients picked up the bottle. He sloshed tequila into a dirty glass, shoved it toward Jake, then jerked his chin toward Enrique. “Why do you fight with that one?”
“His ugliness annoys me.”
A ripple of laughter greeted the sardonic response. By the time Enrique began grunting and twitching, the men at the table didn’t make any effort to hide their amusement at his graceless return to consciousness. Jake concealed his satisfaction behind an impassive face. He’d spent half his life leading men. He knew that few soldiers would respect or follow someone who’d been made to look ridiculous in their eyes. And the picture Enrique presented when he finally sat up, slack-faced and drooling spittle, inspired very little respect.
“So, Enrique,” Xavier called out, “the gringo says your face offends him. I can see why.”
The bellows of laughter that accompanied this sally sent a wave of mottled red across the face under discussion. “Perhaps you won’t laugh so much when I tell you that I saw the little religiosa in his bed,” Enrique snarled. “While we make do with Pablo’s slut of a wife, this one has been plowing between those tender white thighs.”
The sideways glances the men sent Jake contained surprise, suspicion and a faint hint of disapproval, followed swiftly by hot, avid interest.
Jake didn’t entertain much hope of convincing the big, red-faced man that he’d been hallucinating, but he figured it was worth the try. “You’re a pig, Enrique. And you’re drunk. You let your filthy mind run away with you. You frightened the woman and disgusted me.”
Enrique lumbered to his feet. “I know what I saw. You thought to keep her to yourself, eh, gringo? No more. After tonight, we all share her. Except you, of course. Tonight you die.”
He fumbled for the pistol in his holster.
Jake didn’t alter his loose-limbed sprawl. One hand toyed with the tequila glass, the other rested negligently in his pants pocket.
“You cannot kill him, Enrique,” a short, frowning rebel protested. “Che has said he must be at the drop site in three days.”
In a few succinct words, Enrique dismissed his leader. He pulled out a big-framed .45 with a silver replica of the Mayan sun calendar on its decorated grip. Chairs tumbled over backward as the men scrambled out of the line of fire.
“And do you also expect your patrón to perform that particular unnatural act?” Jake inquired lazily. “He will be no more pleased than Che if you make him waste the money he’s laying out for the shipment.”
The casual observation brought even the drunken lieutenant up short. Enrique knew as well as Jake that the drug lords would be far more relentless and exacting in their retribution toward one who crossed them than Che would ever be. The guerrilla leader wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet through an enemy’s forehead. The drug lords’ henchmen would make him beg for it.
Enrique hesitated, the .45 wavering in his big paw. After a long, tense moment, he jammed it back in its tooled leather holster. “Maybe I won’t shoot you, after all. Maybe I will just cut off your cojones.”
“You can try, my snout-nosed friend. You can try.”
Jake loosened his grip on the weapon in his pocket. The palm-size .22 carried five hollow-point rounds, any one of which would’ve put Enrique down. Jake wouldn’t need them now. Tossing down a last swallow of tequila, he rose.
A feral light sprang into the lieutenant’s eyes at the sight of the easy target. His hand moved toward the belt hooked over the back of a nearby chair.
Jake’s razor-sharp machete sliced through the air. Its lethal, specially balanced blade pinned the leather belt to the chair-back and toppled the chair over with the force of the throw.
“No knives,” Jake told the startled lieutenant. “No guns. Let’s settle this in a way that will give satisfaction to us both.”
A slow grin spread across Enrique’s red face. “You’re right, gringo. I will much enjoy feeling my fists s
mash into your face. Almost as much as I will enjoy your woman squirming and thrashing beneath me.”
Jake could have ended the farce that followed at any time, but he took a savage pleasure in reducing Enrique to a staggering, gurgling, bloody hulk. His rational mind argued that he needed to destroy the last shreds of confidence the other men placed in the lieutenant’s authority. A primitive, wholly male instinct, however, wanted to make sure Enrique understood what the consequences would be if he touched Sarah.
Jake didn’t escape totally unscathed himself. For all Enrique’s bulk and drunken state, he packed the power of a bull behind his hammerlike fists. When the big man lay sprawled on the dirt floor once again, Jake hooked a foot around a chair leg and dragged it to the table.
“Now, my friends,” he panted, dragging the back of his hand across his bleeding lip, “let’s finish that tequila.”
Jake closed his eyes as clear liquid fire slid down his throat and curled in his belly. He sagged back against his chair, enjoying the heat, the feeling of satisfaction, even the pain that throbbed in his chin.
He should go back to the hut. Sarah would be wide-eyed and trembling with anxiety, he knew. He also knew that there was no way he could soothe her fears and stretch out beside her right now. Not with his blood pounding in his veins and the remembered feel of her body next to his battling with the last remnants of his conscience.
Sarah sat in rigid, unmoving silence. The flickering light of the Sterno lamp surrounded her and the children in a small circle of gloom. They huddled against her, clinging to the black robe she’d hastily pulled on. It had saved them once before. With a sick, wrenching fear, Sarah hoped it wouldn’t have to save them again.
When no shots or screams sounded for what seemed like hours, the children’s fear slowly eased. Sarah’s, however, mounted with each passing moment. Where was he? she wondered with increasing desperation. What would she do if he didn’t return? Oh, God, he had to return. She squeezed her eyes shut and repeated for the hundredth time the prayers he’d suggested.
Only gradually did Sarah realize that more than just self-preservation motivated her fervent prayers. It wasn’t the lean, unshaven mercenary she wanted to see step through that door. She wanted to see Jack. Or, better yet, the Señor Creighton Teresa idolized. The man who’d carved a doll out of a mango root and tucked a delighted, squealing three year old under his arm. The man who coaxed even the still, silent Eduard to speak. The man who made Sarah’s breath catch when he creased his cheeks in that damned crooked smile of his.
The man who finally returned, however, wasn’t any of the ones Sarah had prayed for. She gave a glad cry of welcome when she saw his shadowy but unmistakable form silhouetted in the door, then gasped when he stepped into the little circle of light. Brownish dried blood covered most of his face and spattered his bare chest. Even in the dim sputter of the tiny flame she could see the dark bruise that covered one side of his jaw.
At her startled gasp, he attempted what must have been meant as a reassuring smile but ended up as a grimace of pain. He staggered a bit as he put a hand up to his jaw.
“Oh, my God!” She pushed herself out of the children’s grasp and flew across the hut to take his arm. “Move, children. Let him sit down on the crate. Teresa, get me the cloth we use to wash with. Eduard, you find the disinfectant. The little bottle of liquid antiseptic, not the dry powder we used on you.”
“It looks worse than it is,” Jack muttered as she helped him ease down. “Most of the blood belongs, uh, belonged to Pig-face.”
“Did he die?” Ricci asked, wide-eyed and tremulous.
Sarah bit her lip as she took the canteen and the white cotton briefs from Teresa. That a three year old should have such a fixation with death tore at her heart.
The gringo tried again. This time he managed more grin than grimace. “No, Squirt, he didn’t die. But he’ll probably wish he had when he wakes up.”
“Good!” Eduard’s low response made up in ferocity what it lacked in volume.
Jack’s head swung toward the boy. “You didn’t like old Pig-face, either, huh?”
“For pity’s sake,” Sarah said, turning his chin back to examine it. “Hold still.”
With a rush of relief, she saw that he’d been right when he said most of the blood wasn’t his. Aside from several swelling bruises, she discovered only one laceration, along his jawline.
“Tilt your head back so I can clean this,” Sarah ordered, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t have to perform an ant-optomy.
He propped his head back against the wall. Eyes closed, he allowed her to tend him. She wiped the last of the dried blood from the underside of his chin, then took the bottle of antiseptic Eduard handed her.
“Ouch!”
Sarah blinked. Somehow she hadn’t thought this tough-as-unchewed-leather mercenary would be so sensitive to pain. Gentling her touch, she dabbed at his chin once more.
“That stings.”
The plaintive complaint sounded so much like that of a little boy that Sarah couldn’t help smiling. She moved closer to his side and slipped one arm around his neck. Cradling his head against her shoulder as she would Eduard’s or Ricci’s, she swabbed his cuts.
But the body pressed against hers wasn’t Eduard’s or Ricci’s. It was long and sleekly muscled and musky with the scent of a man. Sarah felt a stir of awareness at the feel of him leaning into her. Her swift, instinctive reaction quickly gave way to another emotion, however. An unexpected tenderness welled up in her heart. For so many days now, she’d drawn from this man’s strength. For so many nights, she’d fallen asleep knowing he was beside her. That he would now wrap an arm around her hips and lean into her for support filled her with soft, sweet warmth.
She was so bemused by the feeling that it was some moments before she realized his head had turned a few degrees, until his cheek rested on the slope of her breast. And that his arm had slowly tightened, drawing her even closer into the heat of his body. It took a moment more before she registered the fact that the hand on her hip no longer just rested there. Through the heavy fabric of her robe, his fingers kneaded the swell of rounded flesh.
“What are you doing?” Sarah gasped, pushing herself out of his hold.
“I…” A wave of confusion crossed his face for a moment, to be replaced almost immediately by a scowl. His arm dropped. “Damn, it was the tequila.”
Sarah was so disturbed by the sensations his touch had aroused that she didn’t even chastise him for his inappropriate language.
“Tequila? Have you been drinking?”
“A little.” He met her incredulous stare, then shrugged. “Hell, a lot.”
Sarah’s mouth sagged open, then closed to a thin, ominous line. “You mean we’ve been sitting here in the dark, frantic with worry, and you’ve…you’ve been swilling tequila with that rabble out there?”
At her accusing tone, a tinge of red rose in his cheeks. “Look, I was just cementing my relationship with the boys. So they wouldn’t come looking for Sister Sarah to tend their ‘aches,’ as well.”
Sarah stood rigid while a slow, fiery fury flowed through her veins. He’d been drinking, while she sat here terrified, praying her heart out for him! He’d been schmoozing with his cretinous pals while she blocked out every despicable aspect of his character and painted him as a cross between Santa Claus and an unshaven Pierce Brosnan! He’d stumbled in, covered with blood, and made Sarah’s heart leap in fear. She’d cradled him to her breast like some hurt child. Now he had the nerve to sit there, his head tilted up at her belligerently, and scowl at her as though the whole thing had been her fault.
Acting on pure impulse, Sarah tipped her hand and poured the entire bottle of disinfectant over his cut.
“Jesus H. Christ!”
This time Sarah would have chastised him, if she hadn’t been so startled by his reaction. His drinking hadn’t dulled his reflexes, she discovered. With the deadly speed of a bush-master, he uncoiled his long body and s
prang up. A hard hand grabbed her outstretched wrist and twisted it up behind her.
Off balance, Sarah stumbled against his bare chest. The soft, springy pelt she’d fantasized about brushed her cheek. She tried to push herself away with the flat of her palm. He held her easily with one hand, which only added to Sarah’s pounding, white hot anger.
“You want to explain that little bit of medical malpractice, Sister Sarah?”
“Figure it out for yourself, gringo.”
She realized her mistake as soon as the words were out. There wasn’t anything even remotely nunlike in the way she challenged him, eyes flashing, fury radiating from every inch of the body he held pressed against his own.
His eyes narrowed. In the dim light, Sarah couldn’t see their expression, but she felt his body stiffen against hers. The hand holding her wrist behind her back tightened, and her breasts were crushed against a solid, unyielding wall of hard, male flesh.
They stared at each other, unspeaking, until a small whimper shattered the tension arcing between them.
“Please, Señor Creighton, you and Sarita, you must not fight.”
Teresa’s tearful voice brought them back to the reality of a small, airless hut and three frightened children. The hold on Sarah’s wrist loosened, then fell away. She stepped back and drew in a long, shuddering breath.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” she stuttered.
His eyes were guarded, curiously so after his blazing anger of moments before.
“I was petrified, sitting here in the dark, not knowing what was happening. I…I said every prayer I knew for you.” She stumbled through the apology, not really sorry, but shaken enough by what had just occurred that she felt the need to reestablish their previous relationship.
His jaw worked for a moment. “Well, I suppose I have to thank you for your spiritual intervention, but I’ll damn sure let you know when I want any more of your medical attention. Now let’s see if we can get some sleep for what’s left of the night.”
The children managed to drift back into quiet slumber, but they were the only ones. Jake lay still and tense in the darkness, waiting for dawn to slice through the cracks in the tin roof with its characteristic suddenness. He could tell from Sarah’s lack of movement that she wasn’t sleep. She lay with her back turned stubbornly to him, too far away to touch, too close for him to ignore the prickling sensation her mere presence caused within him.