Only there was no time to pussyfoot around. The launch across the straits was only hours away and every resource they had and every person who could hold a gun was needed.
“Now is not the time to peel away the cream of our soldiers for a suicide assault upon the palace,” Duardo said.
Flores’ mouth opened. “Excuse me?”
Duardo got to his feet. “I mean no disrespect. I intend only to point out the priorities we’re facing. We’re holding our breath, ready to jump. It would damage our momentum, to say nothing about morale, to throw ourselves against a target like the palace. We would lose everything we have gained.”
“You are suggesting we leave Señora Calli and the Ambassador in Serrano’s hands? To do with as he wishes?” Flores asked, his tone dangerously quiet.
“I’m suggesting that Serrano may have taken them because he knew you would want to do exactly what you are proposing,” Duardo said. “Think, Miguel. You worked with Serrano for years. He knows how you work. He could be anticipating your attack. He could want you to attack, which leaves the troops here weakened by numbers and our attention divided.”
Flores’ face turned pink. “Tell me you did not promise Nicolás you would do everything in your power to get Señora Calli back.”
“I did promise him that,” Duardo replied. “Attacking the palace would not get her back, though. We would lose the war.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“You know I am right,” Duardo insisted.
“You were quick enough to rush in and take the Whitesands!”
“We had surprise on our side, then. Serrano is braced for you to attack. He may not want it but he’s braced for it. The palace is the most heavily guarded building in all of Vistaria. We would break upon it and we would be lost.” He paused to get his breath back and judge if Flores had heard him.
Flores’ face worked. “You dare dispute me…”
“It’s my job, General. That’s why the Army has more than one general.” Duardo felt fine trembling in his belly. Disputes about minor tactics was one thing. This attack, though, would be a turning point in the war and not a good one.
The wonder of it was that Flores did not see it.
Flores shook his head. “I would be neglecting my duty and responsibilities if I did not do everything in my power to get our people back from the monster.”
“And we will,” Duardo replied. “We can throw everything we have into crossing the channel and staking a beachhead, then pushing on to the city. When we get there, we can use every resource we have to blow the palace defenses away and release the prisoners. But only then, General, when the Loyalists are fighting together and united.”
Flores stared at him. Through him. He was breathing hard.
Both were breathing heavily. The tent was silent except for that.
Flores shook his head. “Give the order, General. Find a team. The best of the best, whatever you need. Storm the palace. Find the prisoners. We are Loyalists. We do not leave our people behind.”
Duardo shook his head. “No. I refuse. And I will counter any orders you give that split the men we have.” His trembling turned to shaking.
Flores’ eyes narrowed. “As your President—”
Duardo shook his head. “Not even the cabinet has agreed to you holding the title.”
“Damn it, I demand you obey!”
“I do not take orders from you, Flores,” Duardo said. “We agree upon strategies and we employ our own tactics and troops to provide our individual goals. That is all. And I do not agree upon this strategy. It will end us all.”
“You young upstart!”
“I’m old enough to know this is wrong.” He gripped his hands together behind his back and kept his shoulders straight. “If you were thinking clearly, Flores, you would see it, too. You are a good strategist. One of the best. You can use your wisdom to help us win the war.”
“Get out of my sight,” Flores snapped.
Duardo didn’t move. “How long is it since you ate?”
“You’re saying I’m faint headed with hunger, now?” Flores asked, his tone one of amazement.
“It’s not like you to misjudge a situation so…wildly,” Duardo replied. “I can only attribute it to physiological needs, or fear.” He added softly, “I know how much you like Calli.”
Flores flinched. “That has nothing to do with it!”
Ahh… The tension in Duardo’s chest eased. He nodded. “Beseque had a pot of black bean soup bubbling on the fire, a while ago. I’ll see if he has any left.”
Flores said nothing until he was halfway through the tent opening.
“Perhaps…some bread, if there is any?” Flores asked, as he rolled up the map of the city in a tight cylinder.
Duardo nodded and went to find bread, too.
* * * * *
By dawn the next night, Parris’ group were close enough to the coast to hear waves and smell the salt on the breeze that wafted over them.
The men spread out along the edge of the tree line and monitored the beach, the gulls and the waves. Adán stood with his back against the trunk of a palm tree, not looking at the beach or anyone else.
Parris conferred with Locke. She tapped her ear.
Locke removed his communications bud and lifted a brow.
“Everyone is tired,” she said. “And the next phase will be hard on the nerves.”
“As I don’t know what the next phase is, I’ll take your word for that, Captain.”
“We were given a general location. We’ll have to use specialized scanners to narrow it down. That’s about all I can say for right now.” She looked at the line of men staked out along the beach. None of them had let their guard down. No one was slumping. They were alert, on guard.
“We all need sleep, especially me. Even though we’re right here, I want to hole up and take the day, anyway.” She lifted her brow at him.
Locke’s gaze assessed her. As her second-in-charge, it was part of his job to monitor her and point out if she was operating with blind spots or unconscious prejudice.
He nodded. “The civilian is dragging us down,” he said. “Not physically. The guy is a machine and hasn’t breathed a single complaint. Only we’re all tense, waiting for him to give us up because he’s not trained. We can’t operate on an open beach in daylight, anyway.”
“Tonight, I want you on point, too,” she said. “Tomorrow, you can sit behind the lines and relax.”
Locke’s mouth opened. Then he shut it. “This something to do with him?” He said it casually.
Parris’ jaw sagged.
He shrugged. “Everyone can see there’s a history there.”
The inherent problem with living with a unit like this was that nothing was private. She sighed. “I need to stuff the history back in the box, before I trip over it,” Parris said. “I need to be sharp for tonight.”
Locke understood. They were both practiced at self-assessment. It was the correct thing to do to take herself off active and get back to peak performance. Locke had taken a dive for three months while his wife went through a major operation and recovery. It all evened out, eventually.
“Then I’ve got the baton,” Locke replied. “I’ll have Ramirez find us a place for the day.”
“Just not another cave,” she said fervently.
He grinned and moved away, putting the communications bud back in his ear.
They didn’t camp in a cave although they might as well have. Adán didn’t know of any suitable places nearby. “This is farther north than I remember,” he said. “There’s probably a cave somewhere. You could spend all day looking for the opening.”
Ramirez found for them, instead, a deep cleft in the hills butting up against the end of the bay. They camped on the dry, sandy soil between the salt-bush lined sides of the gully, with blue sky overhead and nothing but a thin strip of sand and the waves in front of them.
As Locke assigned sentries and the others marveled over the softnes
s of the sand beneath their feet and spread their bags, Parris handed Adán her sleeping bag and dug the laptop out of her pack.
Locke came back to her and took the laptop and her notes to give to Strickland when he reported in.
“You’re heading somewhere, Captain?” Donaldson enquired, his voice loud.
“The Captain is clocking off for some downtime, undisturbed by you cretins,” Locke said.
As everyone belly-ached good naturedly, Parris picked up her pack and headed back to the far end of the gully. As the gully bent inward, it would be as private there as anywhere on the island would be right now. She kept her gaze ahead as she slogged through the soft, dry sand. Just as the gully turned, she couldn’t help back glance back.
Adán was still holding the bag, watching her.
* * * * *
She waited until everyone was asleep. By then, the sun was high overhead and insects ticked and buzzed in the salt bushes. No breeze reached them in the narrow gulley, especially not at this closed-off end.
She spread her mat on the south side of the gully in the shade and laid listening to the soft sound of surf. Even without the sentries, she would be warned of anyone coming long before they reached the edges of the gully and spotted her and her unit scattered along the narrow crevasse.
After three hours, the sounds of the unit cooking and eating and teasing each other about one stupid thing or another dropped away to nothing.
Parris rose to her feet. She had removed her boots when she first laid down. Now warm sand squeezed through her toes. It was good. She walked slowly back along the gully, watching the sleeping men closely. None of them were in their bags. It was too warm. They rested on them or under them.
No one moved.
Parris glanced up at the top of the gully where the sentries would be. They should have their back to the gully, watching for strangers approaching. She couldn’t see anyone from here.
She bent and shook Adán’s shoulder.
As soon as his eyes, with the ridiculously long lashes, opened to reveal the black irises, she put her hand over his mouth.
He nodded.
She tugged on his shirt, then beckoned with her finger. Follow me.
Adán rose carefully to his feet. He was barefoot, too.
They eased away from the sleeping ring of men and she trekked back along the gully, trusting that Adán would follow.
When she reached her pack and gear, she turned to face him.
Adán stopped three paces away, his eyes narrowed.
Parris picked up his hand. It was heavy in hers.
She met his gaze. “Be yourself, Adán. Brakes off.”
His chest lifted. The liquid heat smoldered in his eyes, making her shiver. He stepped closer. “You won’t regret it,” he murmured and kissed her.
He cupped her face, holding her steady as his kiss extended and grew deeper and more thorough.
Parris gave herself up to the need that pounded her body. In all the years since Adán’s first kiss, no other man had ever made her feel this way just with the touch of his lips and the brush of his body. Not even Stuart had moved her to such yearning with a simple kiss.
She shivered, wondering how it would feel to move beyond this.
When Adán let her go, they were both panting.
Parris gripped his shirt, feeling the heat of him beneath the jersey. “It…it has been a very long time for me.” She could feel her cheeks heating.
“Me, too,” Adán whispered. He bent and swept her up in his arms, with barely a sound of effort.
Parris clutched at him, gasping. “You’re sweeping me off my feet…?” she breathed, trying not to laugh.
Adán shook his head. “I’ve done this a few times in movies. I promised myself that if I ever got the chance, I would do it for you. I can’t think of anyone else worthy of it.”
He carried her over to where her mat was spread in the shade.
Parris wanted to giggle at the melodrama. At the same time, though, her middle was growing molten and weak, and her heart was screaming. For a moment, just for this moment, she was a weaker, feminine woman and it felt good. It felt right.
Adán laid her on the mat and settled over her. His smile said he knew it was a silly gesture, too, yet the light in his eyes said he meant it, just as her melting middle agreed that she liked it.
His hand drifted up the length of her, to cup her cheek. “We have some catching up to do,” he breathed and kissed her again.
* * * * *
For the first time in her life, Parris could put aside her fierce need to control everything. She let go, in every way possible. As their bodies grew heated and slick against each other, she grew to understand the true nature of being a woman, in every respect.
Adán dominated her and she loved it. He commanded her body. He drew responses from her she hadn’t known were possible.
He possessed her and the knowledge that he could control her so easily did not send fear rippling down her spine as it should have. She trusted him. She knew he understood her so completely that for these shared moments, she could let down her guard and just be his.
“No one but you…” she breathed, as she laid in his arms, recovering.
“Absolutely no one but you,” Adán said, his tone one of agreement. She understood that, too. Adán had let down his guard, too, for in his world he was as shielded as she was.
Parris looked deep into his eyes and he smiled back at her. It was a moment of mutual understanding. They could see each other with perfect clarity.
“Wow…” she breathed.
“An adequate start,” he said, and bent and kissed her, bringing her still tingling body up against his with a commanding hand.
Chapter Twenty
The first time Olivia’s father opened his eyes, they were pain-filled but aware. His gaze roamed, searching, until it found her. He sighed. “You are here.”
She picked up his hand, feeling the thin flesh and ridged veins under her fingers. “It turns out, this is the safest place in the city.”
Callan Davenport gave a snort, then winced. “I’m alive…” he whispered, his tone one of wonder. “How long was I out?”
“Eight days,” she told him. “It’s after four p.m. Tuesday.”
A nurse bustled in, in dark green scrubs. “I saw the vitals jump,” she said, patting Olivia’s shoulder. “The doctor is on his way. How are you feeling, Colonel?”
“Like someone tried to blow me up,” her father said, his voice a croak.
“You’re sure picking the wrong dates, aren’t you?” the nurse returned, her tone cheery, as she covered one of his eyes and waved a penlight at the other.
Farther down the passage, Olivia could hear a cart trundling in their direction. She put her father’s hand down and got to her feet. She was stiff and achy from sitting for so long.
Her father lifted his hand. “No, Olivia. Stay.”
“They’ll poke and prod you for a while,” she said. “I’ll get out of the way. I need coffee like nobody’s business and the stuff at the nurses station has been brewing since the last ice age.”
“Oh, now, that’s not accurate,” the nurse said, with a chuckle, her attention still on Callan Davenport. “I saw it being made around the time of the Reformation.”
A doctor in blue scrubs with a white coat over the top and paper slippers over his sneakers, sailed into the room, slinging a stethoscope around his neck. “Colonel Davenport, it’s good to see you recovering, sir.”
“If this is recovery, I want my money back,” Callan said, making both the nurse and the doctor chuckle. The consummate politician had slipped into place between one breath and the next.
Olivia turned and left. An all-night café was in the basement of the hospital. She needed coffee, although she wanted solid food even more. Her father didn’t need her to hold court. He had been doing it without her all his life.
When she got back forty minutes later, the doctor and nurse had left. Her father’s
deputy chief of staff, Doug Mulray, was bent over the bed, murmuring. The Secret Service detail were a few steps closer to the room, now, too. They were no longer guarding a comatose body and it showed.
Even the nurses on the unit were moving with more energy. It was as if her father’s waking had shot everyone full of adrenaline.
Olivia waited outside the room until Mulray had finished. When he left, she picked up the chair she had been using, which someone had pushed into a far corner and settled it back beside her father’s bed.
“You could have come in while Doug was here,” her father said.
“No, I couldn’t, Dad. I’m a Vistarian, now. A foreign national.”
His face clouded over. “Daniel, right? That’s his name? Daniel…” He frowned.
“Daniel Alejandro Castellano y Medina,” Olivia said.
“That’s…quite a name.”
“Names are important to Vistarians,” she replied calmly, even though her gut felt as though a battery was decomposing in there. Acid gnawed at her. The baloney sandwich she had eaten sat like a rock in her stomach.
“He was there? At the Whitesands?”
Olivia made herself smile. “I’m certain you asked for a file on Daniel as soon as you knew who he was. You know he was there, Dad. You know what he did, too.”
Her father’s eyes met her. “Saved your life. I remember that much.”
“Twice at least, then a third time when he married me.”
Her father’s gaze shifted away. “You figure I will ever meet him?” he asked.
The wistful note in his voice was shocking. Callan Davenport had never been anything other than completely sure of himself.
Olivia steeled herself against the pity and empathy trying to form. Her father was a master manipulator. Even lying in a bed attached to monitors and drips and an oxygen line, he was still a powerful operative and she couldn’t afford to forget it.
As he had with the doctors and nurses, he was most likely trying to charm his way behind her defenses. He never failed to have an agenda of some sort.
“When the war is over, we can talk about maybe getting together,” she told him.
Her father sighed. He met her eyes once more. “Tell me about him.”
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