At last the slope gentled enough for him to drag them both to a halt. They lay on their backs for a few seconds, panting. She couldn't get her breath, could barely see for the sweat stinging her eyes. Twisting, she swiped her face on her sleeve and stared upward.
A multitude of green layers shielded them from observation. The thunder of the falls was the only sound that penetrated the dense stillness. His chest heaving, Carlos rolled to his feet and tugged Margarita up.
"Are you all right?"
"I will be." She clawed at the belt cutting her in two. "Once I…can breathe…again."
"Here, let me."
His big hands fumbled with the buckle. When the tortuous constriction around her middle loosened, she gulped in long swallows of air.
His face grim, Carlos hitched the belt around his hips and swiped an arm across his face. For the first time, Margarita noticed he'd donned the mottled green and black of jungle fatigues. Over a similarly camouflaged long-sleeved shirt and black T-shirt, he wore a nylon vest with dozens of little pockets. Streaks of black and green face paint smudged to a muddy mask made him almost indistinguishable from the jungle around him.
No wonder she hadn't recognized him when she dived headfirst through the vines! She'd seen him in his dress uniform dozens of times before he resigned his military commission to accept the deputy minister's job, and in impeccable civilian attire ever since. But this was the first time she'd glimpsed the soldier in his element. He looked almost like a stranger.
Even his voice sounded different. Cold and flat, it lacked any hint of inflection. All traces of the teasing note he generally employed with her had completely disappeared. Belatedly, Margarita realized he was holding himself in rigid check.
How in God's name did he do it? Every emotion from wild elation at having escaped to bitter self-disgust for not taking Simon down tumbled through her. Carlos apparently could mount a search-and-rescue effort, dodge a hail of bullets, plunge down a mountainside and still exercise a self-discipline that amazed and, perversely, irritated her no end.
"Stay here," he ordered, reaching once more for a long, straggling vine. "I'm going back up to regroup my men. I'll drop a rope down for you when we have the situation under control."
Margarita's eyes narrowed. If he thought she was going to sit here meekly and wait with hands folded, he'd better think again. She'd just opened her mouth to set him straight when a little splat sounded a few feet away. It was followed in the next instant by the distant crack of a rifle. Another series of splats set a feathery fern trembling just above her head.
"God!"
Releasing the vine, Carlos lunged for her. No dummy, Margarita was already diving for the shelter of a rotting log.
"There!" The echo of a shout came through the canopy. "I see a flash of white."
Within the blink of an eye, a deadly hail of bullets tore through the dense canopy of leaves. The crumbling log provided no protection at all. Hauling Margarita upright by her wrist, Carlos took off. His grip was brutal on flesh already raw and bleeding from being scraped against sharp rock, but she was in no mind to protest as they broke into a desperate run.
Bullets ripped through leaves just above their heads. Twice more, they heard shouts. Once, a scream and what sounded like the thrashing fall of a body down the mountainside behind them. Then the jungle swallowed all sounds. Ferns the size of small trees whipped at Margarita's face and arms. Dangling vines tried to trip her. Spiky pineapple plants and tank bromeliads tore at her blouse.
By the time they reached the lower slopes, a painful stitch stabbed into her side, her wrist was bleeding again, and every breath singed her lungs. Thankfully, the underbrush thinned out enough to make the going at this level a little easier. Instead of lush plants, the jungle floor consisted primarily of fallen tree trunks, leafy ferns and layers of rotting vegetation.
Margarita knew this lack of undergrowth was due to the giant strangler figs, which began life as seeds dropped by monkeys or birds in the branches of host trees. The stranglers then sprouted roots that dropped ropelike to the ground, forming a sort of cage around their host. Their trunks shot upward and spread dense green umbrellas of leaves. In the process, these monstrous kings of the rain forest starved their host trees of light. Eventually, all that was left beneath the canopy were the rotting remains of host trees covered with luminous green mosses, ferns and flashy flowers like the orchids that clung in great clumps to the tree trunks.
Margarita had no idea how far they traveled through this dim, green gloom before Carlos at last signaled a halt. He stood silent, head up, eyes narrowed, listening intently for sounds of pursuit. At that moment, Margarita couldn't have heard an elephant crashing through the forest over her own wheezing breath. Bending at the waist, she planted her sweaty palms on thighs that quivered like over-stretched elastic and dragged air into her aching lungs.
"I think we've lost them."
The hoarse timbre of his voice drew her upright. Slanting Carlos a quick glance, she saw that sweat had plastered his black hair to his head. His chest heaved under his fatigue shirt. He, too, sucked in long gulps of air. Unaccountably pleased that he was feeling the effects of that break-neck run as much as she was, Margarita summoned a shaky smile.
"The bullets started flying back there before I could thank you for coming after me."
"Thank me?" His head snapped around. "Thank me!"
Her grin slipped, then disappeared completely as he rounded on her. As dangerous as a panther prodded from its den and twice as furious, he stalked across the spongy carpet of vegetation.
"I don't want your thanks."
The sparks shooting from his black eyes set Margarita's back up. She'd been through too much in the past twelve hours to take that tone from him or anyone else.
"Fine! You don't want my thanks. Then I suggest you use that radio attached to your belt to call your men and arrange a rendezvous." She turned away, intending to find some water for her parched throat. "In the meantime, I'll…"
He planted himself in front of her, blocking the way. "There are only two things I want from you at this moment. The first is an explanation. What the hell's going on?" he demanded, his dark gaze drilling into her. "Why did you go to the prison last night?"
Unfortunately, she couldn't give him an explanation even if she wanted to. Like all SPEAR agents, Margarita had sworn an oath of secrecy about her membership in the elite cadre. From the thunderous expression on Carlos's face, she guessed she'd have to do some fast talking to get him to buy the cover story she'd fabricated for the captain of the guard at the castillo.
"It's my job to analyze the impact of the illegal drug trade on our nation's economy, remember? This fugitive is obviously a key figure in that trade. I thought he might let something slip that would give me a clearer picture of what we're dealing with."
She could see Carlos wasn't buying it. Disbelief showed clearly under the streaks of black face paint still decorating his cheeks and chin.
"Do you expect me to believe you left a dress ball to speak with a prisoner you could have interviewed just as easily the next morning?"
She tipped her chin and looked him square in the eye. "There was nothing to keep me at the ball. I was bored and decided to leave."
The barb hit home. His jaw clenched. A vein throbbed amid the taut cords of his neck. He stared at her with such glittering intensity that Margarita felt a flutter of something close to nervousness.
This was Carlos, she reminded herself. Always in control Carlos. Much as he probably wanted to throttle her at this particular moment, he'd rein in the emotions simmering behind his scowl.
To her secret disappointment, he did.
"The captain of the guard said this prisoner recognized you the moment you walked in the door," he ground out. "How did he know your name?"
"The same way he knew yours, I'd guess," she shot back.
"Mine?"
"In one of his more pleasant moments, he admitted that your raids had just
about destroyed his base of operations in Madrileño."
That, at least, afforded Carlos some measure of satisfaction. If she thought she'd bought her way out of further questions with the welcome information, however, she soon learned otherwise. His razor-edged gaze raked her sweaty face.
"What game are you playing, Margarita?"
"None."
She justified her stiff reply with the silent argument that no one in their right mind would classify the events of the past twelve hours as a game.
Carlos stepped closer, and Margarita battled the ridiculous urge to back away. She'd never dreamed he could project such intimidating authority with a single, narrow-eyed look.
Evidently what he saw in her face satisfied him for the moment. Or so she concluded from his scathing comment about pigheaded females who take their job with the Ministry of Economics too damned seriously for their own or anyone else's good.
Stung, Margarita lifted her chin. "Perhaps I take my job seriously because I prefer to do something useful with my life instead of just sit at home like a good little Madrileñan wife."
"Something useful?" he shot back sarcastically. "Like offering yourself as a hostage? What in God's name persuaded you into that bit of lunacy?"
"I couldn't let him kill the guard in cold blood."
"So instead you let him take you! My heart stopped when I heard you'd gone with him."
She was still digesting that interesting bit of information when icy fury surged into his face. Apparently her seemingly reckless action angered Carlos as much or more as he claimed it had worried him last night.
"You little fool, what would you have done if I hadn't come after you?"
"Just what I did do," she retorted. "Escape. Are you forgetting that I was on my way out of the cave when you were on your way in?"
"No, and I'm not forgetting how you crumpled like a deflated balloon when I struck your shoulder! You wouldn't have stood a chance if this prisoner had taken it into his head to rape you as well as use you as a hostage."
She decided this wasn't the time to tell him Simon had entertained exactly that thought. Or that Carlos's blow to her shoulder had caught her at a decidedly weak moment.
"We'll talk about how you managed to escape later," he said tightly. "Right now…"
"Yes?"
He didn't answer for a moment. Margarita sensed he was waging a fierce inner battle to contain the anger that still glittered in his eyes. Some deep-seated feminine instinct warned her not to goad him further. An even deeper instinct prodded her into recklessness.
"You said you wanted two things from me," she reminded him impatiently. "What's the second?"
The bite in her voice snapped his brows together. Margarita caught a flash of something dangerous in his eyes. She had time for only a half step back before he wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled her against him.
"This."
His mouth ground down on hers with a savagery that stunned her. The force of the kiss bent her backward. The fist Carlos tangled in her hair dragged her head back even further.
She knew a moment of heady exultation. This wasn't the same man who'd courted her with such deliberate, sensual intent on a moonlit balcony just last night. Smooth, sophisticated, rigidly controlled, that man had always held a part of himself back.
This one held nothing back.
This kiss was wild. Raw. Primitive. A searing fusion of mouths and chests and straining thighs.
A part of her acknowledged that adrenaline no doubt still pumped through him as fiercely as it did her. That the closeness of their escape had wound his nerves as tight as a steel spring. He needed release. So did she.
It took a moment for Margarita to realize he wasn't seeking her participation in this intense ritual. Like a medieval knight, he'd stormed the enemy's stronghold, carried off his prize and now claimed her.
Somehow, this wasn't quite the reaction she'd anticipated when she envisioned shattering his formidable self-discipline at last. She didn't want to be claimed any more than she wanted to be protected. With Carlos's mouth hot and hard on hers, however, she was beginning to wonder just what in heaven's name she did want!
She was as confused as she was angry when he finally released her. Cheeks hot, eyes cold, she looked him up and down.
"Much as I'd like to, I'm not going to flatten you for that little display of masculine aggression."
The sardonic lift of one dark brow invited her to try. Only the fact that Margarita owed him for coming after her kept her from doing just that.
"We'll continue this discussion when we get back to San Rico," he stated, pulling a small radio out of one of the pockets on his camouflage-patterned vest.
"Will we?"
"Yes."
The absolute implacability in the single word raised Margarita's hackles all over again. This wasn't the time or the place to argue with him, however. Not with the memory of that rain of bullets ripping through the leaves still so vivid. The first order of business was to get them out of here.
Which, they discovered when Carlos extracted his radio, might present some difficulties. Frowning, he adjusted the telescoping antenna and tried again. The digital display remained blank. His mouth twisting in disgust, he snapped the antenna down.
"The damned thing is supposed to withstand combat drops from high-altitude aircraft. It couldn't even take a tumble down a mountainside."
Frustration ate at Margarita. He couldn't communicate with his men, and she couldn't communicate with SPEAR. Worried about the damned metal detectors, she'd left her purse containing her radio and little Smith and Wesson snub-nosed revolver at the prison entrance checkpoint last night. As far as she knew, they were still there. The only piece of equipment she carried was the locket on the gold chain that had, somehow, survived the wild slide down the mountain.
Carlos echoed her frustration as he shoved his radio into its case. "Looks like we walk."
"Back along the road?"
He considered and dismissed the easy route in one shake of his head. "Without knowing who won the firefight we just heard, we can't risk it. We'll have to strike out in the opposite direction and try for the nearest village."
"How near is near?"
"Ten miles."
Gulping, Margarita swept the dank, silent rain forest with a searching glance. If there was a track through the green maze, she couldn't see it.
Chapter 4
Faced with the threat of Simon behind and a daunting trek ahead, Margarita's training kicked in.
"We'd better take an inventory of what we've got with us before we start walking. Just in case," she added with a shrug when Carlos shot her a swift look. "Anything can happen in the jungle."
She might not be able to tell him about Simon or her SPEAR background, but she was darned if she'd act the helpless, bubbleheaded female.
Nodding, he slipped out of his lightweight vest and hunkered down on one heel. Margarita joined him, listening intently as he opened the various pouches and detailed their contents.
"I designed this modified jungle kit when I commanded the counterterrorist strike force. It's geared for swift travel through this type of terrain and attack rather than extended operations."
Margarita grasped at once the incisive thinking that had gone into the kit. In addition to a machete tucked into a built-in scabbard, the pack contained the essentials for short-term survival in the jungle. Included were a mosquito net folded into a square the size of a cigarette pack; a large-mouthed plastic bag to capture fresh rainwater and thus avoid the dangers of larvae-infested groundwater; a Global Positioning Satellite directional finder; night-vision goggles that folded flat; a Swiss army knife with its myriad utensils; a first aid kit; spare ammunition clips; and an extra pair of socks. As mundane as the last item might seem to the outsider, Margarita knew well that foot rot had crippled many a soldier slogging through her country's tropical rain forests.
She paid scant attention to the machete. The razor-edged blade const
ituted a familiar household item in Madrileño. But the black steel automatic he slid out of its holster and laid across his palm snagged her instant and undivided attention.
"This is a standard Army-issue Beretta. I've had the barrel shortened to my specifications."
Margarita didn't volunteer the fact that she'd qualified at the expert level with a weapon very similar to this one. A Model 92D double action, to be exact, with a slick slide, no external safety and a bobbed hammer.
"The clip holds ten rounds." In a move of practiced economy, Carlos slid out the magazine, checked its spring-loaded contents and snapped it into place. "With one round in the chamber, that gives you—"
"Eleven. I can add. I can also shoot. My father taught me one summer," she said in answer to his questioning look. "We'd hold target practice in the canebrakes at the sugar plantation."
She didn't see any need to add that she was only eight at the time and barely big enough to shoulder her father's double-barrel shotgun. Or that he'd only indulged her a single time, on a whim. Her mother had taken one look at Margarita's bruised collarbone and ended such nonsense then and there.
Grimly, Carlos holstered the weapon. "Let's hope you won't have to put your target practice to use."
She didn't answer, her mind on the brief inventory just conducted. Her would-be suitor had set out last night well equipped for any eventuality…unlike a certain SPEAR agent, she thought wryly. Once again she cursed the metal detectors at the prison.
At least she'd had the sense to change out of her gown into boots and jeans before her quick dash to the castillo last night, although she wished she'd chosen something sturdier than this long-sleeved white cotton blouse. Her close encounters with the rocky mountain slope had almost shredded the darned thing. Thoroughly disgusted with herself for landing in this situation so unprepared, Margarita pushed to her feet.
Her first priority was to get back to civilization and contact SPEAR. With luck, they could still mount a containment search that would net the elusive Simon. She also wanted to relay to Jonah the few bits of information she'd managed to extract. Simon knew who headed SPEAR, he wore his scars like a badge and he planned for Jonah to see them…soon.
The Spy Who Loved Him Page 4