Determined to Protect, Forbidden to Love

by Beverly Barton

  “What—?” The one questioning word was all Miguel said before Dom grabbed his arm and, shoving through the reporters, raced with him to the Hummer.

  Once safe inside, Dom said, “Vic Noble sent some of his friends to pick us up.”

  J.J. awoke later that afternoon, feeling more human than she’d felt since the shooting. She figured Juan Esteban had lowered the dosage of her pain medication, which had helped her not only to stay awake, but also to be at least partially alert. She hated that woozy, drugged feeling, that sense of not being fully in control of her mind or body.

  Geoff Monday had been in and out of her room all day. Every time a nurse came in for whatever reason, they had asked him to step outside. She had been bathed, fed, prodded and poked. Although she knew the nurses checked her vital signs only at regular intervals, she felt as if they were doing it every hour on the hour. How on earth did anyone get any rest while they were in the hospital?

  When a pair of nurses shooed Geoff out, he smiled, shrugged and left willingly. But when they wheeled her hospital bed out into the hall, he stopped them immediately. They explained in rapid Spanish that they were taking J.J. down for some X-rays.

  “My Spanish is a little rusty,” Geoff admitted as he kept his big, meaty hand planted on the foot of J.J.’s bed, effectively blocking the path. “Did they say something about some X-rays?”

  “They’re taking me downstairs for some X-rays,” J.J. told him. “I’m not sure why, but I suppose it’s simply hospital procedure. Apparently, Juan Esteban issued the order.”

  “I’ll ride down in the elevator with you,” Geoff said.

  “I’ll tell them that my friend will be going with us.” She then turned to the two nurses and spoke to them in Spanish.

  They both nodded and smiled, so Geoff moved out of the way and followed them to the service elevator. With one nurse at the head of her bed and the other at the foot, they maneuvered the bed into the elevator, then one of the nurses hopped out of the elevator in front of Geoff while the other one hit the down button.

  “What’s going on?” J.J. demanded half a second before the nurse covered her face with a foul-smelling rag.

  Dom received a frantic call on his cell phone from Geoff Monday, who referred to himself by every conceivable name in the book for allowing J.J. to be snapped up right under his nose. Almost simultaneously, Miguel’s cell phone rang.

  “Answer it!” Dom shouted. “J.J.’s been kidnapped.

  Chapter 16

  Miguel’s heart stopped for a moment, a part of him dying on the spot. That brief hesitation gained him another shout from Domingo Shea.

  “Answer the goddamn phone.”

  With robotic movements, Miguel removed his cell phone from his belt clip, flipped it open and placed it to his ear. “Yes, this is Miguel Ramirez.”

  “Are you missing a wounded fiancée?” the obviously disguised voice asked.

  “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

  Dom clamped his hand down on Miguel’s shoulder and gave him a look that told him not to panic, to stay calm.

  Laughter. He heard the person on the other end of the phone laughing. When he found this person, he would rip out his heart.

  “She is well. For now,” the voice said. “Whether she lives or dies depends on you.”

  “What do you want?” Miguel asked, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

  “We want you to make another appearance on television. Call your friend Mario Lamas and arrange for another national broadcast.”

  “I can do that,” Miguel said. “What am I supposed to announce?” He knew, but he had to hear the words said aloud, the demand made.

  “If you wish to save Señorita Blair’s life, you will withdraw from the presidential race. Make up any reason you choose to tell the citizens of Mocorito. If you do not do as we request, your American fiancée—” the man chuckled “—will die and her blood will be on your hands.”

  “I understand.”

  “You have until five o’clock today to speak to the people of Mocorito.”

  “And if I do as you request, you will release Jennifer unharmed?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The line went suddenly dead. Miguel gripped the phone with white-knuckled rage. He turned to Dom Shea. “They say they will kill her, if I don’t—” He looked at his cell phone. “I have to call Mario Lamas and make arrangements for a few moments of air time.”

  “Tell me what the hell he said to you.”

  Miguel shook his head. “It does not matter. I know what I must do.”

  Dom grabbed Miguel’s shoulders and shook him. The two men faced off, like two warriors preparing for hand-to-hand combat. “Don’t try to handle this alone. Don’t go all power-hungry on me. For God’s sake, it’s J.J.’s life that’s at stake here.”

  Bristling, every muscle in his body taut, Miguel said,” Do you think I do not know what is at stake?”

  “Yeah, sure you do. Just fill me in,” Dom told him. “You’re not going to play God where J.J. is concerned. You’re not making any decisions on your own. Do you understand?”

  “They will kill her if I do not withdraw from the presidential race. There, I’ve said it. Does that change anything? No, it does not.” He shrugged off Dom’s hold and lifted his cell phone. “I must contact Mario and—”

  Dom grabbed Miguel’s wrist, effectively stopping him from making the call. “Hold on.”

  “I have only until five o’clock.” Miguel glanced at his wristwatch. “It is now two-thirty.”

  “What proof did they give you that they have J.J.?”

  “She is missing, is she not? Was she not kidnapped from the hospital, despite one of your Dundee agents being there to protect her?”

  “There’s no reason for you to go off half-cocked. You need to slow down and think. What assurance did they give that, if they actually have J.J., they will release her unharmed when you publicly announce your withdrawal from the race?”

  An overpowering sense of total deflation hit Miguel, as if all the wind had been knocked out of him. “They gave me no proof that they have her and I have only one man’s word that she will be released unharmed if I do as they say.”

  Dom squeezed Miguel’s wrist, then released him. “Call Mario and ask for air time at four-fifty. Tell him to make some public service announcements, starting immediately, that Miguel Ramirez will again speak to the people of Mocorito. At four-fifty this afternoon. That will buy us some time.”

  “What can we do in two hours and fifteen minutes?”

  “We can turn this city upside down and right side out and if we’re lucky we’ll find her. If not, then you’ll go on TV.”

  J.J. came to in a darkened room, the smell of fish and seawater strong. If she had to venture a guess as to where her kidnappers had taken her, she’d say it was somewhere near the waterfront. And since she seriously doubted that they were keeping her in any of the luxurious condos and cottages with ocean views in Nava, that probably meant she was in Colima. Like Ebano, Colima was little more than a suburb of Nava, but much less upscale than Ebano.

  J.J.’s side ached something awful, the pain bearable, but for how long? She’d been kept on painkillers for days now, but she didn’t know how long it had been since her last injection because she had no idea what time it was. Dim light came through the row of small, high windows near the top of the twenty-foot wall. That meant it wasn’t nighttime yet.

  When she tried to move, she realized her wrists were tied to the wooden arm rests on either side of the chair in which she sat. And her ankles were bound together.

  While she was still trying to get her bearings and figure out what, if anything, she could do, a door on the far side of the room swung open, ushering in a bit more light which outlined the tall, menacing figure standing in the doorway.

  “Good afternoon, Señorita Blair,” the familiar voice said to her in Spanish.

  When he walked into the room and came closer, close enoug
h for her to see his face, she looked him right in the eye and said, “So it is you who are the traitor.”

  Diego went to the palace when Hector summoned him, and he sat there with the president and the secretary of state while Hector explained to Diego that some loyal Federalists had whisked Señorita Blair from her hospital room.

  “She is being held now—quite safe you understand—in Colima, at the old abandoned Cristobal canning plant on the waterfront.” Hector had smirked, thinking he was placating Diego by sharing every tidbit of information with him. “Since the assassination attempt several evenings ago went awry, our supporters were forced to improvise.”

  “If Ramirez withdraws his candidacy, you will free Señorita Blair?” Diego asked, doing his best to not appear at all concerned.

  “Certainly. Of course.”

  Diego knew the man was lying to him. Lying now as he had been doing for the past year. He had flattered Diego, praised him and used his hatred for his half-brother to bring out the very worst in him. The dark, demonic side that lived deep inside every man.

  “I know you have been concerned, my friend, about recent events.” Hector Padilla looked remorseful, as if he truly regretted the horrible things that had been happening. “I, more than anyone, long for peace. But often the price of peace is the lives of innocent people. You understand, Diego, a man of your intelligence.”

  Diego nodded. “Yes, I understand, el presidente.”

  “Good. Good. Now that this is settled, come, join us for a late lunch. And tonight come back to the palace. I believe we will have much to celebrate then.”

  “Regrettably I must decline the offer of lunch. My mother is greatly concerned about my young sister who has left home. It is a family crisis and I must do what I can to help my poor mother and bring my sister back to her family.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Hector rose from his chair and patted Diego on the back as he walked him to the door. “Be sure to watch television this afternoon at four-fifty. That bastard brother of yours will once again address the nation. But this time he will be saying what we want to hear.”

  At four-fifteen, just as Miguel and Dom entered Mario Lamas’s office at the television station, Dom’s cell phone rang.

  “I cannot believe this has happened,” Mario said. “There must be another way to handle this. You cannot withdraw from the presidential race.”

  Dom stepped outside into the hallway to answer his cell phone. Miguel prayed that the call was news about Jennifer. Geoff Monday had joined Vic Noble, who had in turn called in Will Pierce and every contact either man had in Mocorito had been assigned the job of finding out where J.J. Blair had been taken. So far, not one lead had panned out. Time was running out. In thirty minutes, he would have to make the most difficult speech of his life. He had truly believed that he would always put Mocorito first, above everything and everyone. Had he not been willing to risk the lives of his family and friends in order to save his beloved country? How was it that now he planned to forsake every pledge he had made to his people in order to possibly save one woman?

  Jennifer.

  Dom came back into the office, a look of disappointment on his face. He glanced at Miguel and shook his head.

  “If I refuse to do as the kidnappers asked, they will kill Jennifer,” Miguel said to Mario.

  “You are being asked to choose between the woman you love and the country—the people—that you love.” Mario shook his head. “No man should be asked to make such a choice.”

  “You know what J.J. would tell you to do, don’t you?” Dom said in English, knowing Mario would not understand him.

  Dom Shea’s words fell on deaf ears.

  “And I wish I had the strength to do what she would want,” Miguel said. “But I do not. I cannot let them kill her.”

  “Damn it, man, don’t you know that no matter what you do, they’re going to kill her.”

  No! He could not bear to hear the truth. And he knew, in his heart, that what Dom had been trying to tell him for the past couple of hours was the truth. No matter what he did, unless they could find J.J. soon, she would die.

  If she were not already dead.

  And if she could make the decision for him, she would tell him not to give in to threats, to tell her kidnappers to go to hell. She would expect him to stay in the presidential race and win.

  Suddenly Miguel’s cell phone rang. All three of them stared at the phone clipped to his belt. With a slightly unsteady hand, Miguel removed the phone, flipped it open and took a deep breath.

  “This is Miguel Ramirez.”

  Silence.

  “Who is this?”

  Silence.

  “Is someone there?”

  “This is Diego Fernandez.”

  Miguel swallowed hard. “What do you want?”

  “I realize you have no reason to believe me, no reason to trust me. If I were in your shoes, I would not trust you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know where Señorita Blair is being held.”

  Miguel’s heart stopped. “Why have you called? To torment me? I am here at the television station right now, preparing to announce my withdrawal from the presidential race at approximately four-fifty. What more can Hector Padilla ask of me?”

  “To hell with Padilla,” Diego said. “I am asking you not to withdraw from the race. And I am telling you that if you come now, you can save the American woman. I can tell you where she is.”

  “Why should I believe you?” Miguel’s pulse raced, his heartbeat accelerated alarmingly. “Why would you want to help me?”

  Mario’s eyes widened inquiringly. Dom Shea came over and mouthed, “Who is it?” as he narrowed his gaze and frowned at Miguel.

  “When you are elected president, I want a full pardon for any crimes I may have committed, in ignorance, on behalf of President Padilla,” Diego said.”

  “If I swear to give you what you ask for—”

  “I am only a few yards away from where she is being held,” Diego told him. “Give me your solemn vow that you will pardon me unconditionally and I will tell you where she is.”

  “I swear to you, Diego Fernandez, that when I, Miguel Cesar Ramirez, am elected president of Mocorito, I will pardon you for any and all crimes.”

  “Come to Colima,” Diego said. “They are holding her at the old Cristobal canning plant on the waterfront.”

  The line went dead. Miguel closed his cell phone, then faced Dom as his mind went into overdrive trying to figure out what had just happened.

  “She’s in Colima,” Miguel said.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Dom asked. “You were swearing some kind of oath to your half-brother?”

  “Mario, go on television at four-fifty and tell the people that Miguel Ramirez will speak to them shortly, that his car has been held up by the thousands of supporters who are lining the streets and blocking traffic.”

  “Yes, Miguel.” With a stunned look in his eyes, Mario nodded.

  Miguel headed for the door, calling out to Dom without slowing down. “Let’s go. I know where they’re holding J.J.”

  Following behind Miguel as he ran down the corridor, Dom called out, “How do you know that Diego Fernandez isn’t sending you off on a wild goose chase?”

  “Why would he try to stop me from publicly withdrawing from the presidential race?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  Dom kept pace with Miguel as he shoved open the front door and pushed his way through the horde of supporters who descended upon them.

  Once they finally made it to Dom’s rental car, Miguel held out his hand. “Give me the keys. I will drive. I know where we are going.”

  Dom tossed Miguel the keys, then rounded the trunk and got in on the passenger side. Miguel revved the motor, backed the car out of the parking slot and nearly ran over several people blocking the street.

  “Call Vic Noble and Will Pierce,” Miguel said. “Tell them to meet us in Colima as soon as po
ssible.”

  Dom started dialing his cell phone immediately. “Exactly where in Colima do you want them to meet us?”

  “On the waterfront. At the old Cristobal canning plant.”

  Chapter 17

  When he was a child, Miguel had come to Colima often with his grandfather and they had sat for hours fishing off the pier. Sometimes his grandfather’s old friends would drop by and bring a bottle of tequila or some domestic beer and the men would reminisce about when they were young. Without fail, a man named Joaquin would recall one of his amorous moments with this or that young lady and Miguel’s grandfather would have to remind him that there was a child listening.

  Joaquin would always rub Miguel’s head, mussing his hair, and say, “Someday this one will be quite the man with the ladies.”

  “Miguel will have more important things to do with his life than charm the ladies,” his grandfather had said.

  The others would laugh and ask what could possibly be more important.

  The memory filled Miguel’s mind as he parked the rental car in the middle of the desolate street in Colima.

  Dom glanced over at him and asked, “Is this it?”

  “No, the old canning plant is up at the end of the block.” He pointed the direction. “I think it best if we walk the rest of the way. I have no idea exactly where Diego is waiting for us.”

  “If he’s waiting for us.”

  When Miguel got out of the car, Dom followed him.

  Glancing over his shoulder as he headed up the street, Miguel replied, “You think we could be walking into a trap, don’t you?”

  “Anything is possible. We need to be prepared.” Dom patted his hip where his holster was attached to his belt, then paused, bent down and hiked up his pants leg. There attached to his thigh was a small holster containing a 25-caliber pistol, at most four inches long. He withdrew the automatic and held it out to Miguel.

  “Take this and keep it on you,” Dom said. “It’s loaded. It holds a six-shot magazine and it’s a single action.”

  Miguel paused, turned and took the gun. After looking it over, he pocketed the pistol and continued walking. Since every building within a two-block area was empty, some in crumbled ruins, others dilapidated and on the verge of ruin, it was highly unlikely they would run into anyone. When they neared the end of the deserted street, Miguel paused and scanned the area around him, carefully looking and listening.