Power: Special Tactical Units Division (In Wilde Country Book 3)

by Sandra Marton

  A drop of water spilled as she drank.

  He watched it run down her chin, traverse the long curve of her throat, fall again and be absorbed by her cotton T-shirt.

  The shirt was torn just above her breasts.

  His gaze fell to her breasts.

  Was she braless? Was that the delicate press of nipples under the shirt? Her breasts were small. No. Not small. They were just the right size for a man’s hands and mouth…

  “Finished.”

  His head jerked up. “What?”

  “I said, I’m finished with…”

  He snatched the canteen from her outstretched hand. Did she know he’d been looking at her tits? Her expression gave nothing away and besides, what if she did? Back in the real world, catching a man’s eye would have been what she wanted. All that blonde hair streaming down her back, her face covered with artfully applied makeup instead of dirt, her slender body draped in designer clothes that would probably cost what he made in a year…

  “Time to get moving,” he said brusquely.

  He turned his back on her and started walking. He was going faster now that he’d let her drink some water and take a few minutes rest.

  Maybe pretending to know something about snakes was part of who she pretended to be. Anything was possible. Big cats became coats, scary snakes became shoes. It was none of his concern. His concern was getting her back to the States in one piece, and they had miles to go before he even got them off this fucking trail.

  * * *

  The good news was that near as he could tell, nobody was coming after them.

  They took a short break every forty or fifty minutes. They drank some water. She ate a power bar. He waved off her offer to share a bar with him, and he listened for pursuers.

  Nothing.

  Howler monkeys screamed from the treetops. Birds sang. Insects buzzed. Once, he heard the huffing and tooth-clacking of wild pigs.

  “Peccaries,” he said softly, and motioned her to remain still.

  But he heard nothing human. No voices, no bodies pushing through brush.

  Good news, all of it.

  But there was bad news too.

  They definitely weren’t making the time he’d hoped for.

  Yes, people hadn’t used this trail for a very long time.

  Tanner saw lots of animal sign—pigs, coatimundi, ocelot and jaguar had all come this way—but animals used a trail differently than people. If there were obstacles of any kind— downed trees or branches, thorny bushes, mud, piles of dead leaves and rotted vegetation that made for excellent tarantula and fer-de-lance habitat, animals simply went over, through, around, even under them.

  People lacked some of those options.

  They tended to edge past obstacles by skirting the trail.

  Not a good plan out here.

  He’d already spotted a tarantula the size of his hand squatting on a rotting log. Contrary to popular lore, tarantula bites didn’t often kill—but they were painful as hell.

  He’d also seen a fer-de-lance, the snake’s dark-diamond-patterned skin making it close to invisible as it lay in a pile of dead leaves. The snake had been far enough into the undergrowth for them to avoid it, so he’d paused, reached back for Alessandra Wilde’s wrist and said, very softly, “Snake. Venomous. Stay in my footsteps.”

  “I know. Fer-de-lance.”

  Okay. Maybe she did know snakes. She certainly wasn’t stupid, this rescued hostage. And she was doing her best to keep up.

  He had to give her credit.

  She hadn’t complained, hadn’t even asked for longer or more frequent breaks, but each time he looked at her, he could tell that she was close to dropping from exhaustion. Her breathing was labored, she’d sweated through her tattered clothes, and she was limping.

  Tanner’s mouth thinned.

  Limping seemed to be a trait they shared.

  He hadn’t been particularly worried about his leg. At the last minute he’d added a small vial of prescription pain pills to his pack, not so much for himself but because he’d had no idea what condition the woman would be in.

  He’d be fine.

  The terrain would be rough, but it would be flat.

  His leg would stand up to the job.

  Wrong.

  The wound in his calf was starting to throb. If it went from throbbing to outright pain, they’d be in trouble.

  Bottom line was that they needed to stop, and soon. Not for a break. For the night. He’d figured on reaching the river by midafternoon, but it was past that now and he knew they were still miles away. He had to find a place to make camp, but it sure as hell couldn’t be here. The only idea worse than trying to travel through this dense vegetation in the dark was spending the night in it.

  A tall palm tree loomed ahead. He eyed the trunk, the lowest and then the highest branches. It would do as a lookout site, he decided, and he swung around.

  “Hey,” he said, but the woman was walking with her head down and she kept coming, straight into him. No swaying this time. No tremors. If he hadn’t caught her in his arms, she’d have gone down.

  She mumbled something. It sounded like “Sorry.”

  Tanner’s jaw tightened.

  She had nothing to be sorry about. If she was on the verge of collapse, it was because he’d pushed her harder than he should have the last few miles. He’d told himself it was necessary, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he’d been venting his personal feelings about women like her. Maybe he’d been judging her.

  Maybe?

  Well, hell.

  His job was to get her out of San Escobal and back to the States. Nothing more.

  There was a tree stump off to the side. He kept his arm around her, drew her with him as he checked the stump for bugs and snakes. Then he eased her onto it and crouched before her. Her face was pale and sweaty. Her eyes had a glassy shine.

  Shit. Was she running a fever?

  He pushed a hank of hair off her forehead, then pressed his palm to it. No fever. It wasn’t the most scientific method, but it worked. Still, once they stopped for the night, he’d get a couple of antibiotic capsules into her.

  For now, all he could do was keep her moving.

  “Just a little farther,” he said. “Then we’ll take a real break.”

  She gave a weak laugh. “You’d be lying on a beach in Guatemala by now without me holding you back.”

  He smiled, despite himself. “The beaches in Guatemala are overrated.” He paused. “We need to find a place to spend the night.”

  She squinted up at the sky, or what was visible of it through the canopy of trees. “Sunset won’t be for another couple of hours.”

  “Right. But we don’t want to be on this trail then. It’s liable to get kind of busy.”

  “The peccaries?”

  “And other stuff.”

  “Jaguars,” she said.

  Jaguars. Her wanting to turn them into coats because she had nothing better to do with her life. That was what had started all of this.

  Tanner got to his feet.

  “Yeah. Jaguars. Though no self-respecting cat is going to show itself to us if it can help it. Even if it did, you seem to have left your rifle back at the place where Mutt and Jeff captured you.”

  She looked up.

  “Skinny and Stubby.”

  “Whatever.”

  “And why would I want a gun?”

  “It would be hard to drape a live cat around your shoulders.”

  The expression on her face said he’d lost his mind. Maybe so. Hadn’t he just told himself that he wasn’t here to sit in judgment on her?

  “Okay,” he said briskly. “Stay put. I’m gonna shinny up that tree and see if I can find us a Motel 6.”

  She nodded, and for a couple of seconds, all the weariness in the world showed in her eyes. Then she flashed a quick smile.

  “As long as it has flush toilets and room service.”

  Despite himself, he laughed.

  * * *


  The place he found was a clearing on a patch of slightly elevated ground.

  It lacked toilets and room service, but Alessandra was still ready to call it paradise.

  Tall palms stood in a tight cluster, their fronds waving in a breeze just strong enough to discourage mosquitoes and other flying creatures.

  Superman grabbed a heavy-looking stick and smacked it against the trunk of the biggest tree. Two small dark things flew out of the top branches and flapped away.

  “Bats,” he said.

  Bats were okay. There were endless varieties in the rainforest. The only ones that made her shudder were the ones that lived on blood—the vampires—but other kinds, and there were many, she could deal with.

  Superman kicked aside a small pile of dead leaves. A centipede made a dash for freedom,

  She couldn’t deal with centipedes. Or millipedes. Things with more legs than any creature could possibly need, but she saw the look Supe sent her when the thing scuttled into the surrounding jungle, and she didn’t so much as stir.

  She suspected that shuddering would only assure him that she was dislikable, and if there wasn’t such a word, there should be because for all the care he’d taken to get her away from her captors, what emanated from him to her was dislike.

  He shrugged off his vicious-looking automatic rifle, leaned it against one of the palms, and did the same with the machete. Then he dumped his pack, squatted down, opened it and took out a cellphone. No. Not a cellphone.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  He hit a button and held up his free hand. The request—the command—for silence was clear.

  “Chay,” he said crisply. “Yes. Subject acquired. No, no problems so far. Good. Out.”

  Okay. She knew what the object was. A satellite phone, but just to be sure, she decided to ask.

  “Is that a satellite phone?”

  “Correct.” He hit a button, then tucked the satphone inside the pack again.

  “And who were you talking to?”

  “Base.”

  “In the States?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached into the pack and took out something that resembled a folded square of olive-drab canvas. He rose, shook it open, spread it on the ground and then bent to the pack again.

  She felt useless, just standing and watching.

  “Can I help?”

  He shook his head.

  “Just stay out of the way. That’s all I require from you.”

  He spoke briskly. Impersonally. Two whole sentences this time, but she didn’t like that word, require. It made her feel like a ten-year-old being given an assignment by a teacher. That was pretty much his attitude towards her in general.

  But he’d saved her life.

  Who was she to protest?

  She sank down on the ground cloth and watched as he began taking other things out of the backpack.

  Impressive.

  The man got an A for neatness.

  Everything was carefully arranged. She recognized the MREs. The coalition used them in the field. There were little plastic containers and baggies, some folded stuff she figured was a change of clothes, a cook pot, nylon rope and other odds and ends that made for typical camping gear—but there was nothing typical about this camper.

  This was the first chance she’d had to get a real look at him. The long, lean body. Those muscled arms and that chest. The broad shoulders. The stony face. The short, almost black hair. The sculpted face, strong and handsome despite the dark stripes,

  Actually, the stripes added something.

  They made him look...dangerous.

  Dangerous, and, be honest, Alessandra, sexy as hell.

  Not that it mattered.

  Superman was all attitude. She didn’t like him, and she still didn’t even know his name.

  “Maybe that’s all you require,” she said. “But I require a name.”

  He looked at her. “What?”

  “Your name. I don’t know it.” Her smile was toxic. “And Superman seems a little much.”

  “Superman?”

  “You know. Man of Steel. Big. Macho. Tough on bad guys. Awkward with regular people.”

  To her delight, color rose in his cheeks. She could see it, even under those camouflage stripes.

  “Akecheta.”

  “Is that your first name or your last name?”

  “Last.”

  It was like pulling teeth.

  “So, Mr. Akecheta, do you have a first name?”

  “It’s Lieutenant.”

  “Lieutenant is your first name?”

  “I meant…” He looked at her. There was a glint of laughter in her eyes. He couldn’t blame her. He probably sounded like a fool. This woman was having a bad effect on him. “I meant,” he said coldly, “I’m a lieutenant.”

  “And your first name is…?”

  “Tanner.”

  “Akecheta. It’s an unusual name. Is it Spanish?”

  “No.”

  “Italian?”

  “No.”

  “I only meant, you know, all those vowels…”

  “Indian,” he said brusquely as he opened one of the little pill containers and shook two capsules into the palm of his hand. “American Indian. Or Native American. Take your choice.”

  “What tribe?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Alessandra rolled her eyes. “Che stronzo! I’m just making conversation.”

  “Conversation’s a waste of energy.” He held out the canteen and the capsules. “Take them.”

  “What are they?”

  “Antibiotics.”

  “I’m not sick.”

  “They’re a preventive. Take them.”

  “You can’t prevent illness by taking antibiotics, Mr. Akecheta.”

  “Lieutenant. And no, you probably can’t, but maybe you can lessen the effect of whatever bug you’ve picked up.”

  “If you’ve picked up a bug.”

  His eyes, an amazing shade of hazel, seemed to darken.

  “Ms. Wilde. I’m going to be blunt. It has been one fucking hell of one fucking long day and I am most definitely not in the fucking mood for debate. Just take the capsules.”

  Her eyes turned icy.

  “I think you just broke the record for saying that word.”

  He smiled tightly. “What word?” he said, even though he damn well knew the word she meant.

  “Fooking,” she said, and blushed.

  That little accent. It was barely distinguishable, but it came through loud and clear on a world like fucking.

  He wanted to laugh, but he wasn’t entirely stupid. Laughter right now not might not be the best policy.

  “I’m happy to know you’re familiar with the Guinness Book of World Records.”

  “With what?”

  “Ms. Wilde—”

  “It’s Bellini.”

  “Ms. Bellini. Would you rather I held your nose and stuffed the capsules down your throat?”

  Alessandra glared at him. “You could use some lessons in civility, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ll be sure and mention that to my commanding officer.”

  “You do that.”

  She snatched the capsules from his outstretched hand, popped them in her mouth, took the canteen and gulped a drink of water before handing it back. He stowed it in his backpack, then clutched her chin.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Your lip is puffy.”

  “My lip is fine.”

  He reached for a small tube, opened it, brought it towards her mouth.

  “What is that stuff?”

  “It’s just a lip balm. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “What if I don’t want…”

  Tanner held her still and swiped the ointment over her lips. The balm felt cool and soothing, and she felt almost instant relief.

  “Better?”

  “No.”

  He laughed. She glared.

  “How’s your eye fe
el?”

  “Wonderful,” she said sweetly. “How’s yours?”

  He tilted her head to the side. Her eye and cheek were an amalgam of black, blue and purple. He felt a rush of fury, but he knew better than to let it take over. He had a job to do and the best way to do it was to keep his emotions neutral.

  He danced his fingers over the underlying bones. Careful as he was, she winced.

  “Hey! Don’t press so hard.”

  “I’m checking to see if there are any fractures.”

  “There aren’t.”

  “No. Luckily, there aren’t.” He picked up an antiseptic pad. “Close your eyes.” She did, and he cleaned her face with slow, steady strokes. “Which of them did this to you?”

  The question was simple, but something in his tone sent a shiver down her spine.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does, if we run into them again.”

  Alessandra opened her eyes. She stared at her rescuer. He didn’t like her. She didn’t much like him. Still, that question just now, the male assertiveness inherent in it…

  “And your wrists…” He clasped her hands and turned them over. His mouth tightened at the sight of the raw, red flesh. He looked up, his eyes narrowed. “We need to deal with all this.”

  “All what?”

  “Your cuts and abrasions. Otherwise, you run the risk of infection.”

  There was no point in arguing. He was right and she knew it. Plus, her face and lips felt better already, thanks to the ointment he’d put on her lips and the way he’d cleaned her face.

  She watched him as he rummaged through his backpack.

  He was a puzzlement, this man. Tough. Tender. Intense. And, not that it mattered in any way whatsoever, he was also what any woman in her right mind would call a hunk.

  Who was he, anyway? All he’d given her so far was name and rank. Would his serial number come next?

  “Okay.” He took her right hand in his, bent his dark head and touched an antiseptic pad to her skin. “This might sting a little.”

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Take a guess.”

  The sarcasm in his voice was thick enough to cut with a knife.

  “The FURever Fund?”

  “Try again. And give me your other hand.”

  “I’m not in the mood for guessing games, Lieutenant. It’s a simple question. Who sent you to find me?”