To the Limit (Shadow Heroes Book 3)

by Virginia Kelly

  But God, how he ached.

  The vision of her, the remembered feel of her, the pleasure, all combined to make him hard again. With sudden clarity, he realized that even if he could have her once, really have her, it wouldn’t be enough. She meant too much.

  To save her pride, he’d grasped at the lack of protection, but he’d never even thought of it. He hadn’t thought about anything except getting inside her.

  He pulled on clean clothes, jerking a shirt over his head. He would be gone by the time she got back. Gone so she wouldn’t look into his soul and see the truth. She’d proved she had the ability to do just that. He had to get a grip on the situation. Had to focus on the reasons they were here.

  Mary Beth wanted to save her brother, Nick wanted to protect his. If he couldn’t find the connection between Daniel and Mark Williams, he would fail his brother.

  Again.

  And Antonio Vargas would again get away with destroying more lives.

  Nick took his questions about Williams, known here as Juan Marcos, to the market. The old women who sold vegetables all agreed. No woman here had been able to draw the man’s attention. He was a loner. A friendly, good-natured man who got along with everyone. A man who’d come and gone over years. Then another woman remembered that Juan had formed a friendship with an old man and his grandson. He’d even helped them repair their house before the rains came.

  Nick found the grandson, a boy named Beto, seated on a blanket at the edge of the market. He was thirteen or so, good-looking, with angular features that indicated he was on the verge of maturity. Before him on the blanket lay used magazines and comic books. Nick squatted down to look at the old titles. The boy stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “How much?” he asked, fingering an old Spider-Man comic.

  The boy mumbled a price, his black eyes intent on Nick’s face.

  Nick took the money from his pocket and handed it to the boy. “I am looking for Juan Marcos,” he said, dropping the coins into the boy’s palm.

  Silence met his question.

  “I am told you know him.”

  “Sí.” Beto eyed him suspiciously. He put the change into his pocket before speaking. “Is that woman his sister?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “They are much alike, no?”

  “What do you know about Juan?”

  Nick had nearly given up waiting when the boy finally spoke. “He was taken. With my grandfather.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “El rubio, the man called Juan Marcos, he was taken with my grandfather.”

  “By who?”

  “Men.” The boy straightened his too-big shirt. “Rangers.”

  “Why did they do this?”

  He raised one thin shoulder. “El rubio was with my grandfather. They make him take his tools.”

  “Tools?”

  “My grandfather is a printer.”

  “You’ve done nothing about this?”

  “What am I to do? I cannot go to the Rangers and ask about my grandfather. I cannot go to the Guardia.” Beto shook his head in defeat. “There is no one who can help.”

  “Where did the Rangers take your grandfather and Juan?”

  “To the stockade.”

  Nick looked at the meager supply of magazines and comics. The boy would starve unless he had help.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Dead,” Beto replied, his face impassive.

  Here, but for the grace of God and Elena Vargas, was what he could have become. “Go see Padre Franco. He will help you.”

  ***

  Nick was gone when Mary Beth got back from the falls. She dressed, left the bungalow and walked along the river toward the mission. She didn’t know what she’d do when she got there, but waiting until he returned wasn’t an option. At least not yet.

  As she neared the mission church, she saw Padre Franco come out and get into his battered pickup. He smiled at her and waited as she walked up to him.

  “Where is Nick?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’m surprised he let you come out by yourself.”

  “I, um … thought I’d see what there is at the market.” She wondered if the priest could sense lies.

  “I am on my way to visit a nearby village. I will be back late tonight.” Padre Franco seemed to assess her. “Are you sure everything is all right?”

  “Yes, of course.” But Mary Beth felt a flush along her cheeks.

  “Nick is a good man, Mary Beth. He will help you and your brother.”

  But at what price to her heart?

  The priest waved and drove off down the dirt track.

  She’d walked most of the way to the market when she heard the rumble of an engine. As she made the final turn along the dusty path, a Jeep come to a screeching halt in front of an old woman’s vegetable display. Inside sat Elliot Smith and the three American soldiers who’d come by the day before. They stopped, got out, and asked questions. More than once, Mary Beth saw an old woman shake her head, or a young boy mouth the word no.

  Afraid to draw attention to herself, she kept walking. The men didn’t seem to notice her. She managed to reach one of the low benches where a young woman displayed her weaving. Idly, she touched one of the ponchos and tried to listen to the nearest soldier as he asked his questions, but all she could pick up was the word rubio. Blond. That was enough for her to know they were still looking for Mark.

  Somehow, she remained calm. As quickly and as efficiently as they’d arrived, Smith and the soldiers regrouped and drove away.

  She put down the poncho she’d been holding and walked over to the woman who sold fruit.

  “Buenas tardes,” she said.

  “Buenas tardes, señorita.”

  “How much for the apples?”

  The woman replied and as Mary Beth chose two, she asked about the men. “What did they want?”

  “They look for your brother.”

  “Do you know where my brother is?”

  “No, señorita, we do not,” the woman said. “Your brother is a good man.”

  The words echoed in Mary Beth’s mind as she walked back toward the cabin with her fruit. Mark was a good man. She’d always known that. But she hadn’t known about his life here. A gift for carving wood into beautiful figures was one thing. Being involved in something that elicited accusations of criminal activity was another. What in the world had brought Mark to this place?

  It was nearly dark by the time she reached the cabin. She steeled herself for that first awkward encounter, opened the front door and stepped in, calling out, “Nick!”

  No response. A single sheet of paper on the small kitchen table drew her attention. When she picked it up, Nick’s writing, bold and strong, read: “I will be back late tonight. Maybe in the morning.” A single scrawled N finished the note.

  He wanted to see her even less than she wanted to see him.

  ***

  Nick cut through the barbed wire fence surrounding the Rangers’ stockade, slipped past two guards, and approached the first of three buildings. The late-night breeze stirred the bushes surrounding the simple wooden structures. He quickly looked inside two of the three buildings. One contained a holding cell, empty, the other, bunks, a bathroom and a kitchen. The buildings looked abandoned, with no one in sight but the two guards.

  After a quick dash to the third building, he cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in a back window, his boots sinking in the soft earth. This building seemed as unremarkable as the other two he’d seen. Just an office with some communications equipment barely visible from the light filtering through a door open only inches. He made his way to the corner of the building, careful to be quiet, holding his Glock down at his side. He waited patiently for any sign of a guard, then peeked around the corner. No one was there.

  He checked the first window on this side but couldn’t see anything. As with the other buildings, the lights were off. He moved down to the sec
ond window, where the lights were on. And saw something he’d seen before—when he’d bargained with terrorists.

  Assault rifles. Machine guns. Grenade launchers. Guns and ammunition of every sort. None of them San Matean military issue. All spread out on three long tables and across the floor.

  A muffled sound drew Nick’s attention. Turning quickly, he looked out into the darkness. Nothing.

  He moved back to the corner of the building, waited twenty seconds and looked around, preparing to head back through the cut in the fence.

  The hot stab of pressure in his back, on his lower right side, caught him unaware. Jabbing his right elbow down, he turned, swinging the Glock to strike his attacker’s face.

  A slashing pain burst at his waist.

  ***

  Mary Beth woke with a jerk, her neck stiff from trying to sleep on the small couch. How she’d managed to even doze amazed her. She squinted at her wristwatch. Five minutes after five. The first glow of morning lit the breaks between the trees. Birds chattered awaiting the sunrise.

  Curious to see if Nick had come back, she stood and tiptoed to the bedroom. The bed was empty. But the duffle bag he carried was where he’d left it.

  She combed her fingers through her hair and stretched the kinks from her back. The couch was going to kill her.

  Her first reaction to Nick’s disappearing act had been anger. Then hurt. Now she simply felt tired. And edgy. She smoothed clammy hands down her thighs.

  She’d give him a bit longer, then she’d see if Padre Franco knew where he’d gone. The idea that he might have gone on to the valley without her preyed on her thoughts.

  A heavy thud from the side of the house made her jump. She ran for his bag, reassured that wherever Nick had gone, he’d left her a loaded gun. Her fingers shook as she pulled it out.

  She really was overreacting. A tree branch had probably hit the cabin.

  The second thud made her drop the gun back into the bag. She looked from one small window to the other. The light breeze billowed the light cotton print curtains. Outside, the sounds of dawn stopped.

  Heart in her throat, Mary Beth picked up the gun again and moved to the front door. Why didn’t this damn place have a back door?

  Her fingers slipped as she held the doorknob. The gun felt cold, the metal grip foreign.

  She waited. Endless minutes.

  And heard the heavy weight of something fall against the door. A groan followed. A wounded animal maybe?

  Torn between the need to see her terror and the need to flee, Mary Beth opened the door a crack, her grip on the gun steady.

  Nick lay sprawled on his back in the doorway. The first streak of sunlight burst through the trees and revealed a bloodstain darkening his clothing from waist to thighs. She rushed to his side and dropped to her knees beside him.

  He opened his eyes, his face ashen. “Have to get away,” he said in a rough whisper. His blue eyes were unfocused.

  “Oh, God, Nick!” She touched his cheek. Cold and clammy. That scared her more than the blood.

  “No time,” he muttered. “Got to get away.” He struggled to sit, holding his left arm tightly around his middle. In his right hand he held his gun.

  Maneuvering her shoulder under his right arm, she tried to support him as he stood. He weighed a ton.

  “Tell Franco I’m hurt,” he said leaning against her. “Bring his truck.”

  Mary Beth held on as he staggered into the cabin. She tried to ease him onto the couch, but he fell without a word. When she straightened, she felt the wet stickiness of his blood on her side and arm. She flicked on the light.

  His head lay back against the couch. Perspiration glinted off his brow, his lips were pinched in a straight line. He’d closed his eyes. Blood glistened red on his left arm.

  She ran to the bathroom and grabbed all the towels she could find. Kneeling before him, she pried the gun from his grip and tried to move his left arm from around his middle.

  “Back,” he protested weakly, fighting her hands.

  “I’ve got a towel. Pressure should stop the bleeding.”

  His arm relaxed and he leaned forward, his head resting on her shoulder. She pulled his T-shirt up, supporting his weight. A two-inch cut on his back, below his right lower rib, welled blood.

  She folded a towel into a pad and pressed it to the wound. “Lean back.”

  He fell back, his arms lax at his sides.

  Blood had to be coming from somewhere else for there to be this much. She raised the wet shirt from his abdomen. A second wound, this one on his left side, above his hipbone, looked longer than the one on his back, blood soaking the waistband of his jeans. The copper-sweet smell made her light-headed.

  Shakily, she grabbed another towel, wiped, made a pad of the towel and pressed.

  Desperation made her calm.

  “Nick?” She waited for some sign that he was conscious.

  He rolled his head to one side.

  “If you can lie down, your weight will put pressure on the back wound. You can hold the towel on the front while I go for Padre Franco.” But she didn’t know if he could hold anything, even a towel. She only prayed he could.

  He grunted and opened his eyes. They were nearly black. She should cover him, keep him warm to stave off shock. If he wasn’t already in shock. She didn’t know. She knew nothing about emergency care.

  “I’m sorry.” His eyes were focused on her blouse.

  She didn’t understand.

  “You’re covered in blood….” His voice faded.

  He was thinking of her when he was so weak? “Can you walk to the bed?”

  Somehow, he stood again. Between them, they managed to get him to the bedroom. He fell on the bed. Mary Beth made sure both pads were in place and squeezed his blood-slick hand before leaving. Then she ran as fast as she could.

  And prayed he would still be alive when she came back.

  Chapter Nine

  Mary Beth braced herself in the back of Padre Franco’s pickup as he drove over potholes on the rough track toward the hidden Land Cruiser. Nick, his head on her lap, flinched but didn’t wake. They’d wrapped him in blankets, but even they offered no protection from the cold metal of the truck bed. Mary Beth wanted to check the towels they’d placed over his wounds, but she was too shaky to do anything except make sure he didn’t shift as the priest raced over the bumpy road. Reaction and fear, she was sure.

  The priest had given her directions on how to get to a doctor, one who could be trusted, without getting on the main road. She’d listened with every ounce of her being, afraid she’d get them lost.

  Afraid Nick would die.

  The sun peeked over a distant mountain as the truck rolled to a stop behind the hidden Land Cruiser.

  The priest lowered the truck’s tailgate. Nick roused enough to lean on both her and Padre Franco to stumble the few steps to the Land Cruiser.

  “Remember,” Padre Franco told her. “Go east, around the lake. You will climb to around thirteen thousand feet. There will be an Incan ruin. Turn to the right there. It is a dirt road. Go to the second town and look for a low white wooden building. It will say Clínica in red letters. The doctor is a French-Canadian named Jean Rousseau, a close friend of the family. Tell him no one must know it is Nick. I would go, but I must be here to cover for you.”

  “Thank you, Padre.”

  In the cool morning air, the priest put his hand on Mary Beth’s shoulder. “I will pray for him. His body is strong. He is not a man to give up. Jean will make him well.” He squeezed her shoulder gently. “You must save his life.”

  With that, she was on her own.

  An hour later her hands ached from clutching the wheel. She’d driven relentlessly, careful only of the larger dips as she maneuvered the big car over the rough terrain. Nick lay sprawled in the back seat, his legs bent to fit. She spared another glance at her watch. She should be able to see the ruins by now. To her left, the lake reflected the rising sun. To her right, the l
ow rolling hills of the Andean plateau were broken only by boulders and scrub plants. Beyond the hills stood the some of the highest peaks in the world.

  Then she saw the looming outline of the ruins. Stark and square, the stones spoke of a culture long dead. She slowed to be sure she didn’t miss the road and glanced back.

  Nick hadn’t moved. Mary Beth strained to see the rise and fall of his chest.

  Her heart stalled for a single instant, panic making her throw the car into neutral and pull up the emergency brake.

  She nearly jerked the door off its hinges when she swung it open. Sunlight streamed in and hit Nick’s face. His lids moved, then his eyes opened and connected with hers.

  “Stop him. Have to stop him.” He closed his eyes again.

  He was either dreaming, having nightmares, or delirious, but his breathing seemed steady. Mary Beth touched his face. He felt fevered now, but even wrapped in two blankets, he shivered. She pulled the blankets open just enough to reach in and feel the heavy towel she’d put on his abdominal wound. It felt sticky, but no wetter than earlier.

  He flinched and grabbed at her hand. “Lo siento, Cristina,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Está muerto.” I’m sorry. He’s dead.

  The memory of telling Cristina that Daniel Vargas was dead occupied his fevered dreams. She had to get him to the doctor as quickly as possible. Wrapping the blankets back around him, she closed the door and set off down the uneven road.

  A few minutes later she came to the first small town the priest had mentioned. The early morning sun cast long angled shadows across the barren landscape. The few dusty adobe buildings of the town lay in somber stillness. Slowing, Mary Beth drove straight through, her heart hammering, afraid someone might see them.

  Her attention focused on the road, she threw uneasy glances into the back seat. Nick shifted and mumbled a few words, then went still again.

  A half hour later, Mary Beth found the clinic—if it could be called that. The small wooden building sat on dusty packed earth surrounded by several dilapidated rusty metal-roofed houses scattered through the tiny town. The only activity came from two barking dogs chained to a spike in front of a rundown bar emblazoned with the word Cantina. She fought a sob of desperation. How could Nick get help in this isolated place?