Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy)

by Rosa Turner Boschen

  Joe was a decisive man.

  After a while, she’d toyed with the idea of an affair. He seemed to want her so badly. And Scott’s last word before she’d left on that fateful October trip had been a four-letter expletive. 'Go ahead and do what you want then, Ana. You always do anyway. See if I give a flying fuck!'

  The night she’d finally given in to Joe, she’d had too much gin and she knew it. But she’d grown sick of Scott’s possessiveness. Playing by the rules had gotten her nowhere. She was mired in the sands of a relationship she found suffocating. Joe McFadden might just be the man to set her free. It was a bittersweet memory that torched an aching nerve. The gash was still open, seething like the heat in that steaming tropical jungle. If Joe had been her destiny, then the responsibility for cutting both their futures short rested squarely on her shoulders. She shut her eyes against the stinging truth, struggling to recapture their one perfect moment.

  The rush of chlorine water had engulfed them as Joe swept her from the shelf of the seaside pool. His bristly wet kisses nuzzled the nape of her neck as he reached for her legs and wrapped them around him in the water. She thrilled at the suddenness of it. Instinctively tightened her thighs, gripping the bulk of his torso. He teased her with wandering kisses – gentle nibbles tasting her shoulders, working their way in little bites toward the lobes of her tingling ears. He lingered at her neck, running the smooth line of his tongue upward to her chin.

  She wrapped her hands around his back, feeling the power there. Oh God, she wanted him. She’d wanted him ever since that first day in Ecuador when he’d given her that cocky lopsided grin.

  A sigh escaped her as he drew close, finally pressing his mouth into hers, warmly and sweetly like butterscotch candy on a Sunday afternoon.

  No, wait! She had to stop herself and think – but all reason was clouded by the drunken heat welling within her in the midst of the cool evening water.

  She found herself reaching to release the clasp at the nape of her neck. What was she doing? Who was this crazed woman staring out into the balmy night through Ana’s eyes? She shut them tightly against her ambiguity and Joe pressed the reassurance of his lips against her eyelids.

  'It’s all right, beautiful,' he whispered under the ocean’s roar, before melting into her mouth once again.

  She was caught up in him, caught up in his draining warmth. His kisses pulled her like shells lost to the drag of the sea. She fought hopelessly to regain control as the satiny fabric of her bra worked its way to the water between them.

  He groaned his pleasure, sliding his hairy chest against her erect nipples. There was no turning back.

  She grabbed him by the hair as he brought his head to her breast. He took one swollen nipple into his mouth and suckled hard while reaching down through the water to remove the bottom half of her bikini.

  She kissed the crown of his head, moaning into his mass of hair, as he removed his swim trunks while suckling her other breast. She could feel his hands around her bare buttocks – massaging, molding, his hard penis bobbing against her in the water.

  She threw back her head, accepting the wet kisses at her neck.

  Tomorrow, she told herself, tomorrow she’d regret this.

  He was parting her with his fingers, positioning himself. She closed her eyes, and he entered her with one quick thrust that drew the breath from her lungs. She folded herself around him and he took her in, molding himself to her, sensing her every rhythm and need. They were lost in each other – two reckless creatures of the sea, as blatant in their want as the witch-like Pacific that beat the neighboring shore to their splashing pulse.

  The howling of the northwestern Galician winds recalled Ana to the present. Wooden storm shutters beat relentlessly against the small frame house.

  A squall was brewing.

  The wide hungry plains stretched before them, assorted wind mills dotting the desolate landscape like miniature beacons, their pedals turning lightly at the touch of the wind.

  McFadden turned to Mark. 'Who the hell is Rebelles?'

  'Spanish Intelligence.'

  'He said so?'

  'Has to be. Who else would want to ensure our success?'

  'How about the LPP?'

  Mark adjusted his hands on the wheel.

  'What you talking about, McFadden? Now you’re saying Rebelles is LPP?'

  'I’m saying the LPP has a vested interest in our getting there. So we can make the exchange.'

  'No dice. They want Cromwell to do it. Right to the source. That one I’d lay money on. Besides, your theory is flawed. If Rebelles is LPP, then who’s been trying to kill us?'

  'OK, Mr. Analyst, I’ll bite. What’s your take on the LPP’s motivation? Why kill us when we’re cooperating?'

  'Cooperating to a point. We’re supposed to be taking direction from them, not forging ahead on our own. Besides, now we know something.'

  'The cocaine operation?'

  'Big money, and it’s news. American Intelligence had suspicions before. Now, we’ve got proof.'

  McFadden looked out his window. 'Rebelles is hiding something. I can smell it.'

  'Who in this line of work isn’t?'

  McFadden shrugged. 'Just a feeling that something’s off.'

  Mark shared that feeling but wouldn’t admit it. Rebelles to him seemed a straight arrow. Where then was the crooked foil? 'Well, whatever his motivation, Rebelles has saved our tails more than once.'

  'We think.'

  'Look, until we know better, my guess is Rebelles is on our side. But you’re right,' Mark said, knowing operating on foreign soil brought inherent danger. 'We need to keep our eyes open.'

  The red coupe was crossing a dry, empty stretch of desert. For miles there had been nothing but an occasional olive grove dancing on spindly legs beneath the cloudless azure sky. The engine of the small car strained, as it began its steady ascent of the gently sloped mesa of central Spain.

  Mark noted the gradual appearance of a walled city on the back of the wind-swept plain. Avilla rose from the earth, a fortress of sand carved out among a smattering of enormous boulders. His eyes locked on his driver’s side mirror.

  'Don't look now, but I think we have company.'

  McFadden flipped down his visor and adjusted the vanity glass. 'Keep driving,' he said, drawing his semi-automatic from the Bible perched on his knees.

  The khaki-colored car behind them was picking up speed. As it clipped along the curves of the desert highway, its tan chassis was intermittently lost to the sands of the distant landscape.

  McFadden was looking over his shoulder.

  'They're gaining on us. Can't you make this thing go any faster?'

  Mark pulled his Browning from beneath his vest, released the safety and laid it on the seat beside him.

  The approaching car roared in an accelerated thrust of speed. McFadden checked his mirror. 'Jesus, it’s the guys from the tent.'

  'Get down!' Mark ordered as the first round of gunfire shattered the rear window and windshield in one fell swoop.

  Joe flattened himself against the back of his seat and Mark stiffened his arms against the wheel as their car careened wildly along the shoulder of the lonely road.

  Mark hit the brakes and slowed the car to a near stall.

  McFadden gave him a crazed look. 'What the hell are you doing?'

  'They want us,' Mark said through clenched teeth. 'Let those bastards come and get us.'

  He spun gamely in his seat to begin his counterattack. Mark positioned his pistol against the headrest and fired. Ten sharp pops sliced through the air and flattened the windshield of the on-coming car.

  McFadden crouched on folded knees, his right arm steadied against the back of his seat. He let his first six shots go. The attackers returned fire.

  Mark quickly reloaded his weapon. He craned his head high enough to see his target and fired. This time he scored with the tan vehicle's right front tire. Mark hit the gas and their car reeled on its axle. In seconds, they were
back on the road.

  Mark checked his mirror at the sound of a siren. The flashing lights of an unmarked car rapidly approached their assailants’ vehicle. 'Looks like our angel’s working overtime.'

  McFadden glanced over his shoulder and folded his Beretta back into his Bible. 'Yeah, let’s just hope he’s not a fallen one.'

  It had been a long, eventful journey, but they’d managed to rent a new car and with any luck would make Galicia by morning.

  Mark was at the wheel, McFadden dozing from exhaustion. A slug to the shoulder was no small matter and he’d had quite a bit of excitement in Seville. But he was a tough guy, like most ex-marines. Another couple of days and he’d be back in form completely.

  McFadden had agreed their assailants near Avilla had been from the Feria tent. Definitely LPP. So why did Mark have this nagging feeling that McFadden was onto something more?

  It was the warehouse, he realized. Something about it still didn’t make sense. Maybe they’d lost their double tail. The Spanish spooks had not been around to defend them. Or if they had been, they’d somehow deemed Denton’s life less important to secure. Or maybe it was something even more twisted than that involving a third party. That’s what McFadden had been getting at. He’d not only been concerned about Rebelles per se, he’d been worried Rebelles represented a separate interest altogether.

  Holy Christ. That’s all they needed right now.

  The orange sun sank low in the horizon, wiry shoots of pine trees grabbing for the sky on the hilly slopes ahead. The dry brown earth of Castile was melting into the lush rolling valleys of the wetlands.

  Mark tried to take heart. She was alive, he reminded himself. He had to believe there was hope. There’s always hope, his Mom used to say. Always, that is, until the moment you give up trying.

  Mark lowered his driver’s side window and the scent of pine rushed in through the open glass. All was new and fragrant and green. He had to believe it. A change was in the restless winds of Iberia.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By daybreak, the Americans had almost reached their destination at the end of their well-traveled route: El Camino de Santiago.

  Santiago, named for the apostle James whose remains were unearthed there, sat like a scallop shell, tucked in the neat swirl of northwestern Spanish countryside. Gone were the starched white villages of Andalusia, ushered in were the quiet brown townships of the north.

  In the dawning glow of the sun, Santiago was mauve and peach, a rosy collection of low houses with rust-colored roofs. Mark pulled in to the Plaza del Obradoiro, the heart of the small city. Santiago Cathedral dominated the square with its expansive Romanesque facade and smiling statue of Saint James.

  'Over there,' McFadden said, motioning to the large, flag-lined building to the Cathedral's west.

  'Hotel de los Reyes Catolicos,' Mark said, shutting off the ignition. 'Looks like four-star lodging to me.'

  McFadden stretched his arms behind his head. 'Don't know about you, Neal, but I'm breaking out the government credit card.'

  Mark let himself into the privacy of his room. At last, he was alone. It had been since Madrid. What he wouldn't give for a run. A nice long sprint through the cobblestone streets, an opportunity to stretch his cramped and aching legs. But his gear had been taken along with his bags in Jerez. And now, there was work to be done.

  He took a seat on the plush green coverlet of the queen-size canopy bed and reached for the phone.

  'Operator,' he said, knowing English was always spoken in expensive hotels, 'I'd like to place a call to the United States.'

  It wasn’t long before Mark had Jarvis on the line.

  'Diego,' Jarvis said. 'That's all I have, but he'll meet you in the Cathedral at 1600.'

  'Is he on our side?' Mark asked.

  'Supposedly. But I'd watch my back if I were you.'

  'Thanks for the tip. Looks like we'll have to be careful all the way around, especially now.' Mark cursed himself again for losing his briefcase.

  He could hear Jarvis' hand over the receiver, and some sort of muffled discussion taking place.

  'Boss, I've got someone here who wants to speak with you.'

  'Hello, sir,' Mark said, before Cromwell had the opportunity.

  'What's the word? Jarvis seems to think you know where Ana is. That true?' His voice was anxious yet imposing.

  'No sir, I'm afraid not exactly.' My God, this was Ana's father. 'I've a feeling we're getting close, though. I'm calling from Santiago.'

  'My God, you think they've taken her to Basque country?'

  'Into the Pyrenees?' Mark knew it would be next to impossible to track her in that rugged terrain. 'No, sir,' he said, hoping he was right. 'I have a hunch she's closer to home.'

  A precipitous silence filled the static-punctuated connection.

  'I want to be advised of your plan as soon as you see Diego. Do you read me?' Cromwell said, his voice rising an octave. 'This whole damn thing has gone on too long.'

  Mark hung up the phone knowing it was no longer only Ana's life that was at stake. His job at DOS and his future in intelligence were on the line.

  Mark left the hotel and went for a walk. He had precisely two hours. He circled the massive Cathedral and made his way through the flourishing Plaza de la Quintana, where tourists and locals gathered to enjoy the tumbling spill of the central fountain and the musky, rhythmic sound of an outdoor musician's guitar.

  Nestled behind this bustling square, Mark discovered the charming streets and back alleys of old town Santiago. A selection of manor houses and rich, old churches adjoined the maze of moss-covered buildings, dripping with the evergreen reminder of Galicia's rainy climate. And overhead, everywhere, there were magnificent granite archways connecting the disparate points and plazas of the ancient city.

  Mark happened into a bar and ordered a glass of the regional sparkling white wine. At least by now he'd picked up enough Spanish to accomplish this meager task. He carried his bubbling glass to a small corner table and sat on the lean wooden bench. A large oil painting hung like a window over the bar, its seascape wild and restless. White ocean fingers clawed at the sides of a wind-battered ship. High in the midnight sky shone a placid yellow moon.

  Mark's heart sank at the parallel. The quiet of this drawn-out afternoon was merely the calm before the storm. Rocky seas were coming. He could feel it in his gut. This would be his last lonely night of tranquillity. This haunting day would pass, and by this time tomorrow he would have taken her back, by fear or by flame.

  Taken her back or failed in the effort, condemning both their lives in the process.

  He tried to think of what his Dad might say but knew only what his father would do – walk straight into the fire. Mark swallowed the thought of a 747 plunging toward the earth like a hurtling comet along with his wine. He’d have his father here now if it weren’t for Carnova. His mother and sister too. And now Ana, who’d already been robbed of her father, could possibly lose her life.

  Mark polished off his drink with a silent prayer to the one God he knew. A God who would not let a woman die by virtue of her parentage. God of divine retribution and healer of a teenage orphan’s scars. Maybe this was the one thing he’d been groomed for. His big test. There was still so much to rectify and it was time to settle the score.

  A waiter smelling of olive oil and wearing a soiled white apron walked over and set another glass of wine on Mark’s table. 'En la casa,' he said, with a broken smile.

  Mark stole a quick glance around the room. Maybe it had been sent. But the only one who hadn’t been there before was an old man leaning into the bar, chewing a burnt-out cigar.

  The old man paid his bill and ambled toward the door. Mark had the feeling a bomb was about to drop. He jerked to his feet, upsetting the small cafe table and sliced dead center for the door. Bar patrons screamed after him, their dishes crashing in an angry tumble to the floor.

  The thundering blast sent him headlong into cobblestone.

  Mar
k pushed to his feet and took off down the street, flames leaping out the door at his back. He brought a hand to his forehead when he felt the slight trickle above his left eye.

  He knew then and there he was going to get that bastard. Get that bastard – and his little dogs too.

  'You have fourteen hours to live, Miss Kane!' Carnova hissed, bending and bringing his steely eyes even with hers. Ana lay sideways on some sort of bed. They had carried her to the common area so others could watch. Her arms were still tied behind her back. 'Now, now, buena chica, what shall we do to entertain you?' Ana drew up her knees and pulled herself more tightly into a ball.

  Carnova brought a scaly hand to the back of her neck, sending a chill down the curve of her spine.

  El Dedo was standing to his left toying with a large pistol. It appeared lightweight and almost entirely made of plastic.

  A third man shouted something obscene from the table, and both men erupted in laughter. 'Porque no?' Dedo asked Carnova, his face brutally calm.

  'Ay si,' Carnova spouted, 'to have Albert Kane’s daughter would be the ultimate prize.'

  Ana squinted against the light. They were inhuman. All of them.

  Dedo seized the knife from his hip holster and stepped closer, inserting the tip of his blade just inside the collar of her shirt.

  'No, please,' she begged, her voice a trembling whisper. Her legs were getting in his way. He yelled to the man at the table to get up and come hold them. Then he laid his blade more fully under her shirt and sliced it backwards into the room. A burst of air assaulted her torso. She let out a cry that was torn in two by the words rushing from her throat, 'Oh God, please. God, God, please–'

  'No God can help you now,' Carnova said, gripping the strip of cotton that held together the cups of her bra. He tightened his grasp. Bruising knuckles crushed into her breastplate.

  She shut her eyes and prayed anyway, knowing she was in the house of the devil.