by Julia London
Unfortunately, there was no gun. There was a tire jack and a lug wrench. The lug wrench was almost useless as a weapon—Juan Carlo would kill him before he could do much damage—but he might be able to get one good lick in before Juan Carlo had that chance.
He started his trek up the slope of the mountain, tracking behind the cabin through a forest thick with spruce and pine trees. As he picked his way over fallen trees and rocks, which aggravated him by wasting his time, his fear of what was happening to Leah grew exponentially, and it occurred to Michael that he had, at last, formed a deep attachment.
It was weird to realize something that profound in this situation. But having spent years convinced he was incapable of forming an attachment, it felt huge—deep and inseverable. Thinking that Leah might be in any sort of danger—especially danger he had caused—felt as if someone or something had reached inside of him and wrung his heart clean of blood. He felt ill, unsettled, like his skin didn’t exactly fit his body, like he needed to be doing something other than trekking through the woods.
To make matters worse, he had nothing to do but think on his way up, and knew that this would not have happened if he’d just been man enough to admit what he was feeling five years ago. Both of their lives would have taken a different track. But instead he had turned coward and had run. A change of scenery, that’s what he thought he needed. Just like when he was a kid—as soon as he’d start to get close to someone, he’d always be moved to the next foster home. He always got a change of scenery.
How remarkable that a man could be thirty-eight years old and understand for the first time what a sick existence that was. How remarkable that he hadn’t understood until now how much a person needed attachments. Back then, he hadn’t understood it at all. He’d thought commitment meant he’d have to stay in one place, could not move to the next foster parent, or the next school, or the next life. Commitment meant he would die off in one place.
Now he understood that commitment meant freedom. It meant peace and a sense of belonging to someone at last.
He climbed up, stepping over logs and rocks, stoic and grim, the magnitude of the sea change in him weighing his steps. It took him more than two hours to climb through the debris of the forest before he caught a glimpse of the faded red paint of the cabin. He crouched down, tried to see through the brush. Nothing had changed since he had driven by earlier. The car was still parked out front, an old tattered wind sock still hanging from a flagpole. It actually looked as if nothing had moved. Not even the wind.
He moved quietly forward, to the edge of the tree line surrounding the house. There was a rickety old porch with three plastic chairs stacked in one corner. In the opposite corner was a pile of boards covered by a faded blue plastic tarp. One side of the cabin had nothing but the small square of a bathroom window. He moved to his right, saw that the other side of the cabin had a window looking out from the kitchen, through which he could see a cluttered table and countertop.
A rusted propane tank in the yard allowed him to get a little closer, and he used the cover of it to move to the back of the cabin, where an old chimney had been converted into a barbeque pit. There was a freestanding hammock, more chipped plastic chairs, and a couple of discarded beer bottles. Corona, Michael noticed. Juan Carlo used to have crates of the stuff trucked into Costa del Sol.
Moving from behind the propane tank to the cover of the forest again, Michael checked out the back of the cabin. There was a covered entry, but the door was boarded up with new lumber. There were two big windows overlooking what there was of a backyard, and in that window, sitting cross-legged on a bed was Leah.
Michael caught his breath, felt a rush of relief to see her alive, and squinted to see her better. It was difficult—there was nothing but natural light, and she was mostly in shadows. But when she looked up, he saw her face and thought she looked . . . perturbed?
Perturbed.
Not scared. Not furious. But irritated and tired, like she was babysitting a petulant child. Was it possible that she didn’t know she was in danger? Was it possible that she thought she was involved in nothing more than a tryst with Juan Carlo? He swallowed down a lump of revulsion at that idea, and crept closer, straining to see through the dingy window into the shadowed room, until he saw her lift her hands.
They were bound together with rope.
His throat constricted; he felt the fury rise up in him again, hot and thick. He clenched his jaw, gripped the lug wrench and tried to control the anger. It was the first thing they taught you in the agency—never let your emotions take control.
They had a reason for teaching him that—because of his anger, he didn’t hear Juan Carlo creep up on him until he said, “Welcome, amigo. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Michael tried to rise up and swing out, but he was hit with such force on the back of his head that everything went very black and very still.
Chapter Twenty-Six
IF Leah ever got out of this mess, she was going to happily find a way to make Adolfo suffer before she killed him. The more she thought about it, the more she was really very incensed—first there’d been the drugs, then the gun he didn’t know how to handle but insisted on waving at her anyway, then tying her up, her hands to her feet, and finally, dragging Michael inside and kicking him a couple of times before he gave in to her shouts to stop.
He was really turning out to be royal bastard.
With his arms folded across his chest, Adolfo glared down at Michael’s still body. “Perhaps you are right,” he said to her, panting heavily. “What is the point of hurting him? After all, I intend to kill him.”
Leah shuddered at the calm, smooth way he said it. “Stop saying such ridiculous things, will you?” she insisted as he decided to drag Michael across the floor and lay him face down beside the bed. “You’re not going to kill anyone, Adolfo. You and Michael are going to sort out whatever is between you, like two calm, rational adults.”
That made Adolfo laugh. “This cannot be, my sweet. Do you think I risk so much only to talk?”
Well, no, she didn’t, but she was hoping he might see reason. As that seemed a lost cause—evidence: she was tied up, for Chrissakes—she leaned over and looked down at her fallen hero.
Poor Michael. He had an ugly gash on the back of his head. But he had come just like Adolfo said he would, and for some reason, that gave her a major feeling of warm pride. The man had put his life on the line for her. He really did love her, didn’t he?
Adolfo trussed Michael’s arms behind his back, chuckling to himself as he worked, muttering alternately in Spanish and English. When he had finished, he fell, exhausted, into the Naugahyde chair and smiled at Leah. “Here he is, the bastard. He’s not such a very big man now, si? Without the American government, he’s a little cockroach, one that I will smash with my boot.”
“Did you have to hit him so hard?” Leah asked, peering at the blood at the base of his skull. “He might be seriously hurt.”
“What care do I have?” Adolfo exclaimed, then frowned at Leah’s expression. “Don’t cry. He’s not dead, he is merely sleeping. I have not yet killed him.” He stood, looked down at Michael again, then abruptly squatted next to him. He tightened the rope that bound Michaels hands, and then—with a lot of grunting and grimacing—he hoisted Michael up, so that the upper half of his body was on the bed. He then grabbed Michael’s legs and hoisted them up, too, so that Michael was lying next to Leah, his face in a pillow.
“At least move his face so that he can breathe,” she insisted.
Adolfo rolled his eyes, sighed loudly, and with one big hand, shoved Michael’s face around, so that it was facing Leah. “There. You may gaze at your bastard and fill your mind with the memory of him before I kill him.”
“Just stop it, Adolfo! No one is killing anyone here!” she exclaimed, and tried very hard to believe it. She leaned forward, put her bound hands to the gash at the back of Michael’s head. “Ohmigod.”
Adolfo laughed and t
urned toward the tarnished mirror and began to mess with his hair. “You do not understand. This man is no better than the dirt on your feet.” He paused, leaned forward to examine his bangs a little more closely. “He deserves no better than to be slaughtered like a pig.”
“Okay, I am asking you nicely to please stop saying things like that,” Leah said, throwing up a hand. “It’s really very upsetting.”
Adolfo shrugged.
She was going to kill him, literally kill him with her bare hands, and she could, too. Cooper had taught them the hand-to-hand combat moves for the film, and had jokingly told them that with some real force, they could kill someone. If she could get her hands free, she’d cheerfully test that theory on Adolfo.
Leah turned away from Adolfo, who was preening in the minor like he had a big date, and glanced at Michael. She leaned forward—and gasped softly. His eyes were open, and he was squinting up at her. His lips were pressed tightly together, and she had the distinct impression that he was trying to tell her to be silent.
Leah stole a quick look at Adolfo over her shoulder, who was now fixing the tuck of his shirt into his trousers just so, the goddam peacock. God, she hated him. But she hated even worse that she had fallen for his stupid lines and his easy charm. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She looked down at Michael, whose gaze was steady on hers, his jaw clenched tightly shut. She had the feeling again that he wanted her to do . . . something. But what?
Leah jerked her gaze to Adolfo, who caught her gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “No, no, Leah. You must not have good feelings for him,” he advised. “He is not a good man. He lies and he cheats and he steals. He pretends to be your friend and then he stabs you in your back. He is like a leech, creeping into your life and sucking the blood from you.”
“Ewww,” Leah said, wrinkling her nose.
Adolfo turned around and leaned up against the scratched bureau and flashed the charming smile that had sucked her in once upon a time. “I think we must change your binds of the hands,” he said thoughtfully, gesturing to her hands. “I do not trust you not to untie him when he wakes, and I cannot watch you like a little bird. I have much to do.” He studied her hands and her feet for a moment, muttered something to himself, then disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a wooden chair from the kitchen.
He put the chair near the bureau, then strolled to the bed, had a close look at Michael—whose eyes were closed now, his jaw slacked. Leah wasn’t certain if he was faking it or if he’d passed out again. But then Adolfo grabbed the rope that bound Leah’s hands to her feet and yanked it carelessly, jerking her legs, too. “Ouch,” she snapped at him.
“Oh, I am very sorry,” he said with mock concern. But he untied her hands, then her legs. With a sigh of relief, Leah started to inch off the bed. Adolfo stopped her by grabbing her roughly by the arm and jerking her up into his chest. They stood nose-to-nose—well, forehead-to-chin, as Leah was shorter than him—and Adolfo laughed so darkly that a shiver of fear winged down Leah’s spine. “Do not think to fight me, mi amor,” he said with a cold smile, “for I have not yet decided if I will kill you, too.”
“That’s really . . . not very nice,” she said through clenched teeth.
“I am not a nice man.”
“I’m definitely starting to get that picture.”
“Be good, and maybe I won’t kill you,” he said, and with another jerk, dragged her to the wooden chair while her head whirled around words like decided and kill. But when he pushed her to sit in the chair, natural instinct kicked in, and she struggled. Adolfo instantly grabbed the gun from his belt and shoved the nozzle up hard against her cheek. “What do you want, Leah? Do you want me to kill him now? Or do you want me to kill you?”
When she didn’t answer, he pushed the gun even harder against her face. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Don’t . . . don’t, don’t. You don’t even know if the safety is on,” she said through gritted teeth, trying her damnedest not to move.
It worked. He pushed her away, checked the safety, then stuffed the gun back into his trousers. But his point was made—he wrapped a long cord of rope around her, tying it tightly behind her back. When he had bound her, he stood back and admired his handiwork. One trussed up man on the bed, one trussed up woman in a chair. “Excellent,” he said, nodding approvingly. “I think you will be good, you and him, until I return.”
“Hey, wait,” Leah cried. “How long are you going to leave us like this? Michael could be seriously hurt.”
Adolfo didn’t answer, just walked out of the bedroom. The next thing she heard was the front screen door slamming shut.
“Augh!” she screeched, and jerked her gaze to Michael, who had instantly rolled to his side to see her. “What in the hell, Raney? Who is this guy, and why did you sleep with his wife, you idiot, and now what are you going to do about us getting killed?” she shrieked in a whisper.
“All good questions,” Michael said, and rolled to his back and managed, through sheer strength alone, to sit up. But he looked a little dazed.
“God, are you going to be all right?” she asked, her anger sliding into genuine concern.
He winced, tried to smile. “I’ll be fine.” He took a deep breath and then managed to gain his feet. “What are you doing?” Leah asked frantically, and leaned back as far as her neck would crane, trying to see into the next room, which of course she could not do. “What if he comes back?”
“I am going to squat down behind you and try to loosen the knot. When you get free, untie me.”
“And then what?”
Michael shook his head as if to clear it, then took a tentative step, testing himself. “Damn . . . he clocked me good,” he said, seemingly impressed.
“Michael, what do we do when we get untied?”
“Let’s just get untied first. We’ll think of something then.”
That did not seem like the best of plans to Leah, especially for Mr. CIA. “But we might be dead by then.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, hobbling toward her. “I have been trained for situations like this.”
“You know, I don’t find that terribly comforting at the moment,” Leah shot back, as she tried to scoot the chair around to meet him. “When you told me you were CIA and pushed a lot of paper around, I had this image of you running an office somewhere, not actually taking on bad guys.”
“It wasn’t all paperwork. There was some fieldwork involved.”
“Apparently,” she said, frowning at him over her shoulder. “Fieldwork involving some guy’s wife, it would seem. Just curious here—how many other guys are there out there holding a major grudge like this one?” she asked as Michael started to slide down behind her.
“Is that what he told you?”
“Yes,” she cried, and felt the tips of his fingers on hers and turned as far as she could to look over her shoulder.
“It’s a little more involved than that,” he said. He was squatting, holding himself up with the strength of his thighs as he fumbled with the knot at her back.
“I’m serious, Michael. What else do I not know?” Leah asked. “What else is out there?”
“Leah, baby,” he said with a sigh, “Do you really think now is the time to have this conversation? I kinda need to concentrate here, and it’s not exactly easy with the knot I have on the back of my head.”
“I thought you were trained for situations like this.”
“I am.”
“Then . . . then why couldn’t you sneak up without him finding you?”
“Do you mind?” he snapped, clearly irritated, as if this was somehow her fault, “Just give me some quiet a moment and let me do this.”
“Well, hurry, will you? I don’t feel like having my brains blown out today.”
“And whose fault is that?” Michael asked irritably.
Leah gasped, tried to jerk around to see him, and wrenched her neck in the process. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s su
pposed to mean, why in God’s name were you trying to hook up with a guy like Juan Carlo? He’s a sleazy bastard that goes through women like water.”
“Wait just a minute, mister! First of all, his name is Adolfo—”
“His name is Juan Carlo Sanchez. He is a highly successful arms dealer, and by that I mean he once armed most of the terrorists in the Middle East. I spent the better part of three years infiltrating his circle.”
“Arms?” she squeaked weakly. “You mean like rifles?”
“Not exactly,” Michael said, panting now. “I mean like rocket-to-ground missiles and rocket-propelled grenades. The sort of stuff you see on TV.”
The sound of a car door shutting startled them both. “Okay,” Michael said, popping up and managing to propel himself through air and land half-on, half-off the bed. “Whatever you do, keep him talking. The man likes nothing better than to talk about himself and impart his wisdom to everyone,” he said. He got his legs up, held his body up for a moment to look at her. “And baby . . . nothing is going to happen. Trust me. Just stay calm. Help is on the way—Juan Carlo is too stupid to pull off something like this.”
“Funny, he said the same thing about you,” she muttered just as the screen door shut and the devil himself strolled in, looking very pleased with himself.
He held up a bottle of wine. “Spanish wine. The best in the world. I brought it from my home in Costa del Sol. Would you like?”
“You’re not seriously going to serve wine,” Leah said, incredulous.
“Yes, why not?” he asked with a bit of a shrug. “You should enjoy your last few hours on Earth.”
Really, all the talk of dying and killing was seriously vexing. She smiled up at Juan Carlo as she felt for the knot at her hands. He had tied the rope tightly at her wrist, but Michael had worked to loosen it a little. If she could just get her fingers on one of the loops . . .
“I will find a straw,” Juan Carlo offered. “Then you can enjoy it with me while we wait for him to wake.”