Hard Edge

by Clare, Pamela

  God, she was an idiot!

  She was on her first solo mission, and she just had to fall in love with the first sexy former SEAL to come along and rescue her.

  Well done.

  Then her face appeared on the TV screen.

  “Police continue to search for Sister María Catalina, who was abducted from a Mission in El Vigía. In a twist, police believe she and the man she is traveling with may have been responsible for the murders of thirteen men near San Antonio del Táchira last night. More on this story as it develops.”

  How would they know any of that? How would they—

  Imelda.

  Of course. The cook. Gabriela had heard her scream. She’d seen.

  ¡Mierda! Shit.

  Sánchez and his men were still looking for her. The cartel would be coming for her, too. And they knew now that she wasn’t a nun.

  * * *

  “You want to steal a boat? That’s your plan?”

  “Or rent or borrow one.” Dylan tried not to notice how fucking hot she looked in the red tank top and jeans he’d bought for her. “I don’t think I can buy one for five hundred bucks—not one that will get us safely to Curaçao anyway.”

  They had finished their late lunch—arepas stuffed with pork, cheese, and rice—and they needed to hit the road. He’d stolen some plates off a car, switching them for the plates on the Aveo, hoping to keep the police off their tail.

  “Have you figured out how we’re going to get through the maritime border? The cartel is out there, too, along with the Venezuelan navy. Don’t forget that the navy threatened to fire on a civilian ship loaded with food and medical supplies from your island just to save face.”

  Dylan hadn’t forgotten. “I’ll take my chances against them on the open water over drones and dickheads in the jungle.”

  “You’re going all SEAL on me, aren’t you? Remember the river. I can’t hold my breath for an hour or swim like a dolphin.”

  “Neither can I.” He chuckled, sat on the bed beside her, took her hand and kissed it. “This is our best bet for getting out of here. Trust me.”

  “I do.”

  “The question is, where do we go to get the boat.”

  She considered that. “Coro. It’s got a decent harbor. It’s only forty miles from there to Curaçao. There are lots of boats—and lots of men willing to make a run to Curaçao for a price.”

  “Human traffickers?”

  “Yes. It’s a sketchy scene. People have been held for ransom. Others have been put on boats that aren’t seaworthy and have drowned.”

  “Good to know.” He’d be on the alert. “If we leave now, we can make it to Curaçao before nightfall.”

  They headed out, taking the bridge across Lake Maracaibo and heading toward Coro, Gabriela navigating with a paper map he’d bought from the motel. Compared to the twists and turns of the roads around San Cristóbal, the highway to Coro was almost a straight line. There were no roadblocks, perhaps because everyone thought they were trying to cross into Colombia. But that was one lesson he’d learned as a SEAL.

  Never do what the enemy expects you to do.

  It was only a three-and-a-half-hour drive to Coro, and it passed quickly, the two of them sharing stories from growing up—Dylan’s fascination with sharks, Gabriela’s desire to be a ballerina and then a gymnast and then a figure skater.

  “You would look cute in a pink tutu,” Dylan said.

  “Oh, you have no idea.”

  “I can sure as hell imagine it.”

  It was late afternoon when they pulled into Coro. Dylan stepped out of the vehicle, inhaled the scent of the sea. “Can you smell it?”

  “The arepas?”

  That made Dylan laugh. “What is your obsession with arepas? I meant the sea.”

  It smelled like home.

  While Gabriela waited in the car, Dylan spoke with a couple of locals about how best to hire someone to take them across. Both told him to go to the cantina closest to the pier and let the men there know what he wanted. That seemed like a bad idea to Dylan, but he wasn’t going to find someone by googling on his phone.

  “I should go in with you.”

  “No way. Someone might recognize you.”

  “You’re too scary-looking with all those muscles. No one’s going to want to take you on. If I’m with you…”

  “No.” He parked the car, kissed her cheek, and got out.

  Inside, the cantina was busy with men who drank and smoked—and who completely ignored him when he told the bartender in a loud voice that he was willing to pay the right person good money in US dollars for a boat ride to Curaçao.

  Then the place fell silent, every man’s gaze shifting to the door.

  There stood Gabriela, doing that thing she did, exuding sensuality from every pore. She crossed to the bar, slid her arm through Dylan’s. “Rum and Coke, please.”

  The bartender, a big bald man, almost fell over himself getting her drink.

  “Whiskey for me.” Dylan nuzzled her cheek. “I told you to stay in the car.”

  “Have you found a boat yet?” She sipped her drink then gave the bartender that smile of hers, the one that made Dylan weak. “My husband and I are looking for someone to take us to Curaçao this afternoon. Can you help us?”

  The bartender leaned forward, lowered his voice. “You don’t want any of these men to take you, Señora. My cousin has just the boat you need.”

  “Call him. We’d like to meet him—now.”

  Twenty minutes later, Dylan found himself walking along the pier with Gabriela and Paulito, a former navy man whose weathered skin proved that he’d spent much of his life on the water. “Is the boat seaworthy?”

  “Sí, and very fast, too.” Paulito clearly loved his boat. “The maritime border is closed, so it’s going to cost you more. We could be stopped or boarded.”

  “We stop for no one. Is that clear?”

  “That could get tricky.”

  “I have a few skills up my sleeve. Name your price.”

  “A thousand dollars US.”

  Dylan didn’t have that. “I can pay you five hundred now and a thousand when we reach Curaçao.”

  Paulito studied him, hands on his hips. “You must really need to get out of here. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Do you want the money or not? Show me the boat.”

  “This way.”

  Most of the boats here had wooden hulls and looked like they’d break apart in choppy water. And then he saw it.

  “There she is.” Paulito chuckled. “Isn’t she pretty?”

  Dylan couldn’t help but smile. “She is a beauty.”

  The boat was a refitted RHIB—a rigid-hulled inflatable boat—similar to the ones that the Teams used. He knew these boats inside and out and could pilot it himself. He could even work on the engine in a pinch.

  “So, now it’s a deal?”

  Dylan met Gabriela’s gaze and gave her a nod. “Sí, Paulito, it’s a deal.”

  20

  Gabriela took Dylan’s hand, accepted his help stepping up and onto the boat, which rocked beneath their weight.

  Dylan chuckled. “It’s not going to flip over.”

  Paulito bent down, untied the rope from a piling. “The water can get choppy. Do either of you get seasick?”

  “Nah, man, I’m good.”

  But Gabriela had no idea. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  Paulito grinned. “Have you ever been on a boat?”

  “No. I think I prefer dry land.”

  Dylan led her to the center of the small craft, where there were three rows of benches, each with a handrail in front of it. “When we get up to speed, you’ll need to hold onto this.”

  “Back in the day, I used to take tourists on excursions along the coast and to Aruba and Curaçao. My boat would be full—five trips a day.” With the boat free of its pilings, Paulito climbed on board and headed for the cabin. “Now, there are no tourists. I take whoever can pay me.”
<
br />   “I’m sorry, Paulito.” Gabriela felt sorry for him, and yet he was one of millions who’d lost their livelihoods. So many lives changed, so many ruined, so many lost. “Let us hope things change soon.”

  He started the motor and began to pilot the craft away from the pier.

  Dylan knelt beside her, spoke for her ears only. “I’ve turned my phone on and notified Cobra of our location and heading. They’ll be tracking us now. If we run into trouble, you take shelter in the cabin.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Shooting back.” He kissed her, stood. “Let’s go.”

  Gabriela watched the water glide by then looked up at the distant hills that surrounded the harbor. All at once, it hit her—she was leaving Venezuela.

  Heart breaking, she stood, made her way to the stern of the boat, looked back toward Coro, her throat tight, tears filling her eyes. The sob caught her by surprise, and she covered her mouth to stifle it.

  A hand came to rest against her lower back.

  “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head. “I was so focused on escaping that it didn’t dawn on me until now. I’m leaving a country I love, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to return. You should have seen it before, Dylan. It wasn’t perfect, but life was good. But now … I never got to visit my Abuelita Isabel’s grave.”

  He drew her against him, kissed her hair, held her while she wept. “I’m so sorry, Gabi. Maybe one day, things will be different.”

  “Is your wife okay?” Paulito called back to them.

  “She’s fine.” Dylan stepped back, wiped the tears from her face, his eyes looking into hers. “We’re about to leave the shelter of the harbor. You might want to sit.”

  A heaviness in her chest, she walked back to the bench and sat, a stiff breeze blowing through her hair as the boat gained speed.

  Dylan stood off to the side, his gaze on what lay ahead of them. “We’re coming up on some six-foot swells. The boat’s going to start bouncing, so hold on.”

  She was about to ask what he meant by bounce when the boat did just that—once, twice, three times. She grabbed the bar, held on. “That’s not so bad.”

  “Listen to you. Already a pro.” Dylan grinned, looking as handsome as sin in his new black T-shirt and jeans. Somehow, he managed to keep his footing without holding onto anything. He was in his environment, a SEAL finally back at sea.

  The thought made her smile.

  Then her heart, which was already hurting, constricted.

  In a little more than an hour, they’d be in Curaçao, and this would be over. She’d just said goodbye to Venezuela, and soon she would say goodbye to Dylan.

  You knew this would happen.

  Yes, but that didn’t make it easy.

  They moved along the coast for a while, Dylan talking with Paulito in the cabin. Venezuela was still a shadow on the horizon, fishing vessels coming home with the day’s catch, a lone oil tanker heading toward Cuba. Then Paulito turned the prow north, and they headed out into open water, picking up speed.

  Whump! Whump! Whump!

  The boat seemed to bounce over the waves, landing hard on the water. Or was that concrete? No, it was water.

  Dylan stood outside the cabin, holding on with one hand, his feet wide apart as he kept watch for navy patrol vessels.

  He shouted, pointed. “On the port beam!”

  Gabriela followed the direction of his gaze and saw it—a small vessel flying the ensign of the Venezuelan Navy.

  * * *

  Dylan watched the patrol ship that now sat dead astern, riding their wake, matching their pace, following them. He didn’t like this at all. He tapped out a quick message to Tower. “Why aren’t they trying to board us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  If they had been planning to board, the ship would have caught up with them by now and ordered them to stop. Instead, the vessel hung back, watching, following. Were they waiting for something—another ship, a helicopter perhaps?

  Using Paulito’s binoculars, Dylan watched both the sea and sky, listening for the heavy thrum of helicopter rotors, misgiving heavy in his chest.

  There! And there.

  They were so low in the water he’d almost missed them.

  “Two cigarette boats coming in fast, three points aft of the starboard beam!”

  “Cigarette boats?” Paulito gaped at him, face going pale. “Who the hell are you? I should have listened to my wife. I should have stayed home.”

  “Go full throttle!” Dylan grabbed his backpack, pulled out his rifle, checked it, flipped it into full-auto. “Gabriela, get up here!”

  She stood, stumbled forward, eyes wide. “What are cigarette boats?”

  “Speed boats used by cartels to evade radar.” He reached for her, brought her into the shelter of the cabin. “Stay down.”

  He took up position astern, watched the naval vessel veer off, its job here done. So, the navy had ties to drug smugglers. Well, no surprise there.

  Dylan peered through his scope, saw men with rifles—six per boat. Not Guachimanes, but men in street clothes. Ruiz’s men.

  Andes Cartel.

  ¡Hijoeputas! Sons of whores.

  But how the hell had they found them?

  He made his way back to the cabin—and pointed his rifle at Paulito. “How much are they paying you?”

  “Dylan!”

  “Gabi, stay down!”

  Paulito stepped back, arms raised. “Don’t kill me. You’ve got this wrong. I’m not working for them—whoever they are.”

  “Please, Dylan!” Gabriela stood. “I believe he’s telling the truth!”

  Dylan handed the rifle to Gabi, took the controls, bringing the RHIB up to full speed. “The two of you stay down.”

  “You can’t outrun them, and if you try, they’ll kill us all.”

  Paulito was right. They couldn’t outrun them.

  But Dylan had more experience at sea than they did. “I’ve know a few tricks.”

  He could hear their engines now. They were trying to outflank him, one to port the other to starboard. “Hang on!”

  He turned sharply to port, threw the RHIB into a tight spiral, cutting directly in front of one of the cigarette boats and wrapping around behind it.

  Dylan held the spiral, watched as the idiots tried at first to follow him, but at that speed, they couldn’t handle it. One of the boats flipped, disgorging its crew into the sea, the second nearly colliding with the first.

  Dylan chuckled, came out of the spiral, and shot forward again, checking and correcting his course.

  “You’re a crazy bastard!” Paulito shouted.

  The second boat hesitated, its crew trying to decide whether they should rescue their comrades in the water or leave them and try to find them later. But Dylan had little doubt what they would choose. For men who killed for a living, life was cheap.

  A moment later, the bastards were on their tail again.

  Where the hell was a grenade launcher when you needed one? He had explosive breaching charges, but he couldn’t very well ask the enemy to stop and wait for him to attach one to their boat.

  Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat!

  They opened fire, but couldn’t shoot worth shit, not bouncing along on the swells.

  “Gabi, I need you to take the wheel!”

  “Me?” She stood, fear on her pretty face.

  He gave her a quick lesson. “This is the throttle. This steers the ship. All you have to do is hold this course and speed. Can you do that?”

  Ratatat! Ratatat! Ratatat!

  She looked into his eyes, clearly terrified, but nodded. “Yes. Yes, I can do it.”

  God, he loved her.

  He grabbed his rifle, crawled toward the stern, and got into position.

  The other boat accelerated, rapidly gaining on them.

  Dylan willed himself to relax, raised the weapon, and sighted on the pilot of the other craft. He watched, waited, adjusting for the rhythms of the waves, the
beat of his pulse, the pace of his breathing.

  BAM!

  The man fell back, pulling the throttle with him.

  The boat slowed, drifted, bobbing in the water as the remaining men on board scrambled to get the body out of the way and take over.

  One hijoeputo down. Five to go.

  He raised the rifle again, the boat far behind them now. But someone else would take the helm, and they would catch up. And he’d take that bastard out, too.

  “Dylan!” Gabriela called for him. “Helicopters!”

  He searched the sky, saw three white and orange AW139s flying straight toward them. He stayed low, made his way back up to the cabin, the choppers almost on them.

  “What should I do?”

  He grabbed the binoculars. ¡Wepa! Fuck, yes! “Those aren’t cartel helicopters. They’re Dutch Caribbean Coast Guard. We’re in Dutch waters now.”

  Gabriela sagged against him, going weak with relief, her eyes drifting shut. “Thank God and the Blessed Virgin and Saint Anthony.”

  Paulito stood, seeming surprised to be alive, but mad as hell. “You bastard, what will they do to me? Am I going to jail?”

  “No, Paulito.” Gabriela hugged him. “You’re not going to jail. We’re very grateful for your help. We’ll make sure you get paid.”

  One helo hovered over them, while the other two continued toward to the cigarette boats. Then a voice came over a loudspeaker. “This is the Dutch Caribbean Coast Guard. Cut your engine and prepared to be boarded!”

  “Who are you?” Paulito asked again.

  Dylan cut the boat’s engine. “It’s better for you if you don’t know.”

  “What happens to my family and me? The cartel will slaughter us!”

  Dylan knew Paulito’s fear wasn’t irrational. “How would you like to relocate your family to Curaçao—or the US?”

  * * *

  Gabriela scanned her key card, pushed open the door to their hotel room, and stepped inside, Dylan a step behind her. She had a bag with a change of clothes in her hands, thanks to the US Consulate, which was in touch with the Pentagon and Cobra. She didn’t yet have access to her bank accounts and wouldn’t until she got back to Virginia.