by Karen Anders
He shifted items in the pockets of his worn black cargo pants, then pulled a khaki shirt over his black T-shirt. He took care with the weapon carrier strapped to his chest and soon had assembled the pieces—a gleaming black death dealer that had put fear into the hearts of the Taliban.
A British-made L115A3 Long Range Rifle weighed roughly fifteen pounds and in his hands was as deadly as anything that roamed this jungle—four-legged and two-legged predators alike. “The Long,” as snipers dubbed it, could take out an enemy from nearly a mile away. Silent death.
He’d refreshed his memory of the topographical terrain before leaving the US. Shouldering the rucksack and the rifle, he drew a machete as he started walking.
Even as dawn broke, the rain forest was wet, hot and dark.
Easy in, he thought. Entering the country under the radar kept him invisible, and that’s how he expected to remain throughout this op. His passport was stamped, just not in a customs office, but it was real enough that no one would question it. This was drug-and gun-smuggling territory. People didn’t ask too many questions.
He had no need to ask any questions.
His mission was locked.
His target clear: Petty Officer Neve Michaels.
He would take out anyone who stood in his way.
*
Neve opened her eyes to the shadows. She was lying on her side on dirt. Her wrists were still bound behind her back, and when she tried to move her legs, she found that they had tied them, as well.
Her mouth felt as dry as the Sahara, and she worked her jaw where she’d been tapped and it’d been lights out. The walls were moving...and it took her a moment to realize that it was because they were a creamy canvas. She was in a tent.
Then she froze at the movement not far from her face. The dim light didn’t reach the shadows, but her breath caught when she saw the small creature moving steadily over the ground.
A scorpion.
She gasped softly and inhaled a little dirt, coughing. The flap of the tent flipped open, and a man walked in. He stepped on the scorpion, crushing it with a sickening, crunching sound beneath his boot.
“Ah, the sister is awake.” He crouched. “You don’t look like a nun.”
The man who had shown up in the Jeep. He’d taken her from Bray. This hadn’t been a handoff. Bray and his three-man crew were most likely dead. A petty kidnapper was all he was. But this hombre was a lot more. He wore an olive uniform, and that told her he was part of some type of paramilitary organization. There were a few that liked to make the Darién their hideaway home and conduct illicit activities free of the government’s involvement. Even with the SENAFRONT and Colombia’s increased interest in cleaning up the Darién, there were still some snakes in the grass.
“We don’t wear habits anymore,” she stated. She didn’t like to feel vulnerable or afraid, or trapped. Right here, right now, that’s exactly what she was. Needles of fear traveled up her spine when he released her feet and, playing the part of an innocent, virgin nun, she scrambled up and scurried away from him. Most of the fear on her face didn’t need to be faked.
He crowded her and reached out, grasping her braid tightly, fingering the bound strands with a mesmerized look on his face, a look that made every female instinct in her twist with recognition and alarm. “Too beautiful to keep yourself just for God,” he said with a leer.
“Please,” she pleaded softly. “Release my hands so that I may pray.”
“Not just yet. What is your real name? What church are you affiliated with?”
She’d read all about the rebels doing background checks. Thank God she had Marco who was as good with a computer as he was with supplies.
“Mary Agnes is my real name in Christ.” Any self-respecting nun would insist that her name was the one bestowed on her when she took her vows. If she gave it up too easily, there would be suspicion. “I was on my way to minister to the indigenous people of the Darién.”
He surged forward and grabbed the base of her braid and jerked her head, getting right in her face, the sting of her scalp the least of her worries. “Your birth name, Sister, and stop playing games with me.”
“I’m not playing with you. We take new names—”
Screaming in her face, spittle flying, his fingers tightened and she cried out. “Name! Now!”
She jerked back, and not all of it was for show. “Cristina Cabrera.” She whispered the alias unsteadily. All she had to do was get free. Play along until then. “I’m not affiliated with a church. My mission is with the Margaret Clift Sisters.”
“Is it? Well, you sit tight and hope there is someone out there willing to pay to release you.” He looked her up and down. “I find myself hoping there isn’t.”
He released her and left the tent. She checked her cargo pants pocket, but they had taken her pocketknife. Dammit.
Neve lifted the flap with her boot, then looked out. There was a wall, and she was situated in the middle of a compound. If she was going to get out of here, it would have to be under the cover of night, and luckily the sun was going down. She spied her backpack with all her gear still in it, including the canteen. Had they already searched it and found her weapons? No. If they had, Big, Bad and Ugly would have said something.
She had to get out of here before they discovered that very deadly Glock.
That’s all the time she had for recon. Fifteen minutes later, he was back. He strode up to Neve and jerked her away from the corner, dragging her to the middle of the tent. Then he pulled out a very big knife.
She gasped, her heart pounding. But all he did was cut her bonds, then pull out a cell phone. He handed it to her. “You check out. Nice picture and bio on the website. Call your sisterhood and get yourself ransomed or you’re mine.”
Who the hell did he think he was kidding? He had every intention of taking what he wanted from her. She could see it in his glittering eyes. She dialed Marco. He answered.
“This is Sister Mary Agnes.”
“¿Qué pasa?”
She continued in Spanish. “Father Abernathy. I’ve been kidnapped by...” She looked at her captor.
“Ejército de Libertad.”
She repeated it into the phone, and Marco swore softly. “They are ransoming me.” She was well aware that most organizations wouldn’t pay the requested sum. It was policy, and she was sure they would be sympathetic but firm.
“Tell me what you want me to do, and I am there.” His tone was hard.
“No. I understand,” she said softly. “There is nothing you can do. You don’t pay ransoms. Perhaps you could contact my parents and—”
The kidnapper grabbed the phone and disconnected the call. “Parents?”
“They’re wealthy. They will pay you. I promise. Two hundred thousand US dollars.”
His eyes lit up, and he thrust the phone at her. “Call them. Make the arrangements.”
She took the phone and dialed her apartment. “Mom?”
After she went through the whole spiel to an empty line, even squeezing out tears, he was satisfied. He took the phone.
“Do your praying, Sister.”
This was it. She went to her knees and made the sign of the cross, then pressed her palms together into praying hands and started to whisper under her breath. When he reached out and pulled the ponytail holder out of her hair, she gritted her teeth.
Don’t jump the gun.
She continued to mutter and mock cry. When he cupped the back of her head, she twisted and shoved the heel of her hand into his face. He stumbled backward and she was already on her feet, moving as swiftly as possible. If he got those big hands on her or punched her, she was done.
She grabbed his wrist before he could regain his equilibrium, dug her thumb into the apex of his finger and thumb and twisted hard, forcing his arm and elbow backward. Throwing all her weight into it, she lowered him toward the floor, then slammed her knee into the side of his head. He dropped with a grunt right at her feet.
“M
aybe you should have been the one to say your prayers,” she ground out as she grabbed the knife from the sheath. Unfortunately, there was no gun. She raced to the back of the tent and lifted the flap to look out. It looked clear, and she decided it was now or never. When Big, Bad and Ugly woke up, he was going to take out his humiliation on her.
Slipping under the flap, she crouched and made a direct sprint to her pack. Staying low, she pulled it off the table and backed away, heading toward the wall. The gate would be guarded. As soon as she hit the sun-warmed stucco, she flattened against it. The gate was about thirty feet to her right.
She’d have to find a tree to get over, as there were no handholds. She raced along the wall, thankful for the darkness. As soon as she got to the tree, she shrugged into her pack. Her shoulder and clavicle twinged with her initial pull up, the pack hanging heavy off her shoulders. She had been regaining strength, but she had been laid up the past ten weeks and had lost some power in her upper body.
At the apex of the wall, she heard shouts. Oh, crap. Time’s up. She was high enough to step onto the wall, which she did without hesitation. Heights didn’t bother her. Someone fired; the bullet hit the stucco wall, chipping away a large chunk near her foot. Oh, major crap. Before she was a rescue swimmer, she was used to dealing with danger on the water; drug dealers always fired at the coast guard with the intention to kill.
She pushed off, hanging by her fingertips, then she let go so fast, she fell to the ground. Unable to get her legs under her, she landed on her side and for a moment was stunned. The voices were closer, men trying to get up the tree and over the wall. Neve got one knee under her, her shoulder protesting.
Just as she rose, someone grabbed her pack and spun her. She lashed out with the knife, blood arcing and splashing against the stucco wall. He let go with a harsh cry. She took off with crushing speed as men shouted in Spanish to stop her, but there was no gunfire. That gave her an advantage. They weren’t trying to kill her, but she wasn’t under any such constraints.
She made out frantic shouts as their directions to one another were to flank her. Dear God, they were spreading out. Her only hope was to make it to Bray’s boat and pray she had enough of a head start.
She never saw the arm as it whipped out and clotheslined her, hitting her in the chest and knocking the air right out of her. Combined with the lack of oxygen from panicked running, she was stunned and flat out on her back, her pack cushioning her fall, but also adding to the compression of her lungs. For a second she could barely draw breath. She never saw the fist as it connected with her jaw.
Neve woke in a disoriented panic as consciousness came back to her slowly. The pain in her jaw, the same damn place where she’d been hit the first time, making her damn sick of this already, registered with a low dull throbbing.
Cautiously, she opened her eyes and found that she came full circle. Back in the same damn tent, Big, Bad and Ugly’s blood still fresh in the dirt. But he was nowhere to be seen. Waiting until her brain stopped dancing in her skull, she shifted and groaned softly. Yeah, that fall had left some bruises, too. But the groan was also a result of realizing that she was trussed up and helpless once again. Her hands were bound in front of her and her ankles immobilized.
She closed her eyes.
She was in some serious trouble.
Neve pushed back at the panic, using techniques she’d perfected from many rough sea rescues that had gone a little shakily. Quietly terrified, her heart pounding, there was no play she could make until someone came for her.
She opened her eyes and caught her breath when the tent flap moved and a set of large shoulders encased in olive green pushed through. The sight of Ugly with a butterfly bandage across his cut and bruised nose sent that panic clawing up her spine.
There was no glitter in his eyes this time. Just stone-cold violence.
He crossed the expanse of the tent and crouched down. As he reached for her T-shirt hem, his quiet calm, even as his eyes seethed with rage, unnerved her completely. He pulled it away from her skin and slipped the knife underneath, slicing the T-shirt open, exposing her bra.
“Please,” she whispered, “don’t.”
He leaned into her face and said, “Pray hard for salvation, Sister.”
She closed her eyes again and gritted her teeth as she felt the deadly steel against her skin as the blade slid underneath the tiny bridge of fabric caging her breasts. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of begging.
Suddenly the knife fell away, and she heard the distinct sound of bone cracking.
When she opened them, a big man, still in shadow, was letting go of a very limp Ugly, his open, dead eyes filling her vision as he hit the ground.
She heard the sound of Shadow Man’s boots move in the dirt as he stepped over Ugly’s prone body. Looking up into a pair of rage-filled, piercing blue eyes, for a minute, she didn’t recognize him.
This man was primed for violence in every line of his body. A marine, a warrior, the man who had just used brute force to save her from something incomprehensibly horrible, and emotionally and physically damaging.
Russell.
Rock.
A slab of carved granite, except lethal and vital.
Ready and able to kill with his bare hands. Dangerous was an understatement.
Even with him fighting mad, looking like he could break the world in two, all she could think was: Oh, thank God. She was so happy to see him.
But in this instance she realized that she needed Russell. She didn’t want to and had fought against it, but she couldn’t deny it. He had been right back there at Yaviza—they were safer together.
She had a job to do, and she hadn’t wanted him to be any part of it, not if she was to live with herself afterward. She was accustomed to physical danger. That came from the elements and the circumstances of her job. But what she had planned for the White Falcon was nothing short of murder. Cold-blooded, calculated, first-degree murder.
It felt so wrong to corrupt Russell this way.
He was sweating freely, his T-shirt damp in places. His biceps thick, gleaming curves of stone. His gaze traveled over her, and he was all edge, a sharp, dark edge. In one fluid movement, he stripped off the garment. Her gaze ran over his heavily muscled torso, more gleaming delineation that only made her realize how truly powerful Russell was. She had to harden herself against her own weakness. Sweet Mother of God.
But there was nothing sweet about Russell’s body. Over six feet of raw power and testosterone roped with muscle and sinew, he was a force to be reckoned with, a force of destruction evident and eliciting a force of near unbearable longing—in her.
Something clutched through her, seizing her heartbeat, her muscles. He shouldn’t have this much effect on her, those blue eyes and dark hair, just as much a threat as his body. She just had to remind herself that he was as binding as the bonds around her hands and feet.
She opened her mouth.
Swearing viciously, the handcuffs dangling from his wrist, he dragged her up against him by her bound hands and in a fierce whisper said, “Don’t freaking talk, Neve. Don’t say a friggin’ word.”
The words died before they were even uttered. He was...furious, and she felt sorry for any members of the EDL who got in his way tonight.
The KA-BAR he’d used to slit her bonds still had blood on it, and she swallowed hard. He kept his hand around her wrist as if she was going to bolt. With one swift move he had her ruined T-shirt off, then, like a child, he slipped his over her head, leaving her to push her arms through.
He knelt then, spitting into his hands and mixing it with the dirt. He smeared the mud all over every exposed, hard-packed inch of him.
Through all this, his face was impassive, yet in his dead-calm eyes, Neve saw the intense rage, and the inevitable grew in her mind, tearing at her composure. He wouldn’t forgive her, and worse yet, didn’t trust her, and that hurt more than she had ever thought it would.
Rising, keeping his gun han
d free, he gripped her hand tightly. The warmth of it seeped into her, and she hated it even more that she’d betrayed him not only once but twice. What he still didn’t obviously get was that she was trying to protect him.
“Stay close to me.” His voice snapped, even in a low tone, something clearly warring inside him. As if he wanted to say something but couldn’t spare the time.
Neve’s gaze moved rapidly over the compound, her senses jumping when they silently slipped from the back of the tent. His attention was honed to a keen edge, every muscle of his half-naked body in stark relief.
There were bodies lying everywhere, blood pooled on the ground beneath each. Now she knew why he’d been so quiet and why there were bloodstains on the knife.
A chill rippled over her. This was a side of Russell that Neve had never seen. She’d only seen him interact with Tristan in a close and teasing manner, knew him as the smart, successful CEO. Maybe she had been protecting him for nothing.
He was first and foremost a warrior.
He’d probably done things that would definitely shock her.
It brought home how completely she was out of her element.
*
Rock didn’t let go of his fury, used it to fuel him through the darkness of the jungle.
“My pack.” She pulled at his hand, but he didn’t let go.
“Outside the compound already,” he bit out.
He walked to the gate and they slipped through, stepping over dead EDL. He used speed and recklessness and the rush of danger-induced adrenaline to override the fury that threatened to explode with every step he took. With anger eating away at him, he’d sworn savagely, so damned mad he could barely see straight. He’d demolished that bed, ripped off the mattress, fractured the metal frame like an eggshell and slipped the cuff attached to the metal pole right off so it dangled from his wrist. The cantina owner was furious until Rock thrust money at him. He’d rented a boat, then followed until he found the empty one Neve had been riding in. When he’d discovered the guide’s head blown off and his three friends in crime, his blood had run cold, then heated until it was boiling. He’d followed the Jeep’s tracks right to the compound and executed a recon until he was ready to assault and eliminate any threat to the stubborn backstabber inside.