by Karen Anders
She was also kick-ass. She’d obviously put a beat down on the EDL bastard he’d killed in the tent, from the looks of his nose. She’d scaled a tree and slashed at her pursuers. Fought like a demon possessed.
He wasn’t going to be proud of her. He wanted to feel nothing but anger. Rock clenched his jaw and increased his pace, stopping only briefly for her to pull out a shirt and change. She handed him his shirt back without a word so he could cover up his gleaming skin. They then shrugged into their packs. All he wanted to do was outrun the suffocating weight of pure, unadulterated fear.
The night was pitch-black, but Rock navigated by the stars, already having reconned this trip back to the water, and his steps were sure-footed.
The air was still and oppressive and hung thickly, though cooler and almost dense to touch, but the night was far from quiet. He listened carefully as he moved, deciphering his own breathing, hers and their rapid footfalls as they disturbed the small creatures around them as they ran. He was keenly aware this part of the world was dangerous, and it had nothing to do with the predators. The plants could kill, sticky and poisonous, and gloves saved him from having to look where he touched.
They were barely breathing hard when they reached the piragua. He pulled her on board and said, “Sit.”
“Russell—”
He grabbed her shirtfront and drew her close to his face. “Don’t talk to me, Neve. Not now.” Dammit, this woman made him crazy, especially because of what he’d seen when he’d entered that tent. He had the god-awful urge to press his face into her hair, to somehow reassure her, to—Geezus—reassure himself that she really was okay. That EDL bastard hadn’t cut her.
He could feel her breath on his skin, soft and shallow and warm. Damn.
Her eyes widened, and she just stared at him like she’d never seen him before. That was a true statement because he was still sweating, his hands shaking. Hell. Thinking back to when he’d found the compound and then had seen her climb up over the wall, jump off with the courage of a lion, how she’d been surrounded and fought them off. After that, he’d waited with a roaring in his ears, a thousand miles away, still reeling from the adrenaline rushing through his system, raw emotion searing across his brain.
Then he had to witness that EDL son of a bitch with a knife against Neve’s body.
He shook himself. Flashbacking marines were dead marines, and they sure as hell weren’t any good to anybody else. He couldn’t talk to her now. There was too much—too much—to process. He let her go, and she almost tripped over one of the slim benches before she settled down. He didn’t even think about what he must look like with the dirt smeared on him, his over-the-top commando attitude and his gruff, demanding voice.
He just needed her not to say a word or he would explode.
He was losing it, and now was not the time, and this was not the place to be losing anything.
Rock got in, settling both their packs for even weight distribution, then started up the outboard, the sound loud in the dark night.
As they cut through the gloomy brown water, he scanned the area while Neve gathered her long, straight dark hair and quickly braided it, then looped it up and secured it with another holder. Movement was sporadic, the flutter of birds moving from branch to branch, monkeys doing the same, and he could see only the tremble of bushes and trees, like short, quick bursts of air. He followed it and saw a dark, slim body rife with sharp, white teeth slide into the water.
He looked behind them. His senses were heightened and pulsing. He wasn’t sure if it was the EDL he’d left behind massing to follow and find them that made the hair lift on the back of his neck or some other danger he couldn’t see.
*
The sniper’s ability to find what he was looking for was something that was just innate. He’d made a career out of it. He knew the woman had to have hitched a ride upriver from Yaviza and that the small village was rife with untrustworthy lowlifes. He chuckled at the story that some chica had handcuffed an unruly guy to a bed, one he demolished and had to pay the hot-under-the-collar cantina owner restitution. He was beginning to like Michaels, a hazard in his line of work.
He watched silently as Russell “Rock” Kaczewski, former marine, handcuffs still dangling from his wrist, dragged the woman—the beautiful, plucky Petty Officer Neve Michaels—along behind him, a fierce protective look contorted his features as he got into her face and she stumbled into the piragua. Even in the dense overgrowth, unseen, the watcher felt Kaczewski’s anger singe the air.
Trouble in paradise, my friend?
The sniper rifle slung over his shoulder, he rose as they motored off. They had been unaware of their shadow just steps away. Immediately he followed, sliding down a hillside on the sides of his boots, then hit the ground running, hoping to intercept them when they ditched the boat. Kaczewski couldn’t afford to stay on the water. Too open.
But he grinned. It would give them a nice head start.
He pushed himself, his night-vision goggles allowing him to bat at obstructions, jump debris. He grabbed a vine and swung over a creek, hitting the ground, taking a few steps, then stopped.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he listened, separating his breathing and heartbeat from other details—the scent of disturbed earth, the buzz of insects stirred from hiding, monkeys swinging above him. He tipped his head, his gaze sliding over the ground, and he could feel it before he saw the snake wiggle out and shimmy across the undergrowth. The soft whirr of the motor stopped, and he turned in that direction.
“Olly olly oxen free,” he murmured, then took off as the jungle swallowed him whole.
Chapter 6
At a sharp bend in the river, the trees and overgrowth thick, Russell steered the canoe to the bank and cut the motor so he didn’t have to yell above the noise. Neve looked over her shoulder at him with a frown.
With the motor quiet, the sounds of the jungle took over the night, pitch-black. But with foresight, he’d brought a pair of night-vision goggles. They were neatly tucked into his pack. But with the instincts of a cat and the glow of the moon, he could see well enough.
It was more important they get off the water.
“What are we doing? The boat will be faster.”
“And easily visible. I took out a lot of the EDL. They aren’t going to let that slide, Sister.” He’d overheard what the EDL thug had said to her as he was slicing off her clothes. Posing as a nun. Ha. The only holy he could think of belonged with hell, as in “holy hell.”
“It was a good cover,” she grumbled.
He bit his tongue, even drew blood. He wasn’t going to have an argument with Neve in the middle of a hostile jungle when they were still in the open and exposed on the water. He wanted to yell at her, but that would have to wait. “Don’t talk, Neve.”
“What is it you want me to do then, Russell?” she asked, her voice sugar sweet when there was nothing but annoyed woman behind every word. “Your wish is my command.”
“Sure it is,” he said, his tone dry before he could keep his mouth shut. He clenched his jaw, then shook his head when she opened her mouth.
Right now they were up to their armpits in alligators—literally.
They’d pissed off the EDL.
Was she seeing how many crazy, ruthless bastards she could get to come after her? And he had no doubt they were going to be beating every inch of this jungle looking for them.
She already had a whacked-out gunrunner after her. The very reason she’d used to betray him not once, but twice. Used his attraction to her, his concern about her, against him. Drugging him when all he wanted was to help her and then manacling him to that bed. A rush of heat traveled through him in a wave of renewed anger.
Military ops were second nature to him, eliminating the enemy cut-and-dried; even after being out of the marines for five years, he’d never neglected his training. He was still strong and honed. Neve was a damn rescue swimmer. She saved lives, for freak’s sake. She didn’t go gunning for ruthl
ess bastards who would mow you down one minute and calmly go and eat a sandwich afterward. But she’d done the job. He admired her don’t-mess-with-me attitude, though he’d met a few who were far more brutal.
Guns and drugs and thugs—all over the world, those three things were twined together tighter than the knots on a dropped noose. Nowhere thicker than here in the Darién. It was like walking through a live minefield naked with a fever.
The EDL camp had been full of them, and if he hadn’t insisted on following her, she would have been hurt bad, as bad as a woman could be hurt. It made him want to jump in the river and wrestle a caiman. He let out a puff of air. She had no idea how...pissed he was right now.
“Get your pack on. We’re getting off the river. It’s not a defensible position and much too exposed.”
She reached down angrily and grabbed her pack, sending the narrow canoe rocking.
“Gently,” he growled, and she stood still for a moment until the rocking abated, then reached again for her pack.
She slipped her arms through the straps, glaring at him. Well, the feeling was mutual.
He would get through this, cowboyed up, swallowing the hard ball of rage sticking in his throat to lie like a forty-pound weight, ignoring the edge of fear licking at his emotions.
He reached carefully for his own pack and slipped it on without so much as a ripple in the water around them. Then he reached down and pulled the rip cord on the motor and started it again.
He got close to her, the tickle of her hair soft against his cheek. “Get on my back,” he said.
She gave him a skeptical look, and he used his thumb to point above them where a sturdy branch jutted over the water.
As Neve looked up, comprehension dawned on her face, but it was with a dose of apprehension. He nudged her with his hip as he turned and, without saying anything above the roar of the motor, she jumped on his back and wrapped her legs around his waist. He took a moment to get used to the weight of her, which barely registered. With a slight bend in his knees, he exploded out of the canoe, kicking at the motor with his boot as he grasped his hands around the branch.
The dislodged boat wobbled a bit, then motored out from under them until it disappeared around a bend. He could only hope it would go for miles before running aground.
He did a chin-up, his feet dangling above the settling, choppy water.
On cue, creatures slithered into the river with most likely a meal in mind as Rock moved along the branch, hand over hand.
“Oh, God,” she said breathlessly. “I really don’t want to get wet, and I left my gator knife in my other pants.”
He was not going to be amused. He was still too annoyed; nothing had been resolved between them. For all he knew, she could pay lip service to him and then hightail it away from him as soon as an opportunity rose. He wasn’t going to take any chances of her fooling him again.
She clung to his wide shoulders, her legs tight around his waist when the sound of cracking coming from his right-hand side splintered the night.
“Grab the branch, my right!”
Neve never hesitated. She loosened her hold and latched on to the limb, barely getting her delicate hands around the thick bough.
Several caimans floated below them with anticipation, their teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Rock swung himself and hooked his legs on the branch. Then, hanging by his legs, he reached for her, helping her get a better handhold, then a foothold on the branch.
She let out a breath and he grabbed her bag, pushing it into the foliage. He shushed her. They held still, as seconds later two canoes laden with armed men slid over the glassy water. Right past them. They waited until the others were downstream a bit, then Rock moved painfully slow to avoid shaking the trees. Neve was closer to the trunk and started inching her way to the center.
She gripped the trunk of the tree like a lover as Rock worked his way toward her, his size not giving him many options. Then he was in the branches with her.
“Now what?”
“Shimmy, shimmy cocoa puff your way down the trunk. I know you’re damn good at that.”
She looked at the ground. Several feet below, it was a soggy, watery mess and several yards to higher ground.
“That looks like a surefire ankle break if we’re not cautious. I’m up to here on rest and relaxation, so be careful.”
If she broke her ankle, this was going to go downhill faster than a speeding locomotive with no brakes.
“That’s the watchword, babe. Be careful of our friends at our six who want to have us for dinner.”
She whipped to the right. The caimans watched them with dark, beady eyes. “I’d taste really bad,” she said. “Much too tough.”
“I can’t shoot them or we’ll have the EDL here, as well as our uninvited guests.”
“You really know how to bolster someone’s confidence,” she said caustically.
He’d instructed her to the point that she looked up at him with pique. “Would you like me to sit on that branch and coach you while you inch down a thick trunk, trying with all your might not to fall to your death? I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Got it,” he said, his brows shooting up and a smile curving his lips against his will. “Shut the hell up. Proceed, ma’am.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ma’am, my ass.” Then she looked back at the caimans. “Really, I’m so tough, you’ll break a tooth.”
He watched as she concentrated, every muscle tense as she worked toward the ground, her gaze flicking to the gators floating in the water a few yards away. When her feet touched the ground, she carefully walked across the soggy earth.
It was his turn, and Rock used his boots and gloved hands to slide down the trunk. He saw that Neve had gotten bogged down, and he waded through the knee-deep, algae-covered vines and water plants to cut her free with the machete.
Wrapping his arm around her narrow waist, he hauled her to higher ground. He didn’t pause or let her catch her breath. “The gators are licking their chops.”
They ran, pushing through the underbrush, water flowing off their clothes.
Then Rock came to a dead stop as Neve plowed into him.
Every sense was tingling and he turned in a circle, his eyes trying to penetrate the thick growth around them. Everything in him said there was someone there, watching, listening.
She went to protest, and he covered her mouth, bringing his finger to his lips. Her eyes went wide, and she froze.
Then the moment passed, and Rock had to wonder if he was paranoid. He didn’t think so. He grabbed her arm and hacked at the heavy growth with his machete. A mile away from the river, he slowed and signaled her to stop.
“We need to get some rest. Let’s make camp over here.” He went to a deep, shadowed undergrowth and cleared an area. Creatures rustled the bushes as they vacated the spot. Rock pulled off his pack and delved in for his lightweight two-man tent. He quickly assembled it and then rose. “I’ll get some water.”
“I’ve got a lightweight stove and meal packs.”
“Me, too. We’ll use yours first. I’ll be right back.”
When he returned, she’d laid both of their sleeping bags at the floor of the tent. He didn’t say a word and didn’t invite dialogue, but busied himself with purifying enough water for them to drink, then warmed a precooked meal pack—spaghetti and meatballs.
Afterward, they removed their wet boots and socks to allow them to dry, and settled in the enclosed tent. She pulled the holder out of her hair, and it tumbled like a fall of ebony to the middle of her back.
She looked down at his wrist, and when he followed her eyes, he saw she was eyeing the silver handcuff lying on the dark sleeping bag and he said, “Do you have a key for this?”
“Yes. I—”
“No, no conversation, no talking, no nothing, just give me the key,” he growled, his jaw firm and tight.
She stared at him a moment and looked like she was going to argue, but he narrowed his eyes and she wearily si
ghed. Digging in her cargo pants pocket, she held it up to him. He unlocked the manacle and before she could protest, he placed it around her wrist.
“Russell,” she huffed, jerking at the cuff.
She’d proved damned resourceful up to now, and he was done with chasing her. All he wanted to do was get to Ammon Set, put a bullet in him and get her out. “Go to sleep, Neve,” he said as he opened, then locked the other cuff around the loop of tough nylon at the top of his sixty-pound backpack. “This is just insurance that I know you’ll be here in the morning. I’ll take the first watch.”
She scowled at him, then promptly turned over and gave him her back. Unfortunately, she had to snuggle against him because he was using his rucksack as a pillow. He didn’t give a damn as he stared out through the openings in the nylon, effectively keeping out the bugs, but giving him a full clear field of vision. Stretching out his legs, he reached for the weapon he’d pulled out, the deadly sound suppressor already screwed onto the barrel. He set it and a couple magazines of ammo on his lap.
Now that they were safe, he could finally breathe.
After a few moments, his gaze settled on her and traveled over her thick, dark, stick-straight, silky hair. She was a solid, midsize woman, sleek muscle from her shoulders to the rounded muscle of her calf, with luxurious, bold, sloe-black eyes. His hands almost itched with the memory of her tight, firm shape under his palms. He wanted to explore her thoroughly.
He dragged his gaze from her to the jungle, shoring up his guard. No involvement with Tristan’s little sister, especially now that she’d made it clear she found it very easy to betray him. He was a fool for even letting his thoughts go down this road. She was determined to see the world, and he was rooted on home soil. Neither one of them would budge.
But that didn’t matter. He already had his heart involved here, and it hurt more than he could say that she’d dismissed his help more than once.