by Maggie Shayne, MaryJanice Davidson, Angela Knight, Jacey Ford
"Good evening, my dear. You look lovely," Rafael Santos said as she walked into the tent, a warm glint in his molten chocolate eyes. He had changed out of his camouflage gear and into a pair of tan linen slacks and a cream-colored shirt that highlighted the golden tone of his tanned skin. He stood near a large mahogany table that dwarfed the room, his right hand resting on the back of a chair, and a glass half-full of some amber liquid in his left.
Lauren quickly scanned the room, hoping to spot a gun or some other weapon that might aid in her escape. There was a low bookcase along one wall. On top of the bookcase was a small assortment of liquor bottles and glasses.
Hmm, the bottles were a definite possibility in the weapon category.
Next to the bookcase were several cardboard boxes with the words Isla Suspiro Rum Company printed on them in black. The only other things in the room were a small refrigerator, a portable wardrobe rack where several uniforms were hung, and a cot that wasn't much larger than the one in her tent—nothing Lauren could use to get herself out of this predicament. So she would just have to play along, it seemed.
"Thank you," she said with a half smile, acknowledging Rafael's compliment as she took a step toward the table where he stood watching her.
"Would you like a drink?" he offered, inclining his head toward the bottles on top of the bookcase.
"A small one, thank you."
Ice cubes clinked against crystal as Rafael poured a drink and brought it to her. He smiled down at her and took her hand, leading her to the head of the table, where he pulled out a chair carved from a wood so dark it was almost black. He indicated that she should sit, so she did, her pants softly swishing as she crossed her legs.
"So tell me," Rafael began, studying her intently as if trying to gauge her reaction to his next question. "What were you doing with our friend, Mr. Haven?"
Lauren took a sip of her rum and shrugged, quickly trying to think up a plausible lie. She had no way of knowing how much Santos knew of what went on in the outside world. She and Jake had been photographed together numerous times, so she couldn't pretend that they didn't know each other.
If Rafael had done his research in the past two hours, he would know she was lying. So she went for a modified version of the truth instead.
"Jake and I had a few dates back in Atlanta, but we were never anything serious." True. Yes, those so-called dates always included her sister, Aimee, or Jake's partner, Race, but Santos couldn't know that. The tabloids had been quick to link Lauren romantically with her mystery man.
"I had no idea he planned to follow me down here," she continued. Also true. She hadn't known the Agency was sending backup until yesterday. She took another sip of rum and smiled right up into Santos's eyes and said, "He means nothing to me." Not true, Lauren was surprised to find herself thinking. Before that surprise could show on her face, she blinked it away and concentrated on the man standing across from her.
"Your country is very beautiful," she said, changing the subject and hoping flattery would loosen the rebel leader's tongue.
"Yes it is," Rafael agreed. He took a seat next to her and reached out to touch her hair. "And so are you," he added softly.
Teak, yeah, yeah, Lauren wanted to say. Like she'd never heard that before. Instead, she batted her eyelashes, thanked him again, and asked, "How long have lived here? In the jungle, I mean."
"A few years," he answered evasively.
"It must get lonely. Hard to meet new people up here," she joked.
He chuckled. "I manage to stay busy. But I will admit it's not often that a woman such as yourself shows up in my camp. Today must be my lucky day."
I wouldn't exactly say that. Lauren smiled. "Yes, and mine too."
Rafael leaned forward, looking as if he were about to kiss her, when a knock sounded from outside. He swore under his breath, but soon recovered his manners. "This must be dinner. I hope you're hungry."
"Starving," Lauren said. She didn't have to lie about that. She was starving.
Her stomach grumbled hungrily as two men entered the tent wheeling a cart between them. Whatever they had brought, it smelled heavenly. She slowly sipped her drink, mindful that Rafael was watching her and would think it odd if she left her drink untasted, as a feast was laid out before them on the table.
As they ate and chatted pleasantly, Lauren tried to come up with a plan to stash some food for Jake. She'd bet he wasn't being treated as well as she was, and he was certain to be hungry by the time she managed to get them both free. Unfortunately, the outfit she'd been given didn't have any pockets, and, even if it had, she'd have been sure to arouse Rafael's suspicions if she stuffed them full of roasted pork and stewed peppers.
When they were finished eating, Rafael went to the door and murmured quietly to someone who must have been standing just outside, because a man entered the tent immediately and cleaned up their dishes.
Lauren watched the plates disappear and tried not to frown. She hadn't gotten anything out of the rebel leader that the Agency hadn't already known. He'd talked about growing up on the island and about his family's ancestral home on the beach near the resort where she was staying. Then he'd told her how much he admired the spirit of the people of Isla Suspiro and wanted only what was best for them. He'd mentioned his brothers with a wistful sort of smile, but hadn't elaborated when Lauren tried to get him to tell her more. She could hardly come right out and ask about his source of funding, though it sure would have made her job easier if she could. Perhaps she could get him to talk about his social connections, however. That might give them the lead they needed.
"You must know a lot of people, having lived on the island your entire life," she said, leaning back in the straight-backed chair and doing her best to look relaxed.
"I have my allies," Rafael said enigmatically. Then he came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. "Your hair is so lovely," he murmured.
Yes. Her hair. A fascinating topic. And yet, Lauren was not intrigued. What would he comment upon next? Her eyes? The color of a calm alpine lake, one admirer had called them. What kind of complete narcissist would one have to be to find this sort of fawning attention flattering?
"Thank you. I use Clinique hair care products," she responded coquettishly, unable to stop herself.
Rafael chuckled.
Lauren rolled her eyes heavenward, grateful that he was standing behind her and couldn't see the expression on her face. She was about to ask him more about his family home when he bent down and pressed a soft kiss on the side of her neck. Lauren shivered, but not from desire. How was she going to get out of this? She closed her eyes and tried to think. Her Handbook had only given tips for how to seduce a rebel leader, not how to get him to stop seducing her.
She wondered what Jake would do in this situation, then had to swallow a laugh. If Jake were being seduced by an attractive rebel leader—a female one; she got the impression that he was decidedly heterosexual—he probably wouldn't think twice about having sex with her. Whatever he had to do to complete his mission. She doubted he'd think of it as much of a sacrifice, either.
Well, Lauren hoped she didn't have to take this charade that far.
She stood up and turned around, letting Rafael's arms envelop her. He smiled down at her, then slowly lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss. He tasted of the island's rum, his lips firm and warm on hers. Lauren slid her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair.
He pressed her body to his and whispered her name.
"Oh Rafael," she murmured.
And then, with no further warning, her eyelids fluttered open and she gave a bloodcurdling scream.
"I'm getting too old for this," Jake groaned, wishing he had some of that Isla Suspiro rum Lauren had left on the nightstand back at the resort to kill the pain in his bruised ribs. He'd been taken to what Rafael Santos had referred to as the west compound, where the rebels had done their best to politely coax his secrets out of him with their fists. Through i
t all, Jake had maintained that he was just a tourist, silently wondering the entire time who the hell had sold him out. He'd broken out in a cold sweat when it occurred to him that whoever had ratted him out may have told Santos that Lauren was CIA, too. While getting the shit kicked out of him, he'd tried to listen for any sounds that would indicate she'd been found out, but fortunately, all he'd heard aside from his own grunts of pain were the sounds of birds screeching in the jungle overhead, men's voices shouting in the distance, and the occasional rumble of a vehicle's engine.
Once he'd been sufficiently worked over, he was tossed into a ten-foot-deep hole that had been dug into the soft earth. That would have been easy enough to escape from, but then one of the goons had climbed down into the pit on a rickety ladder and handcuffed his right arm to a tree root that was nearly as thick as Jake's wrist. Then the bastards had taken his boots, obviously figuring that he'd be unable to make it in the jungle barefooted.
He wasn't stupid enough to believe that Santos and his goons bought his story about being a tourist. He knew that they knew he was CIA. But he figured if they had wanted to kill him, they'd have done it (or tried to—he liked to think he had a few tricks up his sleeve—or down his shorts, as the case may be) once they'd finished working him over. Instead, they'd dumped him here for safekeeping.
So, for now at least, they obviously wanted him alive.
"Glad we're all in agreement about that," Jake muttered as he tore open a seam on the left leg of his tan cargo shorts and pulled out a slim metal multipurpose tool. Regular pat-downs missed catching it 99 percent of the time, and, because it was sewn into a false seam just above a zipper, even when caught by a metal detector, it was often dismissed.
Jake pulled out a small shovel and sank it into the soft dirt about two feet off the ground. Crouching down made his already sore ribs ache even more, but he ignored the twinge of pain as he dug out another scoop of dirt. He could have removed the handcuffs first, but didn't want to chance one of Santos's goons checking on him and seeing him loose until he had created an escape route for himself. If they'd been smart, they'd have cuffed his hands together behind his back, using the tree root as an anchor. Instead, they'd clapped one of the cuffs to the root and the other to his right wrist, leaving his left hand free. If they'd done the former, Jake would have been forced to take-the riskier route of freeing himself first.
"Thank God for amateurs," he said as he reached up to dig out one last foothold. But he supposed he ought to give them their due—enthusiastic amateurs could inflict more pain on a guy than a professional. The professionals usually preferred a quick bullet to the brain. Easy. Painless. Fast. Unless, of course, they wanted something from you first. Then the amateurs had nothing on the pros. And he had the scars to prove it.
Jake shuddered and ruthlessly shoved back memories he'd rather forget. James Bond never pined for the dead he'd left behind, and neither would he. Focus on the mission, he told himself, stepping back to assess his handiwork and erasing all thoughts of the past from his mind.
He couldn't just pop up out of this hole like a prairie dog. That was a good way to get his head blown off. First, he had to know if someone was out there watching him.
Jake flipped the shovel back in place and pulled out another tool that looked like a dentist's mirror. Cautiously, he raised the mirror above his head and twisted it around to see if the entrance to the hole was being guarded, half-expecting to find some well-armed thug smirking back at him in the glass. Fortunately, it looked as though they'd either underestimated him or overestimated themselves, because no one appeared to be lurking around topside. Jake figured his unguarded state wouldn't last forever, so he hurriedly picked the lock of his handcuffs with another of his tool's handy accessories and used the footholds he'd dug into the earth to scramble up out of the hole.
He didn't waste any time slipping into the jungle. While he would have preferred to be wearing his boots, his bare feet actually made it easier to avoid stepping on twigs or anything that might alert the enemy to his presence since he could actually feel what was in front of him before stepping on it. He made his way toward the center of the camp, where several large green tents had been pitched. He had to find out what Rafael Santos was up to or thousands of Isla Suspiro's residents would suffer during the coup attempt. Jake knew all too well that it was the regular people—the ones who wanted only to raise their children and live their lives in peace—who bore the brunt of political unrest. Most struggled just to survive and were not prepared to rise up against the armies that invaded their towns and villages, burning their homes, murdering their children, and raping their wives, sisters, and daughters.
Jake would not allow this to happen on the island—not if there was any way he could prevent it. Tomas Santos's rise to power had been sanctioned—and, yes, partially funded—by the CIA. The oldest Santos brother had a vision for his people of stability, prosperity, and hope for a better way of life. And Jake intended to see that Tomas's dreams came to fruition. No matter the cost to himself.
Which was why he was intent on finding out more information about the rebel troop's movements. He had to trust that Lauren could take care of herself, although the temptation to rescue her and make a hurried escape was so great that Jake found himself torn between doing what he knew was right and getting her the hell out of here right now.
No, he would complete this mission. Jake roughly shoved all thoughts of Lauren from his mind and crept toward a tent that was lit from within and hummed with activity. He slunk to a spot in the shadows and pressed his ear to the canvas, longing for the listening devices that were safely tucked into his luggage back at the resort.
"… have our troops positioned here and here to cut off a counterattack," he heard someone say and wished like hell he had X-ray vision so he could see where "here and here" were.
"The vans will help," another man said.
A low murmur met the second man's statement, and Jake swore under his breath because he couldn't make out the words. What vans? When were they planning to attack? Then he stiffened and froze when he heard the unmistakable sound of several pairs of boots thumping the ground just around the corner from where he stood.
Shit. Now what?
If the men came around the corner, they'd see him for sure. Jake hurriedly looked around the darkened camp for cover and saw the outline of a jeep about twenty feet away. He'd have to make a run for it. He turned and sprinted out of his hiding place, but was still five feet away from the jeep when the first line of troops came marching into sight. He dove for cover like a batter diving for home plate and hit the dirt at the same moment a woman's scream rent the air.
* * *
CH@%!*R 5
Jake lay motionless under the jeep as sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped into his eyes. He blinked away the salty sting and reminded himself to breathe. It was Lauren who had screamed, and, despite his determination to stay focused on his mission, the urge to leap from his hiding place and go to her rescue was so strong that he clenched his hands into fists, his legs twitching with the desire to run to her aid.
Several months ago, he had callously told his partner, Race Gardner, to leave the woman he loved at the mercy of a wealthy gunrunner for the sake of their operation. They needed information, and Aimee Devlin—Lauren's sister—was in a position to obtain it. At the time, Jake couldn't understand why Race had struggled with the decision. As uncaring as it may have seemed, they both knew that stopping the gunrunner from trafficking in weapons of mass destruction was far more important than saving the life of one woman—even if she was a woman Race had feelings for.
Now, Jake had some small idea of how his partner had felt. No wonder Race had wanted to rip Jake's head off during that op.
Jake slowly raised his hand and wiped the sweat off his brow. He couldn't do it; couldn't leave Lauren to suffer whatever torture Santos was putting her through. She hadn't gone through field agent training, wouldn't know what to expect or how to escape on
her own. He'd have to get her out of here and return tomorrow, maybe have a helo drop him a few miles from the camp and hike back. Yes, that would be best, Jake convinced himself.
He heard raised voices and scooted up an inch so that he could see around the jeep's left front tire. He gritted his teeth when he saw Lauren, wearing a white outfit that made her stand out in the darkness, being led away from a tent in the center of the camp by two armed guards. Rafael Santos stood outside the entrance to the tent and watched her go before turning back to his men and waving, as if telling them to disperse.
The rebels who had almost stumbled upon Jake immediately moved back into formation—four men deep by three wide—and began marching straight toward the jeep Jake was hiding under.
Of course, Jake thought with a heavy sigh. Where else would they be headed?
He hurriedly rolled to the other side of the vehicle and slipped out from under it. Fortunately, there were several crates stacked near the jeep, and Jake moved behind them and then crept back into the jungle without being spotted. He crouched down and followed the line of vegetation encroaching upon the camp until he was directly across from the tent Lauren had been led to. The two armed guards had remained outside, one standing at the entrance while the other slowly made the rounds of the perimeter.
Which meant there were only about two minutes during which any spot was left unguarded.
It wasn't much, but it would have to be enough.
Jake waited until the second guard moved out of sight before sliding the multipurpose tool from one of the zippered pockets of his shorts. Then he stepped out of the jungle and ran toward the tent, a knife in his outstretched hand. He plunged the blade into the thick canvas about six inches above the ground and pushed downward. Praying he'd made a large enough hole for him to slip through, he dropped to the ground and tried to wiggle in, but the tear was too small to accommodate his shoulders.