by Cherry Adair
"How stable are the shafts?" Daklin asked. Three miles of dug out tunnel was a long way in, and gave them no room for fuck-ups if they had to haul ass to get out. Old, unstable mines could collapse before the first explosive blew if they didn't set the charge correctly. Worse, even if they did set them correctly, they could destabilize the mountain enough to cause cave-ins to happen before they ever got out.
Before the others got out.
He and a bottle of Tovaritch would have a front row seat.
"This one and this one are okay, I think." Gibbs leaned over to indicate which ones. "Judge for yourself when we go up tomorrow. These three,” he said, pointing to the map, “We’re on shaky ground, literally. No one has extracted product from them for about a year or more. They’re either played out or just too damned dangerous."
"We confirmed Sullivan wasn’t one of the people killed or injured in the explosion last month," Aiza said.
"You went into the lab, saw the bodies?"
"New hires aren't allowed in the building," Ram told him. "Hell, I'm not allowed in the building and I'm practically a relative."
"But you saw where the explosion took place?"
"Nope." Turley shook his head. "The building is about a thousand feet directly in front of the main mine opening. We're talking high security fencing, titanium gates, and no entrance without authorization. No exceptions. They've done a damn good job of securing the facility." He nodded to Ortiz. "Tell Daklin about the explosion the day before we arrived."
Ram shifted his shoulder on the wall. "My father told me there was a small explosion behind the gates the previous morning."
"Yeah, I heard." And he’d seen the color drain from River's face when she’d thought her brother might've been involved. "How small?"
"Semtex? Quarter stick. E-1x? Quarter of a gram maybe?"
Daklin considered the possibilities. "Misdirect?"
Gibbs scratched his jaw. "We're thinking."
"Anyone know if Sullivan left before you guys got here?"
Turley shrugged. "Possible. No one's seen him in weeks. Not that unusual. Apparently, he comes down to town every couple of weeks, stays at the hacienda for one night, gets supplies, and goes back. Security does the driving. Sullivan doesn't drive. Sucker could'a walked out. But all you'd have to do is take a look at him, and you'd see that guy hasn't done a days' worth of anything physical in his life. He's a lab potato."
Turley grinned. "Apparently he chain smokes or chews Nicorette gum incessantly. He was supposed to have the brains to chew on the gum when he was working in the lab. Guess he fucking forgot that rule three weeks ago when he lit up and everything went to shit with a big boom."
"Is the plant large enough for him to hide there, unnoticed?" Daklin asked.
Gibbs shrugged. "Sure, it's possible. It's a big place. But why hide, and from whom?"
"Good question." Daklin chugged his water. "Does Xavier know where he is? Does Eliseo?"
Nyhuis shrugged. "Maybe. Seems like one of them would have to. You're in the house. Maybe the bishop could ask?"
"Rest assured, I will."
"Xavier has an encrypted computer in his office at the hacienda." Aiza leaned back on his hands. "I've almost figured out the encryption. Once we’re there, we can see what he has to hide."
Gibbs frowned. "Could Sullivan be somewhere else tweaking the formula for the bombs? How could he make that shit any worse?"
What they’d seen was as bad as any of them had ever witnessed, and they'd seen the worst, most lethal explosives worldwide. The impact of even the smallest amount of E-1x was a hundred times worse than that.
Daklin's leg sent piercing reminders shooting through his entire body that he wasn't ready to return to the hacienda yet. Hell, he wasn't ready to stand for any length of time yet.
River was a finely tuned Porsche of a woman, one who’d deserved to be treated with skill and precision. He wondered if his performance capabilities—-hindered by his leg injury-—would be up to par, then wondered what the fuck was wrong with his brain.
Yeah, she might have the conditioning of a sleek sports car. But she wasn’t one he was going to be driving anytime soon. Or ever.
"How many people work at the plant? And how many in the mines?" Daklin asked.
"Forty some in the mines. In the office, eight, nine, once in a while, the daughter," Turley told him. "Doing what, we have no idea. All anyone sees or mentions is her talking on the phone mostly, when there's a signal, and doing her nails. Then there’s the two sons. Trinidad is a cokehead, so he rarely shows. Liseo pretty much runs the place with his father. Or on his own, when Xavier's gone."
Daklin pushed away from the wall. His leg screamed in protest. He forced his expression to remain unchanged when he wanted to grunt, scream, pound out the pain on the stone wall. He couldn’t prevent the perspiration from forming on his brow. "We’re on a timer. Whether the other team finds that truck or not, we have less than seventy-two hours to set the charges, clear the village, and blow the fuck out of that mine."
Aiza gave him a mock salute. "See you at the party tomorrow night."
Daklin glanced at Ram who was getting ready to accompany him back to the hacienda. "What party?"
"The villagers want to meet the bishop. It's a huge honor having you visit our humble village. Everyone will be attending."
Crap. He'd have to be on his most pious behavior. It would also delay going up to the mines after dark. "At the hacienda?"
Gibbs nodded. "You’re an asset, man. The guy's got to show off, right?"
"Let’s hit the road," Daklin told Ortiz. At least he could get a few hours shut-eye before he had to come face-to-face with his new, unwelcome fantasy.
He craved a taste of River Sullivan more than he craved a slug of vodka. If given an opportunity to taste her, he knew exactly what he’d do first on bended knee, and it had nothing to do with prayer. At least, not the kind he’d been studying for in his role as bishop.
That was an unexpected kick in the head. Because the pain in his balls and full-throttle longing in his dick were competing with the sharp agony in his leg. As he limped back to the hacienda, he realized which type of pain was winning.
Goddammit, he needed a drink. Or River. Or a river of fucking vodka. His body told him just River would do, while his brain told him he’d lost his fucking mind and he better get his shit together, pronto.
Six
Heatless sunlight grazed the edges of the trees as Ram drove up the steep, winding mountain road at dawn the next day. Xavier was in the front passenger seat. Daklin, in back, was uselessly clamping his fingers around the pain in his thigh and gritting his teeth every time they hit a pothole in the road.
The blast at T-FLAC's Montana lab eighteen months ago had sent him airborne two hundred feet. He'd broken so many bones; they doubted he'd ever walk again. Yet, even with his femur protruding from his mangled left leg, which had already been injured from the previous op, he'd dragged, crawled, and cursed his way to the burning building to look for his little brother.
After the second corrective surgery sixteen months ago, the T-FLAC doctors gave him a prescription for Zohydro, a new opiate ten times more potent than Vicodin. Daklin was damn well going to take the doctors’ word for the potency. If he started taking something that strong, he was worried he’d never stop. The proviso was that if he took the meds, he'd be benched until he didn't need them any longer. Bottom line: if he swallowed one of those fucking pills, he'd lose his job.
He'd crumpled the prescription and tossed it on the way out of the doc’s office. Hell, yeah, he still needed pain meds. The stronger the better. Standing, sitting, walking, or remaining still. It didn't matter; it fucking hurt. The agony in his thigh was unrelenting and never-ending, but nothing compared to the bitter-to-the-fucking-core pain of losing Josh.
All he had to do was think of Josh’s easy smile and laughing blue eyes, and, like a bite of teeth clamping on a bullet, he found the strength to make himself walk.
Now he was working his way up to a run. On good days, he could even sprint a few yards at a time.
He’d managed to bullshit through his fitness exams. He’d always been trustworthy. No one doubted his ability to heal fast, and they’d sent him back into the field, where he’d used booze as a pain management tool one too many times.
Daklin was heeding the warnings. Fuck this one up, use booze to medicate, and he was out of T-FLAC. No more chances. He’d fallen a long, long, fucking long way down.
No booze, no chicks, no fuck-ups.
His life, and those of his men, would depend on his speed, mobility, and sober thinking. He’d work through the pain, just as he’d work through resisting booze.
Mind over matter.
The heavy-duty truck bounced and jolted over potholes and ridges left by pounding tropical rains followed by baking heat. Even though he'd left the dress robes and layers of fabric at the house, the black pants, black shirt, and white clerical collar weren't exactly tropical attire.
The road snaked up the side of the mountain. The Yungas, a sub-tropical montane comprising both deciduous and evergreen forest, flanked the eastern slopes. Daklin knew from the research he had done while en route from Montana that this area had hundreds of species of birds, mammals, and reptiles found nowhere else in the world. Banks of giant-size lush green ferns lined the road and underbrush, and thin waving branches of colorful orchids the size of dinner plates broke the miles of green with bright splashes of purple, pink, or orange.
He didn't care about what was pretty, but he'd have to watch for the poisonous and carnivorous. The vegetation obscured the steepness of this side of the mountain range, along with its caves, cliffs, ridges, and valleys. All of it hid various dangers just waiting to pluck out your eyeballs and eat them for breakfast. "We'll be there in ten minutes," Ram said, meeting Daklin's eyes in the rearview mirror.
There had been no hiding his pain when he and Ram had returned to the hacienda the previous night. Daklin had given the Ram a brief, unemotional overview of the event leading to his injury. The guy had been a doctor. He could fill in the blanks if he chose to do so. Daklin didn't mention Josh. He hadn’t said his brother’s name aloud in over a year.
Returning to his room in the early hours of the morning, Daklin had opened the window to let out some of the heat. He’d stripped, showered, and then, naked and wet, flung himself on the bed. Thank God he didn't need much sleep, because these days, he got precious little.
He'd only managed to fall down the rabbit hole after he'd conjured an explicit, detailed fantasy involving an iced bottle of Tovaritch, a hot and naked River Sullivan, and his fist.
"There is water in the cooler behind you, Your Excellency," Ram addressed Daklin, jolting his thoughts back to the present. The operative/bodyguard turned to Xavier. "Would you like some cold water, jefe?" he asked in the local dialect.
Daklin took a bottle from the small cooler in the other foot well and twisted off the cap. Right then, he'd give both his nuts for a handful of the opiates or a half dozen bottles of vodka to go with it. A few hours of blessed relief would do wonders for his disposition, which was hanging on by a fucking thread. He just wanted to say fuck it, kill Xavier, and blow the shit out of this mountain now instead of waiting one more day. That should be enough retribution for E-1x killing Josh and thousands of other people. Did he have to fucking avenge everyone in the whole goddamned world?
Yeah. Apparently so. Or so he'd think, if he was pain and guilt free. He had to go with what he would've done under optimal circumstances.
One thing he wasn't prepared to slap on his plate was spending any more time than was absolutely necessary with River. With any luck—-not that he believed in luck—-he'd encounter the mysteriously absent Oliver Sullivan and reunite the two. Then he'd send Sullivan, under armed guard, directly to Montana, and his sister to wherever the hell she wanted to go. Other than anywhere near him.
This morning, before their departure, Daklin had suggested they not wake her, but leave right away to avoid the heat. Since he didn't know her, he wasn't sure how well that decision would manifest when they returned. Tears? Fury? He anticipated all the emotions that followed when a beautiful woman used to getting her own way was thwarted.
Tough shit.
All he knew was he couldn't handle the pain and her at the same damned time. Something would have to give, and he couldn't afford for it to be his resolve.
#
“Okay, that’s just freaking rude!” Hands on her hips, River walked outside at six a.m., just in time to watch the taillights of the big truck as it turned the corner at the bottom of the hill. Standing in the driveway of the hacienda, she looked down the empty road. "Did you leave this early so I wouldn't be able to go with you? Or did you forget I was here?" Probably both. She was perfectly aware she was here under sufferance. The bishop didn’t like her, and though Franco had been polite about letting her stay, he hadn’t seemed terribly enthusiastic about it.
She got it. But that didn’t mean she liked it. It didn’t mean she’d leave either. "Fine," she said aloud, walking back into the house through the massive, carved, teak double doors with sidelights of stained glass that looked as if they should be in a church somewhere. "I have plenty to do to amuse myself. Just bring Oliver back with you and all will be forgiven."
She’d dealt with plenty of opposition and stonewalling when she was starting her business. She’d bulldozed her way through, around, or over. All that was important here was the wellbeing of Oliver. The rest just...was.
Running up the curved stairs with its intricate, black, wrought iron railings, she returned to her room to change out of her jeans and T-shirt and into something suitable for a run around the quaint town. She could spend some time searching the room more thoroughly, but she decided she'd be better served talking to the villagers. If Oliver wasn't with the men when they returned, she'd look for clues in the room he occasionally occupied.
She'd ask some questions, get a feel for the place Oliver had made home, and find a shady spot to sit and sip a cold drink where she could talk to the locals.
Wearing black running shorts, a bright pink sports bra, and her favorite pink running shoes, River clipped a neoprene, pocketed belt to her hip. It carried her cell phone, passport, and a small water bottle, which she filled from the bottles on the table in her bedroom. There wasn't a soul around as she ran down the stairs and exited the house.
She set off down the driveway and onto what passed for the main road, passing a quaint little stone church attached to the end of the main house. Her red rental car was nowhere in sight. Hopefully someone was repairing the tire, although, as adventurous as she was, she wasn’t looking forward to driving down those switchbacks for the return trip to the airport in the old vehicle. Now, if she’d had her Tesla and an open road, that would be a different story.
If Oliver had disappeared, who'd taken him? He didn't drive, so someone must know when and how he'd left.
After a few warm up stretches, she plugged her earbuds into her cellphone, realized she had no signal for calls or the live streaming station she typically used, and started out at an easy jog listening to a playlist of upbeat music that she’d designed for fast-paced runs. The street was empty of people or vehicles, the air cool and fresh with the crisp fragrance of green growing things. In a few hours, it would probably be as hot and steamy as it had been yesterday. This was a great time to get out and talk to people while burning off some of her frustration.
River had a bad feeling, one that just wouldn't go away. It was a sense of ominous, impending doom, so unlike anything she’d felt before, that it had taken her overnight to identify.
Inhale. Exhale. She picked up the pace.
God. Was Oliver involved in something illegal? Unethical? It didn't seem likely. She knew her brother. Well, she'd known her brother. But why else would he run away? River's steps faltered. She'd reluctantly considered the possibility that he was dead. But what if someone had taken him a
way?
What were the options? He'd run away, reason unknown. He'd been kidnapped. He was being held hostage. He was dead. He’d somehow been involved in the explosion the men had talked about at dinner the night before. Had he caused it? He was a chemist as well as a scientist, after all, and he designed explosives.Having all these questions in her head was counterproductive. She couldn't answer any of them herself, but the giant question mark made her chest ache, and her heartbeat kick unevenly in a way that had nothing to do with her run. She adjusted her pace, slowing a little to accommodate the unsteady heartbeat caused by her anxiety and compounded by the altitude.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Focus.
Make a plan.
“I’m going to find you Oliver Michael Sullivan. Wherever the hell you are. Count on it.”
The single-story, attached houses were painted in Mediterranean colors: warm golds, umbers, terracotta, and a few ocean blues. The village was as pretty and picturesque as a jewel, nestled in the vibrant greenery of the surrounding tropical forest. Running through the quiet streets was like stepping back in time. There were no vehicles, no frantically rushing pedestrians, no corner liquor stores. As the sun crested the mountain, it looked as though she was seeing the colorful houses through amber glasses.
A little sandy brown dog with a crooked tail and floppy ears intersected her as she rounded a corner. He ran beside her for a few minutes until he peeled off and disappeared.
It took River a little over an hour to run through the entire village, making a wide loop from one end to the other. The few people she did see gave her a wide berth. Mostly she encountered women and children. An old man on crutches hobbled across the street when he saw her approaching.
Franco had mentioned last night that forty people worked in the mine. Where did everyone else spend their days?
The steeple and bell tower of the chapel, attached to the hacienda, was the tallest building in town. As River rounded the corner at a fast walk to cool down, she saw Father Marcus standing outside the church, watering a giant pot of red geraniums that exploded in a wild profusion of crimson flowers and waxy, glossy green leaves.