by Ronie Kendig
Canyon stilled. Skilled soldiers. As in American-trained soldiers? Was this Tres Kruces all over again? American SF training the enemies of an enemy to change the political tide in U.S. favor? Slowly he straightened. He motioned toward his brother. The lockdown … the arms talks. Was there a list of who was attending that?
“Hey,” Canyon said, turning the idea over in his mind. “Is there a computer I can use?”
Range hesitated but nodded. “In the mess hall.”
Canyon smacked his brother’s shoulder as he hustled past him, through the hatch and back down the steep stairs into the main deck. At the terminal, he searched the Web for news on the border talks. As he scanned a CougarNews article, his breath hitched into this throat as one name stood out: Senator Michael Roark, D. MD.
Canyon whipped his phone from the holster, and his fingers froze over the keypad. It’d been years since he’d entered this number. The man could have him strung up. Or he could help. Canyon hit SEND and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Authenticate.”
Leaning his shoulders toward the wall, he burrowed into the alcove, seeking anonymity aboard the cutter. “Mike Indigo Delta Alpha Sierra Golf Bravo One Sierra Foxtrot.”
“You no longer exist,” the voice intoned.
His jaw tightened. “It makes disappearing easier.”
“I like talking to ghosts.” A chuckle seeped through the line. “Pleasure or business?”
“Remember Tango Kilo?”
“Of course.”
“I think we have a repeat.”
“A lot of innocent people could die if that’s true. But how is that my problem?”
Canyon glanced around, relieved to see the empty mess hall. “There is a common name between the two: Senator Michael Roark.”
“Mm, tasty. Quite a favorite among the GOP at the moment.” The operative was hedging, indirectly saying this would be very touchy and cause an uproar.
“The VFA have suddenly swung the tide in their favor. Just like Tango Kilo. Someone gave me bad intel four years ago, nearly a hundred people died, and I took the blame while two men walked away guilt free. I won’t stand idly by while they nuke some poor country.”
“Sorry, Midas. No-go. It’s too touchy. I need to protect myself and my assets.”
“No. Listen—”
Click.
Furious, Canyon banged the phone back into its cradle. “Am I cursed?” he shouted.
CHAPTER 28
34,000 Feet over Miranda, Venezuela
22 May
Icy, sharp fingers of the cold atmosphere ripped at his body as the ground rushed up at him. Overhead, the cargo plane that Canyon had jumped from continued on its journey to the capital city with nobody the wiser to its secret deployment. He pulled the cords and the chute deployed. Within minutes, he landed hard and rolled.
He launched to his feet, wincing at the oh-so-familiar streak of pain in his spine. Chopping the cords and nylon chute he balled it up, his feet dragging against the strong winds. White flapped against the expanse of green. Might as well be a freakin’ strobe light!
Panic hammered through his pulse, spiking his adrenaline. “Range, help me with the chute!” He battled the chute, which seemed to have a mind of its own. A few more pulls and he should have it collapsed.
A low moan nearby snatched his attention. Canyon glanced over his shoulder as he wrapped up the lifesaving nylon. Range lay facing away. Another moan.
Chute secured, he jogged over to his brother. “Hey, we need to get into—”
Face contorted, Range rolled to the side, hands extended toward his leg—the leg that sat an unnatural angle.
Crap! Canyon dropped the chute and slumped to a knee. “Lie still.” Carefully he probed the injury.
Range howled. “I can’t … move my foot.” He cursed and sputtered. “It’s killing me.”
Smooth move, Ex-Lax. Go rogue. Steal into enemy territory with a brother not trained in spec ops. Jump out of a cargo plane. And land, blowing Range’s leg.
Canyon bit against the condemnation as he tried to stabilize the leg, his brother hurling curses like he’d never heard. “I promise I won’t tell Mom I heard that.”
Behind them came trouble—a vehicle. Joints squeaked and popped, the engine roaring as it apparently went airborne. When he checked his six, he spotted a Jeep bounding over the hills and disappearing in the small valleys as it raced closer.
“We have to move.” Canyon stuffed the chute into Range’s arms. “Hold that.”
Range stiffened. “Is this going to hurt?”
“Like hell.” Canyon hooked him into a fireman’s carry and rushed to the trees. After a few diversionary turns and switchbacks, he settled his brother against a tree.
“You need … to get … away,” Range ground out, his face a puddle of tears and sweat. He jerked to the side and retched, waving Canyon off. “Go. I shouldn’t have come. It was my jealousy, me wanting to control—”
“Shut up.” Canyon bent and dug into his pack, his hearing on the twang of a dirt bike, his medical training on the twisted leg. He withdrew an inflatable splint and slipped it over the leg.
Arching from the tree, Range grunted. Then slumped back with a long hiss.
Canyon gave him two tablets. “Ibuprofen.” He stowed his gear.
“I’m telling you, man—” His complexion paled.
A scent sailed on the wind.
Canyon clamped a hand over Range’s mouth. Shoulders hunched and head cocked to the side gave him the perfect angle to hear the goings-on behind them.
Grease. Oil. Gasoline.
Amazing how those smells reeked in the luxury of a freshly washed jungle.
Silent terror screeched through Range’s face, tugging at Canyon’s heart. Hitting the tree, he cursed himself. Everything he’d done in the last few weeks had screwed up. By trekking out on his own, he’d really screwed things up. Almost got his brother killed jumping. What else could go wrong?
Snap!
Canyon whirled, coming straight up, drawing his weapon around in front of him.
A fist flew at him. Canyon ducked—but not soon enough. Knuckles grazed his cheek. His head whipped back, the foliage blurring. Though he staggered, Canyon seized his attacker.
“Navas!” The man who’d betrayed him. Tortured him. Using those memories fueled his fight, drove his fist at the guy.
“You never learned when to give up,” Navas growled and dove at Canyon’s gut.
Air seemed to levitate him, nudging him back several feet. Pain darted through his neck and back. A weight pressed in against his throat as Navas pinned him against a tree.
Canyon swung a left.
The hit connected. Drove Navas back.
Another right. Left.
Range. The thought pulled Canyon’s attention to his brother. Propped against the trunk, head lobbed to one side, he looked unconscious. Dead.
No.
Thud! Something hit him in the head. Sent him spinning. He flipped over. Navas dropped on top of him.
Forearm constricting Canyon’s windpipe, Navas stuffed a gun in under his chin. “Who’s teaching who now? Really, Midas—dropping in on a white chute? Why not bring a spotlight?”
Whom. Canyon wished he could say it, rattle the guy. But the bulging pressure from the O2 deprivation left him weak. Hands cupped against the guy’s arm, he pushed.
“Know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” Dark wild eyes glowed down on him.
Suffocating beneath the man’s grip, Canyon thrashed, trying to kick him in the back. Trying to get his legs wrapped around him.
His temples pounded. A strange wheeze escaped his lungs.
Navas jammed the muzzle harder against the soft spot. “Thought you were smarter. You had your chance to escape but you come back. Brought your general. That sweet thing worth your life?”
Canyon rammed his fist into the guy’s kidneys.
A strained groan accompanied a shift in Navas’s weight. Enough for
Canyon to haul in a breath.
Red-faced and neck bulging, Navas returned. Angrier. He rammed his forearm against Canyon’s throat, once again cutting off his oxygen. “You piece—you know what I’m going to do to you and that white-haired fool?” Small talk left behind, he rammed a fist into Canyon’s head.
Agony and confusion wrapped Canyon in a tight vise. General? White haired? Slowly, he pushed onto all fours, waiting, expecting the guy to pummel him again. As he stood, Canyon knew he was being baited.
“My team will get to Isla de Margarita and silence that warmonger once and for all.” He drove a fist into Canyon’s face.
Blood spurted. Slid back down Canyon’s nasal passage … air cut off by the blood gushing out. No air.
Navas sneered. “See? You taught me well, Midas. There won’t be any more mistakes this time. My men will take care of the old man while Bruzon takes his pleasure with Danielle.” The way he dragged out her name, a sick, haunting whisper …
Canyon clawed at Navas’s face. Slapped. Hit. Punched. Wanted to curse him. But even his ears hurt now. The edges of his vision ghosted as Canyon struggled to breathe.
He chuckled. “Finders, keepers, pal.”
I’ll kill you. Gray seeped across his eyes, closing out the world. Closing out life. God … help me!
In the void devouring him—a shout.
Navas glanced back.
With all that Canyon had left in him, he threw a hard right into the guy’s face. Navas flipped backward … off Canyon. Crumpled in a pile on the floor of the jungle.
Hauling in deep, painful breaths, Canyon rolled onto his stomach. Fingers dug into the warm earth as he sucked in more and more air, his lungs screaming against the deprivation.
Crawling onto all fours, he coughed and looked at Navas. On his belly, the traitor lay unmoving, blood spilling into the earth from his nose.
Nose for a nose, pal. Canyon dragged himself to the man’s prone figure. Wrapped his fingers around the weapon, lifted it, and slammed it into Navas’s temple.
Struggling to his feet, he wavered. Stilled. Then forced a foot forward as he tucked the weapon at the small of his back. He stumbled to his brother. “Range.” Raw fire lit down his throat as his hand dropped heavily on his brother’s shoulder. “Range.”
No response.
Hoisting Range up again proved harder, but Canyon did it. He trudged back in the direction from which Navas had come, searching for the Jeep he’d seen the guy driving. It only took a few minutes to get Range into the passenger seat. Revving the engine, Canyon’s mind thumbed through the information Navas had revealed. He drove away from the trees.
Frogman. Nightshade. The team. Roark. He’d failed them. Though he tried to make it right, he failed again. Failed better.
Bruzon had Roark. Sickening and infuriating but no surprise.
The big surprise was the general Navas mentioned. White haired. Old man. The only white-haired general interested in Roark would be Lambert. But that didn’t make any sense. Coming down here would blow the team’s cover. It would put Lambert in trouble.
Correction. It put Lambert in the direct line of fire of the VFA.
If Canyon went after Roark, the rebels would kill Lambert. But if he went after Lambert, Roark could disappear forever.
Bruzon’s Estate, Venezuela 22 May
“Out!”
Handcuffed, drenched from the rain, and frantic, Dani writhed against the guard as he shouted at the servant by the fireplace. He wrangled Dani into the room. Metal pinched her wrists as she struggled to free herself, growling.
“I said get out,” he shouted.
“Sí, señor.” The servant girl gathered rags and a bucket from around the fireplace, placed a huge arrangement of lilies and other flowers in front of the sparkling glass doors, then hurried out.
Dani kicked and jerked as he hauled her across the marble floor. “No, let go!” She stuffed her foot against the bedpost, wedging herself between him and the bed.
The man’s curse skidded along her neck as he gripped her around the waist and hoisted her off the floor.
She arched her back and whipped her head against his.
Another curse.
Then he released her. She tripped and pitched forward, colliding with the nightstand. Think! Pain darted through her temple. Spots danced across her vision. Her arm jerked to the side.
Shink.
When she looked up, horror gripped her by the throat as he yanked her other hand. He’d anchored her to the post at the head of the bed. On her feet, she jerked against her binding. “No, don’t do this.”
He pivoted and left her alone.
No, no, no. She couldn’t do this again. Bent almost in half, stretched over the nightstand and her hands chained to the headboard, Dani refused to touch that bed.
Where was God? Where was Canyon?
It’s a miracle Bruzon hasn’t touched me yet.
Perhaps, but he would. Soon. He was on his way up here right now.
She thrashed, trying to break the post that held the chains. No good. Her gaze skimmed the room, searching for a way out, a way to get free.
Her gaze hit something shiny … a letter opener sat on the small desk. Iron resolution carved a painful path down her soul.
And there was only one way to get that opener. Digging her nails into the knots of the laces on her boots, Dani stole a peek over her shoulder, checking to verify the door hadn’t opened. She freed the knot, loosened the laces, pried off the boot, then tugged off the sweat-and-rain-soaked sock.
Black dirt dug in and around her toenails. She swung her torso around. Holding the tall post, she stretched her leg toward the secretary desk. Canyon might’ve left—abandoned her—but her promise to him still stood.
Her toes scraped the edge of the desk. Straining, she stretched closer. Cold metal brushed her toe. Yes! A little closer. If she let go of the post, using her fingertips for balance against the headboard, she’d reach it. She propped herself and once again arched toward the desk with her toes. Her sister had always taunted Dani about her big feet, about the second toe that was bigger than the others, but it had its usefulness.
Her toes curled around the letter opener. She wiggled until it sat wedged between those two odd-sized digits and squeezed them together. Slowly she brought her leg back around and gripped the opener. Alexandra could laugh all she wanted. This letter opener was her way to freedom. In her hand, it took on new meaning.
Thumb caressing the tiny teeth of the blade, she knew for this to end, she’d have to end it. I told you I’d kill myself first. Anything rather than be taken by the brute again.
Forehead resting on her arm, Dani fought the onslaught of tears. Why? Why had Canyon not rescued her in the facility? She’d told him she loved him, accepted him, believed him …
Fifteen thousand tears could not erase the raw ache pulsing through her body. Defeat threatened her standard kick-butt refusal to become a victim. Shackled for thirty hours to a post while the sun blazed, the rain pelted, and the night fell left her courage wilted like the flowers in front of the fireplace.
She turned the blade so it faced her. But then … the problem presented itself. She’d have to get on the bed since her hands wouldn’t stretch this far to reach her torso. Even if she moved the nightstand, there’s still be too much of a gap.
On the bed.
With a furtive glance to the door, she placed a foot on the bed. Checked the door again, her heart thundering like the storm outside. It had rained nearly the whole stupid little adventure. Just like her life—all rain and no sunshine.
My own personal sun.
A sob racked her, remembering the gift Canyon had given her. Hand closed around the choker, she felt the cold necklace her father had given her there as well. Two pieces of her heart … shattered.
Dani climbed onto the bed. Feet situated firmly gave her the resistance necessary. Was suicide a sin? While she may not wish to inhabit this world any longer, she didn’t want to burn
in hell for eternity.
“It is the most atrocious of acts, mija.”
“Why, Mama?”
“Because it breaks God’s heart to see His child throw away the most precious gift He has given—life!”
Cheeks wet, Dani wavered, her knees feeling worse than putty as she swayed, both internally and physically. She pressed her temple to the headboard and sniffled. Tears dripped off her cheeks and fell onto the white pillow, each drop a piece of her identity. With a soft moan she wished for a miracle but knew she was on her own.
Just like before. Like always.
“You are not alone.”
The whisper caressed her wounded soul.
“Oh, God …” she whispered, her throat burning. She wanted to believe that. Oh, did she ever! With every desperate, frantic beat of her of heart. Maybe God was watching out for her. Dare she hope?
But if she didn’t do this, she’d be his prisoner. How could God expect her to stay where nobody loved her? Where she wasn’t wanted? Where a man abused her so violently? Surely He didn’t expect her to again be captive and subject to the whims of a sadist.
Voices from the hall sneaked under the threshold.
Now or never.
Resolve surfaced. Dani sucked in a shuddering breath and regained her position. “Forgive me, Father.” She wiped the tears and drew in a shuddering breath.
With a resounding click, the latch released.
CHAPTER 29
Isla de Margarita Hotel
22 May
You’re a dead man.”
Muzzle pressed against the back of his head, Olin Lambert strained to see in the mirror over the hotel desk where he sat. He’d expected an attempt on his life; Bruzon had been too friendly earlier. And that Navas …
Still, the feel of the steel barrel and the animosity pouring off the man’s words tensed Olin’s muscles as his mind darted to his wife. Charlotte. Poor Charlotte. She had believed in him when he wasn’t worth believing in.
Could he negotiate this man down? “Whatever you were promised …” Not that he’d pay or bargain his way out of this, but he had to try something. The team. Danielle. Again he tried to peer into the mirror, but the darkness and all-black attire concealed the intruder’s identity.