“Retransmit your ID,” she rapped out. “Over.”
“Is there anyone there?”
“Repeat your last transmission. Over.”
“Can anyone hear me? Please,” the frightened voice sobbed. “Please, someone hear me.”
Maggie groaned into the mike. It was one of Jake’s kids. He was pushing the transmit button, but either didn’t know or had forgotten to release it so that he could receive.
“If you are there, please listen. I have not much time. My friend, Señor Creighton, he talks with the one called Che while I am in the jungle.”
Señor Creighton? Maggie shook her head. It had to be Jake. Only he could set the transceiver to this frequency. Her mouth went dry as she thought of the courage it must have taken for this child to slip into the dark, impenetrable jungle on his own.
“He says to tell you we go to the hacienda of the patrón,” the boy whispered. “It is not far, he thinks.”
Maggie’s heart jumped into her throat. Jake and company were on their way to the drug lord’s hideaway!
Their operation didn’t have just two prongs. It now had three, all of which were about to slam together with the force of three freight trains colliding. The extraction of the senator’s daughter. The takedown of the middleman, the link to the United States that the president wanted to sever. And the elimination of the big man, the one who supplied the money. If Maggie had been any less of a professional, she would’ve shouted her excitement. Instead, she listened intently while the boy stumbled on.
“Señor Creighton says to tell you we will separate when we arrive there. Sarita…the woman Sarah…she has the st…str…”
The strobe! She had the strobe, Maggie thought exultantly. Smaller and flatter than a cigarette package, the strobe packed enough power to fire a pulsing halogen light that could be seen for miles.
“She use this light to signal our location. Señor Creighton will create a noise…”
A diversion, Maggie interpreted.
“He has red pins to tell you where he is.”
What he had were .38 caliber pin-gun flares, no bigger than a cigarette. One twist of the spring mechanism and they shot out a flare that would light up the target area like a string of high-powered Christmas lights.
“I must go. Please, please, you must help us.”
A faint, flat hum came over the earphones.
Wetting her lips, Maggie turned to the man beside her. “Did you hear?”
“Every word.” Excitement threaded the colonel’s smooth voice. He spread an aerial map across his lap and drew a rough vector with a grease pencil borrowed from the copilot. “This is where your Jaguar is now, according to the GPS signals. And this is the location of a plantation house owned by one of Cartoza’s most influential businessmen, an exporter of tropical fruit.”
He pointed to a wide, flat valley surrounded on all sides by steep hills. Maggie saw at once the thin, straggling line that led from the plantation to the capital city. A road. A road that would transport produce out. And bring chemicals in.
“Maybe this businessman grows more than fruit.”
Esteban’s white teeth gleamed as his mustache lifted in a slow, dangerous smile. “I think perhaps he does. I sent a man in undercover to infiltrate his operation a few weeks ago, but he met with an unfortunate accident. It will give me great pleasure to take this bastardo down. I thank you for this one.”
Maggie grinned. “Anytime, Colonel.”
“So, my Chameleon, we will direct the strike team to the plantation and have them waiting when our friends arrive, will we not?”
Maggie’s grin faded. This was the crucial moment. The irrevocable decision point that came in almost every operation. Normally the field agent made the call about when and where to direct the strike team, regardless of whether that consisted of a single sharpshooter, a civilian SWAT team, or, as in this case, a combined military and civilian force from two nations.
Jake had passed every scrap of information he had to Maggie, which was all he could do at this point. The decision was now hers.
She nodded to Esteban. “Send them to the plantation.”
Sarah knew they were only minutes away from their destination. She sensed it by the ripple of preparation in the men strung out ahead and behind her. By the low murmurs and coarse jokes they exchanged. By the sharp admonishment Eleanora’s “husband” gave her to move her carcass.
She wondered vaguely why she wasn’t more afraid. She couldn’t work up enough moisture in her throat to swallow. By contrast, her palms were so damp she wiped them continually on the sides of her habit. But the physical manifestations of fear didn’t penetrate to her inner self.
Her entire being was focused on the dim silhouettes moving ahead of her, intermittently illuminated by the flashlights they carried. Every few steps she’d catch a glimpse of Jack. He wasn’t hard to distinguish from the other shadowy shapes. If she hadn’t been able to pick out the broad shoulders that strained against his disreputable khaki shirt, she would have recognized him from the way he moved. With a silent, self-contained coordination. A smooth, easy grace that belied his size.
The memory of their afternoon by the glistening, silvered pool flashed into Sarah’s mind. Jack had circled the water with the same deadly grace, stalking her like some kind of predator that had spotted its prey. She hadn’t been afraid then, either, Sarah remembered.
She should have been, but she hadn’t.
She should be now, but she wasn’t. She’d passed beyond fear to that curious state where every sense is heightened, every emotion suspended, every faculty focused on one thing and one thing only.
She ran over the simple instructions Jack had passed to her, repeating them over and over in her mind like a litany.
By the time they halted at the edge of a vast clearing, she was as ready as she’d ever be.
Her heart began to thump against her ribs as her eyes swept the scene. For a moment, Sarah thought they’d stumbled by mistake onto a movie set. Spotlights mounted on high towers bathed the clearing in light and illuminated the cluster of buildings that occupied it. Set square in the middle was a tile-roofed two-story house, surrounded by an arched veranda on the upper floor. Gauzy curtains fluttered at the open windows upstairs, while light spilled out of the patio doors on the ground floor. Sarah caught the brief, intermittent flare of insects grilled by the bug lights that guarded the windows and, incredibly, the sound of chamber music floating from one of the downstairs rooms.
Only someone with supreme self-confidence would leave his home open to the night, Sarah thought, her gaze sweeping the neat, orderly complex once more. Only someone of indomitable strength could force the jungle back and bend it to his will.
The music rose to a polite crescendo. A cello led the chorus, followed by a trill of violins. Sarah felt an eerie sense of displacement. She was standing on the edge of a tropical rain forest, surrounded by men who carried their automatic rifles with the ease and nonchalance with which the men of her world carried their briefcases, listening to a sonata that she’d last heard performed by an ensemble at the Kennedy Center.
The strange sensation heightened, until Sarah clutched at Ricci’s leg to anchor herself in reality. She tore her eyes from the surreal scene before her and searched the dim figures at the edge of the clearing. Jack stood out among them, tall, solid, a dark shape barely visible in the wash of the lights from the hacienda. He faced the far end of the clearing, his body taut and stiff. Sarah followed his line of sight and saw what he’d come for. What he’d risked his life for.
There, at the end of a grassy runway, sat a medium-size plane, propellers still whirling. Portable spotlights ringed it, washing it in a bright, incandescent light. Sarah couldn’t tell the make, and wouldn’t have recognized it in any case. But even from this distance she recognized the U.S. markings on the crates being unloaded by a scruffy-looking crew.
Slowly, her arms feeling as though they were weighted with lead, Sarah reached
up and lifted Ricci from the packhorse. She wrapped her arms around his small body, pressing his face against her shoulder. He trembled against her but made no sound.
Eleanora moved up to lift Teresa down. The girl burrowed into the woman’s legs, clutching her skirt with one hand and the root doll with her other. Eduard stood stiff and silent beside them.
Sarah searched the other woman’s bruised, swollen face in the dim light, wondering if she had any hint of what was to come, wishing desperately she could explain it. Eleanora met her look and gave a slow, silent nod.
The stillness of the moment was broken when one of the men from the rear guard edged past their small, still group, anxious for a better view of the clearing. A second followed, then a third. The plane and its rich haul drew them like a magnet, as Jack had hoped it would. Over the pounding of her heart, Sarah heard their excited murmurs.
Their eyes were locked on the prize they’d waited for.
Hers were on Jack.
Che and the woman in fatigues stepped into the clearing.
Jack took one step with them. Two.
The other men followed.
Jack half turned, searching the dimness for her face.
Sarah tightened her arms around Ricci and pressed his head more firmly into her shoulder. She watched Jack lift his hand, slowly, deliberately…then freeze as a new sound cut through the night.
He whirled to meet this unexpected threat, as did the men around him. The snicker and click of bolts being drawn back competed with the rhythmic pounding of a horse’s hooves.
“It is the patrón!” someone called.
A white stallion danced to a halt.
“You are late, Che,” a cultured voice called out. The speaker didn’t use the mountain dialect, but instead a pure, flowing Spanish that Sarah had no trouble following. “Did you bring the woman?”
“Yes, as you instructed. She is back there, with the packhorses.”
The rider shifted in his saddle. Sarah heard the creak of leather. The thud of a hoof dropping against the hard-packed earth.
“Welcome to my humble estancia, Miss Chandler,” the rider said in clear, unaccented English. “I’ve been anticipating your arrival with great eagerness.”
Chapter 15
Sarah stood frozen for an endless moment, her arms wrapped around Ricci. If Jack gave the signal, she didn’t see it.
Her stunned gaze was riveted on the horseman. A thousand conflicting, chaotic thoughts chased through her mind. Out of them all, only one emerged to impress itself on her numbed consciousness. She and Jack and the children hadn’t been brought here because of a rescheduled drop. Nor because the rebels had decided to abandon camp. They’d been brought here because this criminal had somehow learned her identity.
The fear that Sarah had held at bay earlier swamped through her. Her stomach knotted as she watched the horseman swing off his mount with a lithe, easy confidence. He was a short man, she noted, and rather heavy, yet fluid in his movements. He drew the reins over the stallion’s head and patted its muzzle with absent affection.
“I met your father once, some years ago,” he said conversationally, moving toward Sarah. “A most forceful and invigorating man. Very strong in his opinions. When you’re rested and recovered from your ordeal, you must tell me how best to deal with him.”
Jack stepped forward to block the man’s path. “Nobody’s going to be telling—”
“I’ll handle this.”
Ever afterward, Sarah would wonder at the cool authority in her voice. It stopped Jack in his tracks. He spun on his heel, staring through the dark shadows. Before he could say anything, the patrón signaled his approval.
“Very wise, Miss Chandler.”
“What the hell is going on here?”
Jake’s low growl raised the hairs on the back of Sarah’s neck. “Isn’t it obvious?” she said, only the faintest tremor in her voice. “You have your business to conduct, and so, apparently, does this gentleman.”
“Very perceptive, my dear. You are indeed your father’s daughter.”
Sarah didn’t acknowledge the compliment, if it was one. “Take Ricci, Eduard.”
A thin, small shadow materialized at her side. Her hands shaking, Sarah passed the child to Eduard. At the same time, she pressed the small, flat box Jake had given her under the older boy’s elbow.
Her low murmur was for Eduard’s ears alone. “Just turn the top. To the left. Understand?”
“Sí.”
“Sarita?” Ricci’s childish treble quavered. “Do we die, Sarita?”
Sarah closed her eyes, swallowing. “No, of course not. You stay here with Eduard and Teresa and Eleanora until I see what is to be done.”
“I want to go with Señor Creighton.” Teresa tugged against Eleanora’s hand, a hiccup of fear in her voice.
“No!” Tension sharpened Sarah’s reply. “You will stay here! Señor Creighton has…has business to conduct. You will be in the way.”
“Creighton?” Amusement tinted the patrón’s voice. “Is that what he told you his name was?”
“That’s what she calls him,” Che volunteered with a sneer, coming forward to join the other two men. All three turned to watch Sarah approach.
She stepped out of the jungle shadows and walked toward them. Light from the spotlights across the clearing caught the skirts of her robe and moved higher with each step, until it fell across her face. Seeing the patrón’s narrowed, speculative eyes on her, Sarah reached up to tug off the veil.
The short, heavyset man drew in an appreciative breath. “The pictures in the newspapers didn’t do you justice, my dear.”
She forced a small shrug. “They weren’t taken at my best moment.”
“Nor does that habit particularly become you,” he murmured.
At the man’s soft, almost caressing tone, a sick feeling curled in Sarah’s stomach. She sensed, rather than saw, Jack stiffening beside her.
Sarah ignored Jack, concentrating on the man she faced. She recognized his type. Urbane, cultured, confident of himself and his power. She’d dealt with men like him all her life. Summoning the slow half smile she’d so often used to good effect with lecherous ambassadors and interested politicians, she plucked at the black skirts.
“The habit served its purpose. I must confess it is rather uncomfortable, however.”
She reached up to unhook the top fastening. Then the second. She fanned her heated skin with the fold of material. The patrón’s eyes narrowed on the patch of flesh she bared to the glare of the spotlights.
“I apologize that you had to endure such discomfort for so long,” he murmured. “My sources were a bit slow in passing me the information I sought about the medical sister my friend Che held in his camp.”
Sarah lifted one shoulder. “The camp is behind us now. Perhaps you have something at the hacienda that I might change into.”
“Perhaps I do.” He gave a little bow. “Please, allow me to escort you.”
Sarah didn’t move. “First we must settle the issue of the children. They were taken with me in the raid. They’re tired and frightened. I would ask your—” She choked a bit. “I would ask your word that you will send them back to their village with the woman, Eleanora.”
He flicked a glance at Eleanora and the three youngsters and gave a dismissive shrug. “I have no interest in the children or the woman.”
Sarah nodded and started forward.
Jack caught her wrist, swinging her around. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going with him.”
“Just like that? You’re going with him?”
She searched his eyes, pleading with him to understand. “It’s best for the children, and for—”
“And for Miss Sarah Chandler.” Jack sneered. “Do you think I’m going to let you just walk away? After all I did for you?”
“I’m grateful, truly grateful. But—”
He gave a vicious oath. Twisting her arm behind her waist,
he brought her slamming up against his chest. “Want to know what you can do with your gratitude, lady?”
Jack’s explosive violence startled Sarah. For a moment, she feared he didn’t understand her motives. Didn’t realize that she couldn’t jeopardize the children for her own safety. She couldn’t add to the risks he himself already faced.
At that moment, she felt him slip the small, palm-size gun into the hand twisted behind her back. For the space of a heartbeat, Sarah sagged against him, relieved that he understood, afraid to leave the safety of his arms. She wanted so much to wrap her free arm around his neck, to burrow into his strength and let him shield her.
The old Sarah might have done just that.
This Sarah had learned that she had strengths within herself she hadn’t been aware of before. If she’d learned nothing else in these past days, it was that she could no longer hide.
Summoning her will, Sarah wrenched free and faced him, her fists buried in the folds of her skirts.
“All right, gringo. If my gratitude isn’t sufficient, then perhaps you’ll accept some more tangible form of thanks. I’m sure the patrón will give you a bonus for taking care of us, as an advance on what he’ll receive from my father. Will you not?”
The man nodded politely, his eyes on Sarah’s face. “Certainly, my dear. You will have to tell me, of course, just what specific…services…he performed for you, and what you think they’re worth. Come, let us go to the hacienda and discuss this more comfortably.”
Sarah threw a last look over her shoulder at the children, swept her gaze past Jack’s tight, rigid features, then turned and started across the clearing without another word. Covered by the heavy folds of her skirt, her finger curled around the trigger of the small gun.
Holding his horse’s reins, the patrón fell into step beside her.
The steady plopping of the animal’s hooves thundered in Sarah’s ears. She strained to hear some other sound, some movement behind her.
Jake watched her walk away, a slight figure in black, identifiable only by the silvery-gold hair that tumbled around her shoulders. He turned slowly, one thumb hooked in his belt. He would have reassessed his options, but Sarah had just preempted them all.
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