Amelia forced the negative thoughts aside. She’d always been a glass half full girl and she refused to wallow in self-pity now. Jumping to her feet, she paced back and forth, desperately trying to formulate a plan. Without any resources, her hands were tied—figuratively, thankfully, not literally.
At least with Manuel in the cell next to her, she didn’t feel so alone. Now, as the quiet surrounded her again, her panic started to rise. How long would they keep her here? She’d never take fresh air for granted again.
#
Amelia’s eyes snapped open when she heard footsteps. She’d fallen asleep against the iron bars, so she crawled until she was bathed in the shadows, her back was against the wall. The same two men who took Manuel appeared towing a woman between them. Each man had one of her arms in their grip and her legs dragged along the dirt. Amelia couldn’t see her face because of the disheveled tangle of long, dark hair. Her mouth was covered but she was obviously screaming. Amelia instinctively jumped to her feet.
They moved past her cell and disappeared down the hallway. She rushed forward and grabbed the bars, trying to see where they’d gone but it was impossible. A lock opened and closed nearby. They’d put her in Manuel’s cell. He’d never returned, so she had no idea what happened to him. She prayed that he was correct in thinking that they’d demanded a ransom and it’d been paid, ignoring the part where he told her that his family wouldn’t be able to cover the cost. It made the loneliness easier thinking he was back home safe and sound with his wife and child in Colombia.
Moving to the small hole in the wall she used to communicate with Manuel, she crouched down to listen. They’d removed the gag from the woman’s mouth and she was begging for her life.
Then the screams started.
Amelia gasped and jerked back. The sounds the woman made were horrifying. If terror made a sound, this was it. The woman begged the men to stop, to leave her alone. Clothes ripped. Tears sprang to her eyes and she slapped her hands over her ears, burying her head against her knees. She didn’t know if they were torturing the woman or raping her. Neither option was acceptable and the sounds the woman made were gut-wrenching. Not being able to do anything about it was excruciating. Scrambling to her feet, she made it close to the bucket before she lost the meager contents of her stomach. She’d been forced to use it earlier and she’d stood as far away and still hit the target as she did now.
After the dry heaves stopped, she wiped a hand over her mouth and slid to the floor again, covering her ears. The assault seemed to last forever. As much as she tried to block out the sounds, she couldn’t miss the male grunting, knowing they were physically abusing the woman. Every instinct she possessed wanted to rip open the cell doors and find a heavy object to beat the men off her. The cries were pulled deep from inside the woman. They were breaking her and there was nothing Amelia could do to stop them. But the most frightening sound was the utter silence when the screams stopped. It was almost as if she’d been listening to a blaring radio and it suddenly turned off. Had they killed her?
A door slammed and she jumped to her feet, ready to fight to the death if they approached her. The men appeared in her sights, laughing and mocking the thieving whore with crude hand gestures. One man tucked himself back inside his pants and zipped up. Amelia ducked into the shadows, hoping they didn’t look in her direction. They didn’t.
Tears rolled down her cheeks and she slid to the ground. This couldn’t be happening. All she wanted to do was help people. Make a difference. Several people advised against applying for the mission to a developing country. She ignored every single one, wanting to treat the sick, give hope to the hopeless. Maybe she’d gone into the mission with rose-colored glasses, but they were a dark shade of gray now. Almost black. The world didn’t need her help. It was a messy, twisted, evil place, full of unsavory characters, filthy rapists and miserable drug dealers. Yes, there were people in need of help, but the bad outweighed the good. What use was she if a woman was brutalized less than three feet away and she couldn’t stop the attack?
Scrambling to her feet, she tested the bars again, looking for a way to the woman to treat her injuries—if it wasn’t too late. But deep in her heart, she knew it was. The silence was deafening.
#
Wyatt lay in bed, his stomach pleasantly full from a good meal with good friends. The evening had been fun, but he couldn’t help but think of Amelia and how he wanted her there by his side. He wanted to experience the secret glances that Grant and Melody shared, the constant touching. The joy of knowing that the person next to you was everything you wanted in life. The yin to your yang. The peanut butter to your jelly. The salt to your pepper. The Spongebob to your Squarepants.
He loved women in all shapes, sizes and colors. They were exquisite creatures put on the earth to make life worth living. And while he appreciated a sincere smile, silky hair and sparkling eyes, the one attribute guaranteed to bring him to his knees was a brain. Smart women were his jam. Dr. Amelia Howell had the entire package: a straight, white smile, silky hair the color of fresh straw, eyes the crystal blue of the Caribbean Sea and one of the sharpest, smartest brains he’d ever encountered, not to mention a rocking body. She was fit and athletic and tall enough to fit him perfectly. And he wanted her. Desperately.
What other explanation could there be when half a day later, he found himself in his favorite place: the cockpit. The small Cessna 172 Skyhawk he’d borrowed from a friend flew like a dream. Someday he’d have his own plane. Maybe he’d name her Amelia.
An hour into the flight, he adjusted in the seat. His mind might’ve been up to the flight to South America, but his body was protesting mightily. Maybe it was too soon, but he hadn’t exactly been thinking rationally when he tossed clothes and personal items into a bag and headed to the private airport across town. He might very well be out of his ever-loving mind.
Glancing out the window, he took in the scenery below. What if she was so busy, she didn’t have time for him? Or worse—didn’t want to see him? He was going out on a limb, putting his heart out there. If it backfired, well, at least he tried. He wasn’t one for regrets.
He lowered the landing gear and eyed the runway. The air traffic controller had sounded both bored and disinterested when Wyatt called in for landing. It didn’t bode well for a country when any Tom, Dick or Wyatt could fly in and out without documentation. His passport was locked in a hidden compartment just in case. With precision, he slowly lowered the plane to the cracked tarmac. The plethora of bumps and fissures made the plane jolt like an amusement park ride. One pothole looked big enough to swallow the plane whole. Thank goodness he’d thought to bring the embarrassing donut-shaped pillow that cushioned his healing tailbone. He taxied to the metal hangar, pleased to see the air traffic controller had followed through on his claim that the door would be open. He found a place inside to park the Cessna—which wasn’t difficult since there were no other aircraft inside—and powered down. After completing his post-flight checklist, he stretched his muscles. Amelia would probably have a fit knowing he’d flown a plane so soon after his injuries. He chuckled, picturing her beautiful face narrowed in anger, her blue eyes flashing fire.
He debated calling her but decided the best course of action was the surprise attack. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, or something like that. He wasn’t sure of the exact wording of the quote, but that was the gist. He thought it might’ve been attributed to U.S. Navy Rear Admiral, Grace Hopper. After sliding his Sig Sauer into his shoulder holster, he pulled on a long-sleeved shirt to disguise it but left it unbuttoned. His identification was secured in the hidden compartment with his passport, but he slipped his cell phone into one of the pockets in his tactical pants. After sliding the straps of his backpack over his shoulders, he opened the hatch. Humidity punched him in the face as he hopped down. He disguised the buckle in his knees with a stretch in case anyone was watching, but from the lack of any people or cars, he was pretty sure the place was deserted. Still, h
e locked up the plane and added blocks under the tires. One could never be too safe, especially in an unknown country.
After adjusting his Australian Outback hat and sunglasses, he headed outside to the building next door that passed as a terminal. He expected a blast of cool when he opened the glass door, but stale air greeted him. He glanced one way and then the other before heading to the tower. He climbed the steps, his hand near his gun. When he reached the top, he easily spotted the controller who radioed him in since he was the only person around. He’d been working a crossword puzzle but jumped to his feet when Wyatt approached. He held up his hands and greeted him in passable Spanish. He thanked him for allowing him to park the plane inside the hangar and then asked for directions to Manos Curativas hospital.
The man reached across the counter to swipe a piece of paper from a printer. Then he drew a map for Wyatt to follow and included the coordinates. Wyatt entered them into a compass app in his phone and thanked him. After a pitstop at the only bathroom with a flushing toilet he was likely to see for a few days, he made his way back down the steps and outside. He was prepared this time for the wave of heat and took off in the direction of the small hospital where Amelia would be working for the next few weeks. It was a little over three klicks away, so he’d be hoofing it. Normally the distance wasn’t a problem for him. He ran double that before breakfast. But his body wasn’t happy being confined to the cockpit for the long ride and his ass throbbed like a bass drum at a heavy metal concert. Hopefully he’d work the kinks out before Amelia saw him limping.
He took note of his surroundings as he entered the dense forest, marveling at the courage it took for Amelia to fly to the unknown to tend to the sick. God, he admired her. She was generous to a fault. She’d been so excited to donate her time and knowledge to help the disadvantaged people in a country ravaged with drugs and gangs in the cities and extreme poverty in the rainforest.
A shiver of unease crept down his spine. He’d been worried about her ever since she announced her trip to the small landlocked nation. He knew she could take care of herself, but she was a beautiful woman alone in a foreign country. In general, the human population sucked. He’d seen enough to know that statement was a true fact. He’d seen people killed for something as innocent as wearing the wrong color of shirt. It made his gut ache to think of Amelia and her naiveté at how truly horrific the world could be. She’d gone running into it headfirst.
He tugged out his phone and glanced at the picture she’d sent when she arrived of the white building with a thatched roof and a large red cross painted on the door. He’d circled over the area before he landed but couldn’t make it out through the canopy. The coordinates the air traffic controller gave him would guide him there.
Colorful birds swooped and fluttered overhead and monkeys squawked as he navigated along the path that had been travelled often. The ground was worn and there was a clear passage through the overgrowth that covered the jungle floor.
The shiver he’d felt earlier returned in force when he neared the building with the red cross he recognized from Amelia’s picture. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. Not even the birds that had chirped along on his journey were singing now, and they were an almost constant sound in the rainforest.
Withdrawing his gun, he surveyed the area before he hopped up the two steps that led to a porch and approached the half-open door. “Hello?” No response. He tapped it the rest of the way open and eased inside. His gut twisted when he noticed the back wall riddled with bullet holes, light shining through to reflect off dust motes dancing in the air. His stomach fell clear to his feet when he spotted an African American woman slumped over a desk, a pool of congealed blood beneath her head. It’d dripped to the floor as well. Her body was still in rigor, so she’d been dead at least twelve hours, he estimated.
Wyatt went into soldier mode, sliding his backpack off his shoulder and dumping it by the door before he carefully cleared the room. After a thorough check, he determined she was alone in the room. Next, he came to what was obviously the operating space, and it was empty. A small kitchen area was also abandoned, as was a closet that housed medical supplies. The door was open and the keypad had been damaged. Was the attack prompted by someone wanting to steal drugs? The room didn’t look like it’d been ransacked, so if it was the motive, the crooks knew where to find the drugs. His steps faltered and his breathing stopped altogether when he glimpsed a pair of legs protruding from a doorway. His feet moved of their own accord until he was next to the prone female body. Two round holes marred her shirt. She’d been shot in the back by a coward. Brown hair covered her face. Air rushed from his lungs and his knees weakened. It wasn’t Amelia.
This woman had also been dead for a few hours. Stepping over her, he entered a room full of twin sized beds lining the walls. A suitcase was perched on one of the mattresses. He checked the luggage tags. Amelia Howell. She’d been here.
After making sure there were no other bodies, he removed his phone from his pocket and dialed her number. It kicked instantly to voicemail.
He needed to alert the Santigoan authorities to the massacre, but Amelia was his number one concern. Where could she be? Had she been here when the gunmen arrived? Maybe she fled to the surrounding forest to hide. He liked that thought, so he clung to it.
After grabbing his bag, he detoured to the kitchen to pack bottles of water and added a box of energy bars, along with crackers and a jar of peanut butter. Amelia might be hungry when he found her. And he would find her.
His backpack was past the full stage. It took some maneuvering to zip it closed. After slipping the straps over his shoulders, he checked the area outside the door before he exited, not wanting to walk into an ambush. He had no idea which way to go to find Amelia, but he knew someone who would. Tyler Redmond. His finger paused over the keypad. Tyler was on his honeymoon. Too damn bad. Amelia was missing and Tyler could track her phone so Wyatt could find her.
He got three numbers in before something slammed into the back of his head and he crashed to the earth like a felled tree.
#
Amelia had no idea how many men abducted her, but there were at least four she’d have to outwit when the chance to escape arose. She needed to keep up her strength, but in sleep, she could forget where she was for a little while.
She’d tried calling out to the woman in the next cell, but her questions were met with silence. She couldn’t yell too loud and chance bringing the guards around. She was better off if they stayed away. No need to draw undue attention to herself. They’d left her alone so far and she prayed it stayed that way.
The pounding in her head was down to a dull ache, but she needed something to drink. Despite consuming the water the captors provided, she was starting to feel the effects of dehydration. Trying to see the half-full glass again, she was thankful they’d given her unopened bottles. All she needed was to contract cholera from untreated water. Wouldn’t that be fun.
She wished she knew why she’d been captured. They didn’t seem to care that she was a doctor—or a woman—and they’d provided a modicum of food, so there must be some reason why she was here and why they were keeping her alive.
She scrabbled upright when she heard the pounding of footsteps and the sound of something heavy being dragged. She prayed it wasn’t another woman for the men to assault. She wasn’t sure she could live through that again.
Keys rattled and the door to her cell opened. Two men she hadn’t seen before—that made six she needed to outwit—heaved a body inside. An unconscious man landed with a thud and lay unmoving. As soon as the men closed the door and left, she dashed to the newcomer and fell to her knees at his side. Before removing the bag they’d placed over his head, she gently rolled him to his back. The man was huge, well over six feet tall and ripped with muscles. And speaking of ripped—his tactical pants were soiled, but the reinforced material held and there weren’t any tears. They looked military grade. Good thing because the kidnappers apparently dragged h
im through the jungle. She was relieved when his chest rose and fell. At least he was alive.
“I’m going to help you,” she told the man as she loosened the tie that anchored the bag over his head. “I’m a doctor.” She gently eased the cover off and gasped. “Wyatt?”
Chapter Seven
Amelia blinked her eyes closed and opened them again, positive she was seeing things. It couldn’t be Wyatt Hollister passed out on the ground in front of her. She must be dreaming. He starred in most of her nocturnal fantasies anyway. She’d wished he was by her side during the ordeal and now here he was in the flesh. A pinch to her thigh assured her that she was in fact awake. How was it possible that he was here in Santigo?
She cleared the thoughts with a shake of her head. She’d deal with those details later. First, she needed to check him out for injuries. He had no business getting on a plane. Some of the wounds weren’t healed yet. She’d left detailed instructions when she headed out for her stint with Doctors International that Wyatt was not to be allowed back in the field yet. He’d insist he was fine and raring to go, but he wasn’t ready. Wyatt’s easy charm and genuine likability were hard to resist, but she thought she could trust his coworkers to look out for him. They knew the risks, but each and every one of them fell down on the job. She planned on letting them know how disappointed she was in them as soon as she returned.
“What are you doing here, Wyatt?” She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and let her fingers trail against his cheek. “The last thing I want is for you to be hurt again. It makes me physically ache to see you in pain.”
Without a Trace (COBRA Securities Book 18) Page 7