by Terry Odell
Harper must have read his thoughts. He nudged his leg under the table. “Chill, Cowboy. Eye on the prize.”
Dalton begrudgingly admitted Harper was right. Tracy was the goal. But he would not leave without dealing with Rafael.
Fozzie continued the recap. “Cooper?”
“I’m on point. The rest of us—” he glanced around the table “—follow SOP and clear the back room while Quincy and Manny stall the negotiations. We bring the target to the rendezvous point where Grinch will be waiting to haul our collective asses out and head for home.”
“And I, as usual, will be covering those collective asses,” Fozzie said.
“And the damn radios will function this time, right?” Dalton said.
Quincy stiffened.
“Five by five,” Fozzie said, glowering at Dalton.
“How do you know your plan will work?” Quincy asked. He wiped beads of sweat from his brow with a soggy white handkerchief. One Dalton remembered being pristine when they’d departed.
“Because you’re going to insist on dealing with Rafael, not an underling, which our money says is who’s going to be negotiating,” Cooper said. “Rafael doesn’t like to show his face, so demanding to deal only with him buys us the time we need. You’ve got to stand firm on that one.”
“I’ll see to it,” Manny said.
None of the men liked that Quincy would be there at all, but the man insisted, and even Blackie hadn’t been able to convince him otherwise. A loose cannon. Exchanged glances around the table showed that opinions hadn’t changed during the flight. If Dalton had his way, he’d have sedated the man until the op was over.
“Dalton?” Fozzie said.
“Covering the rear in case Rafael tries to make a run for it.” Please let the scumbag make a run for it.
“I’ll have that backed up, too,” Harper said.
“All right, mates. ETA is two hours. Get some shut-eye.”
The men dispersed to their seats, reclining into the plush leather. Dalton closed his eyes, but sleep wasn’t on the agenda. Not until he was home with Miri. Would she have him back?
Dalton wriggled into the jungle undergrowth, eyes trained on the rear yard of Rafael’s hacienda. Fozzie’s voice in his headset tied him to the team. Quincy and Manny pulled up in the rental car, only a few minutes behind schedule due to several stops so Quincy could puke. Damn, they should never have let him get this far. He should be sequestered in a five-star hotel suite waiting for the tearful reunion with Tracy.
Around him, familiar jungle noises provided background to Fozzie’s commentary. Birds, monkeys, insects. Rustling leaves. Déjà vu all over again. And then a hush descended as if someone unplugged a stereo.
“Fozzie?”
“Relax, mate.” Fozzie’s calm voice reassured him. “Looks like a jaguar scared the local critters.”
Jaguar? So much for reassurance. Involuntarily, Dalton tensed. Fighting the urge to get up and look around, he remained motionless.
“You’re clear,” Fozzie said. “He’s found his tucker. Guess you’re not on the menu today. But if you want snake for supper, there’s one approaching from your right.”
Crap. If you’re not a threat, it’ll leave you alone. Dalton played that mantra over and over, not daring to move, barely daring to breathe as he felt the snake slither over his right thigh, then over his ass and down on his other side. Had to be sixty feet long judging from the time it took to continue on its way. Or did he still feel it? It couldn’t still be there.
Fozzie’s voice came through, laughing. Guffawing was more like it. “You should have seen the expression on your face.”
“Gone?” Dalton asked.
“Yep. Must have been a two-footer if it was an inch. Hang tight.” All humor left his voice. “We’re a go.”
Gunfire erupted from the hacienda. In his mind’s eye, Dalton saw his teammates burst into the room, each covering his assigned quadrant, taking out anyone who wasn’t Tracy. Separating hostiles from hostages. Sweat pooled in his armpits and his stomach clenched. Those split-second decisions decided who lived and who died. Surveillance showed three goons in the room with her, one outside, but the unexpected had a way of happening no matter how good the preparation.
He focused on his target area. If Rafael behaved true to form, he’d leave the fighting to his henchmen and hightail it for cover. Dalton’s finger poised over the trigger.
Make my day, asshole.
A cluster of people raced from the building. He squinted, trying to locate Rafael in the milling crowd. Full of women and children. Damn the man.
Fozzie’s voice interrupted. “Get to the rendezvous, Cowboy. Now. Target is in need of medical attention. Stat.”
Target. Tracy. The mission’s target, not his. Once he pinpointed Rafael, he’d need fifteen seconds, tops.
“I’ll catch up, Fozzie.”
“No can wait this time. Plan B if you’re not aboard, mate. Secondary point in eighteen hours.”
“I’ll be aboard.”
“See you there.”
Dalton switched off his radio, not wanting the distraction. The jungle noises were enough. He slowed his breathing. He waited. Above, a helo whupped.
“Come on, asshole. Show yourself. One shot’s all I need.”
“Well, amigo. Reports of your death seem to have been grossly overstated.” Rafael’s voice reverberated from behind him. “I look forward to remedying that. Slowly. Painfully. But not here. Somewhere nobody will find you. And don’t try anything foolish. I am not alone. Right, men?”
Four new voices replied to Rafael. Four gunshots exploded above his head. Four men rushed toward him.
Dalton raised his hands.
A boot on his ass. A kick in his ribs. Rafael’s cohorts manhandled him, blindfolded him, and slammed a rifle stock against the back of his head. As consciousness floated away, he clung to one thought. Blackthorne never left anyone behind.
Chapter 34
Miri settled into a rocker in Elsie’s nursery and snuggled Amanda close to her chest. “Sleep, little one.” The doctors had fixed a hole in the infant’s heart. Miri wished someone could do the same for hers. She toed the floor, setting the chair in motion.
Six weeks since Dalton sent her off, promising to meet her. Six weeks since she’d heard a word. All right. Five weeks, five days and an undetermined number of hours and minutes. Which she refused to calculate. Like she refused to cry over one more person who didn’t keep his word. At the three week mark, she’d drawn a thick red line through his name in her mental friends list. Between Galloway House and Elsie’s infants, she had plenty of people who needed her.
Amanda stirred, wriggled and found her thumb. To the accompaniment of quiet slurping, Miri hummed “My Favorite Things”.
Light from the hallway spilled into the dimly lit nursery. Miri glanced over her shoulder toward the open door. Elsie shuffled in. “You go sit in the other rocker, and I’ll bring you a baby,” she said to someone behind her. She smiled at Miri. “Brought a new volunteer. Thought you’d like company for a change.”
No, I wouldn’t. “Fine,” she said, returning her attention to Amanda. “Yolanda’s down for the count, but I haven’t cuddled Jimmy yet.” She went back to her humming, paying little heed to the familiar cooing sounds behind her as Elsie took the baby from his crib.
Miri heard the rocker creak and glanced up at a gowned, capped, and masked newcomer. Male, judging from his size. A quick peek of a beard curling from behind his mask confirmed it. Tall and slender, judging by his legs. Elsie settled him with his charge and left, closing the door behind her.
More squirming and red-faced grunts from Amanda pulled Miri from her seat. “You are one stinky little girl,” she whispered. “Let’s get you clean and sweet.”
Even with her back to the man, she felt his gaze boring through her as she ministered to Amanda. Miri hoped Elsie wouldn’t mind if she cut her session short. She didn’t want company, and definitely not male company.
If Amanda fussed, the new guy could rock her after he finished with Jimmy.
She fastened the diaper tapes, threw the used one in the diaper pail, and snapped Amanda’s sleeper. “There you go, little pumpkin. All snug and ready for nighty-night.” Carrying Amanda to the rocker, Miri buried her nose in the baby scent.
Amanda stared at her with wide baby-blue eyes, as if to say, “You’re not getting out of here early.” Miri set the rocker going with more force than necessary. Amanda whimpered.
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. Not fair to take things out on you.” Miri hummed her lullaby again. “Someday I’ll bring my Coltrane CD and you can hear the song at its best.”
“Don’t listen to her, Jimmy, my man. Pasty Cline’s the way to go,” the man whispered.
Although the words were barely audible, the hint of Texas buried in the whisper sent goose bumps crawling over her. Oh, God. It can’t be. She tightened her hold on Amanda, afraid she’d drop her. Not now. Not here. Unable to lift her gaze, she studied the cherubic face in her lap. She couldn’t avoid noticing the sandalwood teasing her nostrils. How had she missed it?
Her eyes burned. Her throat tightened around a golf ball-sized lump. Kissing Amanda’s forehead, Miri carried her to her crib. She settled the infant and flipped on the mobile dangling above. Assorted sea creatures swam in a circle to a music-box rendition of “Octopus’s Garden”.
She spun on her heel to leave, almost bumping into Dalton. Only the fact that he held Jimmy kept her from shouting—or slapping him. The soft glow of the nearby lamp reflected the pain in his eyes. She blinked back tears. What did he see in hers? Anger? Hurt? Betrayal? Didn’t matter. She was out of here. She reached for the tie of her gown.
“Miri. Please. I can explain.” He looked at the baby, then at her. Jimmy’s face screwed into a knot.
Damn it. She took Jimmy, whose cry rivaled an air raid siren, and whisked him out the door. Before she took three steps, Elsie was there, hands outstretched. Great. Had she orchestrated this whole reunion scene?
Dalton was behind her as she handed off the infant. “Miri.”
Ignoring him, she marched to the hamper and stripped off her gown. Dalton did the same.
“Miri, please.”
“We’ve established you know my name,” she said. “And I’m sure you have an explanation. The issue is, do I give a damn what it is? I think not.”
I think not? Talk about lame. She pushed past him, careful to avoid any contact, knowing if she touched him, she’d lose it.
He didn’t say anything as she stormed through the living room, across the porch and down to the Galloway House van parked in front. She got in and cranked the ignition. Nothing. Shit. She twisted the key again. Silence. Damn, damn, damn. She slapped the steering wheel, jiggled the gearshift, and tried once more. Zilch.
She dug through her purse for her cell phone. At least Galloway House belonged to the Auto Club. If only they’d get here right away.
Before she found the number, Dalton tapped on the window. She held up the useless key. “Can’t,” she said. “Windows won’t open.”
He crossed to the other side of the car and pulled open the passenger door. Why hadn’t she locked it?
“Can we talk?” he said.
“After I call Triple-A. I’m sure there will be plenty of time.”
“Don’t bother. I can fix it.”
“You can? And I suppose you know what’s wrong?”
“Since I’m the one who disabled it, yeah, I know.” He shrugged and lifted his hands in an apologetic gesture.
“You did what?”
He climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. In the confines of the van, his scent swamped her. She fought the rising tide of emotional overload, sorting through the flood and hanging on to anger.
“I had a feeling you wouldn’t stay and talk to me. I want to explain.”
“You could have parked behind me.”
“I thought of that. But the last car at the rental counter was that little thing.” He pointed to a red sub-compact next to the van. “I was afraid you’d back right over it.”
A smile escaped before she could stop it. “You’re probably right.”
“So, can we talk?”
“Should I believe whatever you’re going to say? So far, everything’s been one lie after another.”
“Not lies. Things I couldn’t tell you.”
“And you can tell me now?”
“Some of it.” He reached for her, and she drew back. His hand dropped as if she’d slapped him. “Let me try. Ask me questions. I promise to answer what I can. Over coffee?”
She’d played and replayed what she’d do if she ever saw him again. Walk away? She’d tried that. Cut him down with scathing remarks? She’d barely been able to get past lame. Scathing was out of reach. Slap him? Pound his chest? Knee him? She’d envisioned them all.
All except talking like two adults. The pain in his eyes cut through her like a phaser on kill. He looked as bone-weary as she felt. And thinner. Too much thinner. Purple hollows under red-rimmed eyes. “Fix my car first.”
He hesitated.
“We go in two cars, or in my van,” she said.
“Pop the hood.”
* * * * *
Dalton eased into a booth at Denny’s. As if taking him literally when he’d said they could talk over coffee, she’d turned on the radio and didn’t utter a word on the drive from Elsie’s. The waitress brought coffee as soon as they sat, filling their mugs and setting the carafe in the middle of the table.
“Apple pie,” he told her.
Miri perused the menu, ordered a dish of plain vanilla ice cream.
All the things he wanted to say, all the things he’d rehearsed, stayed locked inside. “How’s Galloway House?” he managed.
“Fine. Busy.”
“Do you hear from Jillian and Will? Are they still with Grace?”
“I talked to them a month or so ago.” She emphasized the “month,” clearly driving home how long he’d been gone. “They were fine.”
The waitress appeared with their food, giving an excuse for another stretch of awkward silence. Miri avoided his gaze, and he couldn’t blame her. He poked at the pie, more to keep his hands occupied than because he wanted to eat it. He’d dreamed of apple pie while Rafael held him captive. Now, he was afraid he wouldn’t keep it down.
He clutched the thick white mug in his hands and tried again. “How’s your sister?”
“Okay. Fozzie got her to the hospital in time. Ectopic pregnancy. Ruptured.”
And they’d thought the car crash had caused her pain. “I’m sorry about that but glad she’s all right.”
“She and Hunt moved back home. They’re regrouping, but Hunt’s got a job with Habitat for Humanity now. He’s happy.”
“That’s good.” More brilliant repartee. He spun the coffee mug, then lifted it to his lips, pretending to drink.
A waiter approached the booth behind her, his order pad poised. “What will it be?” he asked, his Hispanic accent slicing through Dalton’s ears.
He froze. Coffee sloshed over the rim of his mug. With trembling hands, he set it on the table.
“What will it be today, Señor Dalton?” A beam of light burned through the darkened cell.
Dalton covered his eyes, bringing back the blessed darkness.
“Fists perhaps?” A blow to his solar plexus knocked the wind out of him. “Or maybe I practice my football kicks, I think.” Steel-toed boots slammed into his rib cage. “No, perhaps it is time to end it all.” The spin of a revolver cylinder, the cock of a hammer. Cold steel against his temple.
His team would be back. Get through another session. Hang on another day. Miri. Think of Miri.
Sweat drenched him. He shivered. Hot, then cold, then nothing.
“Dalton? Dalton? Are you all right?”
Miri’s voice floated over him. Her scent filled his nostrils. He blinked until the restaurant reappeared. Miri sat across from him,
concern carved into her features. He sucked air, struggling to grasp the here and now.
“I’m fine. Spaced out a minute.” He released his death grip on the coffee mug. Brought his breathing under control.
“Let’s go,” she said. “We’ll finish at my place. Your car’s fine at Elsie’s awhile longer. You look awful, and you’re obviously not hungry.”
Did she care? He looked like hell, which wasn’t surprising considering he’d been there and back. Or was she embarrassed to be seen with him after his freak-out? Or was it simply because that’s what she did? Took care of people, even creeps like him. It didn’t matter. He’d take what he could get.
“Long day,” he said. When she reached for her purse, he stopped her. “I’ll get the check.”
She hesitated, as if she didn’t want to be in debt even for a cup of coffee. She nodded and slid out of the booth. He left a few bills on the table and followed her to the van.
“I noticed the babies were different tonight,” he said as they drove. More small talk to fill the expanding cloud of uncomfortable awkwardness. “What happened to Xavier and Zoey?”
“Nancy and Hunt are adopting them.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, as if to judge his reaction. She’d seen his surprise. Her grin was fleeting, but it was there. It felt good to see it.
“Yeah, I know,” she said. “I mean, I know Nancy’ll be a great mom, but I didn’t expect something like that from Hunt. I totally misjudged him. But the doctors said it would be nothing short of a miracle if Nancy conceived and carried to term, so they decided to take two babies who needed a good home.”
“And Hunt’s parents?” He couldn’t imagine the senior Sandersons gurgling over adopted babies to begin with, much less conspicuously adopted ones, their chocolate brown skin and curly black hair in such contrast to the blond Sandersons. Not to mention their medical problems.