by Pamela Clare
“North?” There was nothing up there but the Caribbean.
He’s a SEAL.
Shit.
“Don’t worry about that now. I need you to help me navigate back to the Aveo.”
Gabriela fought to pull herself together. “The easiest way to retrace our path would probably be to head up the highway and get off at that same exit.”
“Do you remember which exit that was? You were driving.”
She nodded. “I think so.”
Having a task seemed to focus her mind. Her body stopped trembling, her numbness falling away as she watched for the correct exit.
There were no roadblocks to slow them, but it was midnight by the time they found the Aveo. They backtracked the way they’d come and drove toward San Cristóbal, avoiding the city itself and heading north toward Maracaibo.
Then she had to ask. “How do you do it? How do you go into combat and then move on with your life as if nothing happened?”
He took her hand, squeezed it. “You don’t.”
Luis stared at the flames, stunned. He climbed out of his vehicle just as another explosion rocked the place, the heat so extreme he could feel it even at this distance. “What … What has happened?”
“Jefe, please get back inside.” Mono tried to herd him back into the vehicle. “This is dangerous. We don’t know what has happened or whether the men who did this are still here.”
Behind him, cameras clicked.
The reporters.
The bitch from Globovisión stepped in front of the camera. “We’re standing near the home of Colombian businessman Sergio Ruiz, which is in flames. We can’t confirm whether Ruiz was inside at the time or whether there are fatalities—”
Luis rounded on her. “Turn it off! Turn the fucking cameras off!”
He hadn’t brought them here to broadcast his failure.
Mono walked over, ripped the mic out of her hand. “You heard Don Luis. Put your cameras away.”
Jeronimo Ruiz, Sergio’s younger cousin, who’d met them at the helipad, walked up to Luis, tears on his face. “My cousin was in that house. This must be a hit by one of the other cartels. We’ll find whoever did this and make them watch while we do the same to their families.”
Luis found the bastard’s tears repulsive. “It’s not a cartel, idiot. It’s the US commando. He did this.”
Jeronimo glared at him. “You’d better hope not. He was here because you asked for Don Sergio’s help. If he did this, then it is your fault, Don Luis.”
“How can it be my fault?” Luis laughed. “Your cousin’s men had charge of the bastard. If he overcame them—”
Jeronimo got in his face. “There is no way one man, stripped of his gear and tied to a chair, could overcome all of those men. Or maybe you think the little nun did this?”
Luis’ pulse skipped. The bastard was crazy. “No, of course, not.”
“The commando and nun are dead, just like my cousin.” Jeronimo backed off, wiped the tears from his face. “This is the work of those Gulf bastards.”
One of the other men ran up to Jeronimo. “The fire department and police are almost here.”
What good would that do? The hacienda was destroyed. There probably wouldn’t even be identifiable bodies. If this were the work of the Gulf Cartel, they had destroyed his proof that US special forces took the hostages. The prize he’d hoped to give his brother-in-law might be ashes.
“Mamagüevo!” Luis cursed, stomped a boot into the ground.
“Look!” someone shouted. “It’s Imelda!”
Imelda? Sergio’s cook?
She ran toward them in her white cook’s uniform, hysterical and crying. “¡Ayúdenme! ¡Ayúdenme!” Help me!
Jeronimo walked over to her, took her hand. “You’re safe, woman. Tell me what happened. This was the Gulf Cartel, wasn’t it?”
“No, señor. It was that demon, the one pretending to be a nun. She shot Don Sergio. Then she killed them all. I was so scared.”
Jeronimo laughed. “The little nun?”
“Sí. Then she went down and freed him, the man they brought in with her. He warned me that he was going to blow up the house and told me to run.”
Luis stepped in. “Did he speak English?”
“No, señor, he spoke Spanish. They both spoke only Spanish.”
Jeronimo gave Imelda a shake. “You saw the nun kill my cousin?”
“I was in the kitchen, but I heard it. But she cannot be a nun. She is a demon.”
Jeronimo released Imelda and turned to Luis, rage on his ugly face. He pointed to the helicopter. “Take your reporters and get the fuck out of here! You brought this down on us. You’re lucky I don’t gut you where you stand!”
Mono and his men raised their rifles, pointed them at Jeronimo’s men.
“No, Mono, lower your weapon. They are grieving. We will talk again soon, Jeronimo. I’m sorry about Don Sergio. He was a good friend.”
That wasn’t true, but it wasn’t right to speak ill of the dead.
“Mono, get the reporters back into the vehicles. Call the pilot and tell him to prepare to lift off. We’re going back to Caracas.”
But Jeronimo wasn’t finished. “We will find your commando and this demon nun, and we’ll deal with them our way. They are ours now. Our partnership with you is over. You are no longer a friend of the Andes organization.”
Luis’ stomach seemed to drop, blood rushing from his head. “Our partnership—”
“It’s over!” Jeronimo spat on the ground.
His partnership with Sergio and the cartel was the source of his wealth—and his brother-in-law’s most significant secret source of income. Without it…
His brother-in-law would kill him. “We can discuss this at another time. You’re upset, I know, and we grieve with…”
Jeronimo drew a pistol, pressed it against Luis’ forehead. “Leave! Now!”
“Don Luis, please, get in the vehicle,” Mono said.
Luis climbed inside, fear a weight in his belly as they drove back to the helipad.
19
Dylan drove toward Maracaibo, Gabriela asleep in the seat beside him, her face lined with exhaustion and worry. Or was that pain?
She’d come so fucking close to being killed today.
They both had.
If someone had told him at the initial mission briefing that the nun would turn out to be a CIA officer and would not only provide valuable intel, but also take out a dozen killers along with the head of the Andes Cartel, Dylan would have thought they were loco. And yet, she’d done all those things—and more.
It was supposed to be Dylan’s job to keep her safe, but she had risked herself to save him. She’d never killed before, but today she’d taken the lives of thirteen men, something she would carry with her for the rest of her life. She had a higher kill count than he did for this mission, and she was the one being rescued.
But that wasn’t the crazy part.
The crazy part was that he was falling in love with her.
¡Coño!
If that was true, he was fucked.
Whatever he was feeling, it was probably just adrenaline getting mixed up with hormones. He was a man, and she was a beautiful, smart, talented, courageous, brilliant, sexy woman. Once they got back to the US, they’d go their separate ways and …
And he didn’t want that.
Tough shit, cabrón. She’s got her life, her career. Do you think she’d give it up for a man who couldn’t keep her safe?
Dylan had replayed the past eight hours over and over in his mind, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong. But it all came back to one thing: drones. That was the crucial missing piece of intel. If he’d known about the drones, he would have headed north rather than trying to cross the Colombian border.
Wasn’t that the sort of shit the Agency ought to have known?
Beside him, Gabriela whimpered in her sleep—then jerked awake.
Dylan took her hand. “It’s okay, Gabi. Yo
u’re safe.”
She pressed a palm against her side, pain on her face. “Where are we?”
“We just passed a sign that said Arincón. It shouldn’t be long now. You’ve slept for about two hours.”
“Sorry. I should be doing something useful.”
“You’ve done enough.”
They pulled into Maracaibo just after sunrise. Dylan checked them into a cheap motel just off the highway—no security cameras, no elevators, no questions asked. The room wasn’t fancy, but it was clean and had a private bathroom and AC.
Gabriela took off her blood-stained shirt and jeans. “I want a shower.”
“You can wash your hands and face, but no shower—not for at least twenty-four hours. That wound needs time to heal first.” He set his backpack down. “I’ll give you some morphine, clean it, and stitch you up.”
“Morphine?”
“Believe me. It will be better that way.”
She washed her hands and face and set her bloody T-shirt and jeans in the sink to soak. “I think I’m going to need new clothes.”
Dylan laid a towel across the bed and got what he needed from the first aid kit—gloves, sterile tweezers, suture kit, morphine. “Get comfortable.”
“Have you ever done this before?”
“I trained to be our Team’s back-up medic, and the answer is yes.”
“Is it going to be bad?” She lay down, centering herself over the towel.
Dylan put a pillow beneath her head. “I have to remove the bullet fragments, or you’ll get an infection. That’s what the morphine is for.”
She watched him, clearly nervous. “I trust you.”
He twisted the top off the auto-injector. “This is going to make you feel sleepy and light-headed. It won’t take all the pain away, but it will help. Ready?”
She nodded.
He punched the auto-injector into her quadriceps.
She gasped at the prick, and then her eyes went wide.
She reached for him. “Dylan?”
He took her hand. “It’s just the drug. Have you ever had morphine before?”
“Never. It feels … so strange.”
“I’m going to wash my hands now while it kicks in. I’ll be right back.” He walked into the bathroom, turned on the tap, reached for an unopened bar of soap.
“Dylan? Will I see you again after we get home? You can’t just pop into my life like this and then disappear. I don’t want to say goodbye.”
His pulse picked up. “I don’t want that either.”
Part of Dylan wondered if he would come to regret saying that, but it was the truth. Then again, she was on ten mgs of morphine. She probably wouldn’t remember this conversation anyway.
He dried his hands, slipped into sterile gloves, and opened the tweezers. “I’m going to get the bullet fragments now. Try to hold still.”
Her lips curved in a dopey smile. “Okey-dokey.”
He worked quickly, trying not to hurt her, but, of course, that was impossible. The drug blunted her pain, but her every gasp and whimper was a fist to his solar plexus. He removed three fragments, rinsed the wound, and sutured it, causing her more pain. Then he cleaned her skin with some sterile saline and bandaged her. “How are you?”
She watched him through dilated pupils, a sheen of perspiration on her forehead, her face pale. “As good as new. I really can’t take a shower? I feel so dirty.”
Dylan had an idea. “I can give you a sponge bath.”
“A sponge bath?”
“You’ll see.” He cleaned up the mess and put away the first aid kit, then grabbed the room’s ice bucket and carried it into the bathroom. He filled it with hot water and grabbed the soap and a washcloth.
He found her naked on the bed, drowsy but still awake. He set the bucket down on the nightstand, soaked the washcloth, and started with her face.
“Mmm. That feels good.”
He moved his way down her body, washing away proof of the day’s cruelty——blood spatter, dust from the drywall, mud from the river. Every inch of her was precious to him, her body sacred ground. Her throat. Her shoulders. Her breasts. Her belly. The curve of her hips. Those slender legs. Her little feet.
Yeah, he was in deep shit.
He set the dirty cloth in the ice bucket. “Is that better?”
She nodded. “I’m so sleepy.”
He kissed her. “Just rest. I’m going to take a quick shower.”
He covered her with the sheet, double-checked the door, and walked into the bathroom with his pistol. When he stepped out of the bathroom once more, towel around his waist, she was deep in a painless sleep.
Gabriela lay on her good side next to Dylan, tracing a finger down the groove at the center of his belly, her body replete from sex—very slow, careful, gentle sex. “What a pair we make. You’re bruised and battered. I’ve got stitches.”
Dark bruises covered his chest and ribcage, and there were blotchy red marks on his belly where that son of a bitch had shocked him.
Dylan’s eyes were closed, but he smiled. “I’ve been worse off. Believe me.”
“That place looked like a butcher shop. It must have been awful.” She placed her palm over the red marks.
His brow furrowed, his smile fading. “I’ve never felt pain like that—ever. Nothing even comes close. I had to hold out because, if I’d broken, they would have killed you. I thought of you, Gabriela. The whole time, I thought of you. I even prayed and asked God for a miracle. And then you were there with that Tavor.”
Tears filled Gabriela’s eyes, an ache in her chest to think of him suffering like that. Then she had to say it. “I’m so sorry, Dylan. If I hadn’t let myself get washed downstream—”
“Hey, it wasn’t your fault.” He sat up, took her face between his palms, his eyes looking straight into hers. “They knew right where we were when I shot down that drone. They probably flew another one into position and watched us cross. They would have been waiting for us no matter where we came out of the river. You didn’t get us into that mess, but you sure as hell got us out of it.”
His fingers slid into her hair, and he kissed her, soft and slow. “You are the best mission I’ve ever had.”
Gabriela saw a ray of hope in his words. She slid a palm up his chest, gathered her courage. “I don’t want this to end.”
He looked confused. “You want to keep running from the bad guys forever?”
“No, I don’t want this to end—you and me.”
He grinned, chuckled. “I know. You told me last night.”
“I… I did?”
“The morphine loosened your tongue a little.”
“Oh.” Heat rushed to her face.
“Before we start worrying about the future, how about we make sure we actually have one? We still have a long way to go to get home.”
Just like that, he switched from being tender to discussing business.
“I’m going to head out for some food and clothes for the two of us.” He climbed out of bed and dressed, his trousers as filthy as her clothes but not bloodstained. “You hang here. Keep the curtains closed. Don’t go out. When I get back, we’ll eat, and then take off.”
“I wear a size six.” He hadn’t asked, but he would need to know. “Where exactly are we going?”
“I’m working on that.” He grabbed his sunglasses, his pistol, and the car keys, then pressed a kiss to her nose. “Size six. Got it. Don’t open the door for anyone.”
“Hurry back.”
“I’ll do my best.” He unlocked the door, stepped outside, and was gone.
Gabriela wrapped herself in the sheet, then washed her face, brushed her teeth, and turned on the television. She had expected to find news of Ruiz’s death, but there was nothing about him or the fire at his hacienda on any of the channels. Why would anyone want to keep that a secret?
The moment she asked the question, she knew the answer.
His death had created a power vacuum. The top position in one of
the world’s wealthiest crime organizations was open. Someone didn’t want anyone to know Ruiz was dead—not until he had secured his position and taken that power for himself.
With any luck, the cartel was too busy killing its own to come after them.
Have you been lucky so far?
No. Except for Dylan.
He’d come after her when Pitón had tried to take her for himself. He’d done everything he could to keep her safe, enduring far more than he’d signed on for with this mission. He’d picked lead out of her and stitched her up.
He’d made love to her like no man ever had.
That doesn’t mean he loves you.
Of course, it didn’t.
When she’d brought up the future, he’d changed the subject. He was right. Now wasn’t the time or place. But she couldn’t shake the worry that this was nothing more than a fling for him. Which completely sucked.
She was in love with him.
God, she was an idiot!
She was on her first solo mission, and she just had to fall in love with the first sexy former SEAL to come along and rescue her.
Well done.
Then her face appeared on the TV screen.
“Police continue to search for Sister María Catalina, who was abducted from a Mission in El Vigía. In a twist, police believe she and the man she is traveling with may have been responsible for the murders of thirteen men near San Antonio del Táchira last night. More on this story as it develops.”
How would they know any of that? How would they—
Imelda.
Of course. The cook. Gabriela had heard her scream. She’d seen.
¡Mierda! Shit.
Sánchez and his men were still looking for her. The cartel would be coming for her, too. And they knew now that she wasn’t a nun.
“You want to steal a boat? That’s your plan?”
“Or rent or borrow one.” Dylan tried not to notice how fucking hot she looked in the red tank top and jeans he’d bought for her. “I don’t think I can buy one for five hundred bucks—not one that will get us safely to Curaçao anyway.”