In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  Stunned, she sat back without answering, considering the offer now that his intentions were laid on the table. “Dinner? Oh, Dave. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes. I promise, there won’t be any reason to feel guilty afterward, and you’ll have a good time.”

  Guilty? A good time? What is he thinking—a one night stand?!”

  Again, she took a long drink then uncomfortably answered. “Gee, I’m flattered. But …I’m not ready for something like that, and I’ll be honest with you … I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to move on, definitely not like that.”

  “You misunderstand my intentions. I’m not here to romance ya’. I’m here to offer you a distraction from the pain that’s tearin’ at your soul.” Dave looked away to the rain streaked sliding door leading out to the deck. “I know loss, Liz.”

  “Those dog tags in your truck?”

  “Yeah. Ken was my best bud, and while it devastated me, I saw what it did to his wife. She couldn’t hold it together.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “After I transitioned back to civilian life, I spent some time with her and the kids at their farm. I saw how she lost confidence in how she looked, how she felt about hers and the boys’ future. It seemed like the simplest gesture helped her the most. I don’t know, I just thought that maybe you goin’ out to a movie with a friend—a male friend—could help get your mind off things.”

  He understood, and she felt like an idiot for possibly misinterpreting his intentions—all based on that innocent silly attraction months ago. Still … there was a certain gleam in his eyes. “I’m leaving tomorrow after I visit my father, but … maybe if you give me your mobile number I might call you when I ride through Tennessee after I take on the Tail of the Dragon outside Asheville.”

  He held out his hand across the table and she took it, enjoying the soothing warmth and the rough calluses. Silently, she wished it was Fitzwilliam’s.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said with a glorious smile. “I hope you do call.”

  “Okay then … no strings, no romance, just a rain check for a barbeque between two friends.”

  “You’re goin’ on a death wish ride, aren’t ya?”

  “Something like that. Fitzwilliam loved that wild motorcycle challenge, and we had talked about doing it together when I was ready … but we never got around to it. Anyway, apart from my sister and good friends, there’s nothing tethering me to anything.”

  “I felt that way, too. Just get it out of your system, but don’t do anything crazy.”

  She couldn’t promise that but just smiled back.

  “Are you ready for a ride like that?”

  “God, I studied that map so much over the last week, I think I could do it with my eyes closed.” At least I hope so! “I had a really good teacher.”

  ***

  Panama City

  Yeah, Liz would love Panama’s cultural flavor, Darcy mused, watching the locals enthusiastically enjoy English soccer on the lone television beside the bar of Café Coca Cola in Panama City. Off the beaten path, the city’s oldest restaurant wasn’t far from the Colonial ruins where he’d met Pilar the night before.

  While enjoying the local fare, he focused on the calling card he’d leave tonight at Morales’s compound up in Cerro Azul before departing for his next hit at the exact locale as Operation Samba. The hearty late lunch was meant to tide him over for the next 24 hours until his arrival in La Paz. He felt oddly relaxed wearing a Panama hat and his spirits were high in anticipation of the meet-up with Pilar at the airport to receive the burner phone he’d given to her. Hopefully, she’d been successful in cloning it to Luis’s phone. Traitor Tom was growing on him.

  Unable to stop the ice in his veins from melting, he allowed a genuine smile to form when three local musicians began to play traditional calypso music inside the joint. It was happy and filled with promise and he vowed to take Liz back here when all this crazy shit was over with. Together, they may not live as the Americans Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, but Mr. and Mrs. John Thornton from England did have a nice ring to it.

  Placing the fork down beside the bowl of yellow rice, he leaned back in his chair, gazed out the window then took a swig from the glass soda bottle. What is she doing? Is she okay? God, he missed her. With no photograph in his wallet, her beautiful countenance filled his mind’s eye and for a second he closed his eyes, imagining her expression beside the waterfall and how she’d kissed him.

  His heart skipped and then his resolve broke; he removed the phone from his pocket, logged in the special access code, and tapped the Bluetooth earpiece. Her voice immediately filled his head when the necklace’s signal routed through the satellite and his heart soared. He clung to her first six words, analyzing and dissecting her tone and inflection to determine her state of mind.

  “… my appearance as I did before.”

  “If you don’t mind me sayin’, I think you’re real pretty.”

  Who the hell is this southern boy?

  “You’re sweet, but I can tell when a man is lying.”

  “It’s the truth. You’re one of the most genuine girls I’ve met—I told ya’ that back in April.”

  The heat of anger rose from his neck to his head. Wentworth!

  “About that … I’m sorry about how awkward it got.”

  “What happened wasn’t either of our faults; it just happened between us.

  What the hell happened? What the hell happened between them in April!?

  “Sometimes, you can’t predict or avoid chemistry. It is what it is. Listen, I’ll be frank with ya’, I stayed in Washington so that I could maybe take you out to dinner or out to a night on the town.”

  Fisting his hand, his relaxed mood disappeared. Had Liz cheated in April?

  “Dinner? Oh, Dave. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes. I promise, there won’t be any reason to feel guilty afterward, and you’ll have a good time.”

  What the hell kind of good time are you offering my wife? A long pause followed and he was on the edge of his seat in anticipation of her answer. He hadn’t even been dead for a month!

  “Gee, I’m flattered. …”

  He yanked the Bluetooth from his ear, blood roaring through his veins. But then the weight of his own sin crushed him like a ton of bricks: as far as Liz knew, she was a widow, no longer bound to fidelity by marriage, no longer his wife—and it was all of his own making. He’d have to deal with his jealousy for it served him right. Again … it came down to reminding himself that he chose the right way not the easy way.

  Crestfallen and angered at himself, he tossed $40 on the table and left the restaurant. Panamanian and Bolivian revenge were only hours away.

  13

  Fire on the Mountain

  Early Morning, August 31

  Panama

  Morales’s private compound, beyond the outskirts of Cerro Azul, was not easy to breach, especially at zero two hundred hours when one was intent on death and destruction. After two weeks of surveillance, he’d not only memorized where ID check points and private security were, but also knew the exact layout of the mansion’s grounds (thanks to satellite footage) and the interior, having examined the architectural blueprints Bennet sent him. At 3,000 feet above sea level, accessing the residence by land was doable, but not without back up or a heavy distraction for his plans. Tonight, his method of infiltration was by air.

  Dressed in onyx tactical face and body gear, he and the hang glider’s sail blended into the eerie sky like a bat outta hell. With fists clutched around the control bar, he ghost-soared above the Chagres National Park rainforest at a clip, approximately 30 mph. The cooler weather at this high-altitude felt refreshing while the repetitive sound of the flapping canopy added to the tranquility of skating on air. There was calm in this moment, but he was the storm about to descend on Morales’s home and men. Bermuda’s home explosion was revenge for Pemberley; this was payback for U-Street and for Pilar, even if her ab
users were not in residence. Retribution for Liz would come at the end of this road with a bullet to Diablo’s head—Iceman style.

  Much like riding a motorcycle, hang gliding came naturally to him, both employing the same weight shift control and balance. Re-checking the altimeter attached to the right landing wire, he noted: six thousand feet above sea level. Tonight’s perfect breeze and rising air from the mountainside kept him aloft with steady precision until he was ready for his descent to Diablo’s Casa Luz. The starlit sky married the abyss-like mountainous land below him and in his mind he visualized the op about to go down. Two throwers, two suppressed pistols and his most valuable weapon: his hands, and he’d be a lethal force to reckon with once he landed at the edge of the cliff beyond the heliport.

  The flutter of his glider skating on air measured the adrenaline coursing from the thrill of the flight. He should do this more often. No doubt, Liz would love it since “born to be wild” had become her theme song. He’d known from the moment he held her in his tango dance frame at the school that they were two sides of the same coin.

  Wentworth, and his slick cowboy act, might give her a temporary sexual respite from her grief, which he’d have to accept, but the guy could never replace what they had, and when he returned from the dead, he’d fight for her and apologize—again and again and again—until he truly took his last breath.

  A glance at his wrist to the GPS pre-programmed with the coordinates of his landing site and the mansion’s location indicated it was time to start his calculated descent.

  Backlit by the moon, the silhouette of two cruzadors (security protection) at the edge of the heliport came into view when he flew overhead toward the clearing at the very edge of the cliff beside a steep valley to his left. He held tightly to the control bar with one hand, maintaining balance when he withdrew his Beretta—firing one than the other with dead-on accuracy. Both bodies fell alongside the glider’s canopy. His boots touched ground in a running landing, and he quickly released the harness. Leaving the glider ready for departure in seven mikes, he bolted toward the forest edge.

  His feet barely disturbed either flora or fauna as he went pistol ready from tree to tree, carefully avoiding the security cameras position in the branches above. The house was dark, he could see through the tree line that at the back door an armed guard stood smoking.

  Suddenly, air knocked from his lungs when a boot kick to his back sent him to the ground; the gun dropped to the rocky soil with a thud.

  Another kick almost landed on his head, but with lightning response he rotated his body, capturing the foot in his hands before contact and snapped the ankle within his grasp just before his own kick in the enemy’s solar plexus sent him flying. As the sentry fell backward, Darcy withdrew the sheathed knife attached to his leg and flung it into his chest before he could make another sound.

  “Fuck,” he silently groaned, rising from the forest floor and grabbing the Baretta. He stealthily came around the side of the building, surprising the back-door man with an effortless pistol shot then dragged him to the side of the hacienda.

  Above him, on the verandah a light switched on and he froze, back pressed against the perimeter wall, careful not to create a shadow in the moonlight. The door opened and someone exited outside; he leaned over the railing.

  Positioned at the corner of the building beside climbing roses, Darcy peered around the edge and took his shot—one to the temple; the cartel scum fell three-feet from him, eyes open. He joined the other in a heap of death.

  He secured one foot in the rose-cover trellis, disregarding the thorns and brambles on the two story climb.

  Ten seconds later, he ducked below the camera at the roof peak and slipped into the verandah’s open door, entering the luxurious bedroom. He flipped the light switch off and stealthily made his way to the connecting office where the moon shined through the black security bars covering the outside of the unbreachable window. From his pant pocket he withdrew one of Bennet’s new toys and held it near the perimeter walls as he silently moved from shadow to shadow. The electronic device vibrated in his hand when it passed over an 18” deep cigar humidor behind Diablo’s desk. Clever.

  A press to the button on the side of the device disarmed the cigar humidifier’s alarm and hygrometer before he opened the fireproof glass door and slid out six cigar cases one at a time. With the base now empty, a concealed safe was revealed; Bennet’s invention opened the safe with the press of a button. Jackpot.

  The safe was filled with stacks of envelopes, a couple of notebooks (which he’d painstakingly examine when he got to Bolivia), and bricks of cash, which he’d pay forward to his asset in Peru; he emptied the safe, shoving everything into his backpack. He replaced the cigars and slipped in a little “love letter” then closed the door. Stealing the contents in the safe was simply theater. The fireproof stronghold would live to tell a story: a love letter from El Negro would provide the perfect scapegoat for his actions. Written in Spanish, the letter read:

  “We will destroy La Muerta Mundial cartel and take all that you own. Nothing is beyond our reach. El Negro is the new Lord of the Jungle. We bring death to you and the world.”

  He grabbed a few Cubans for later from the top of the humidor and placed one between his lips. Glancing at his watch, he noted that three minutes remained.

  On his way out the door, he pressed enough plastic C-4 against the wall to level half of the mansion. Casa Luz (House of Light) indeed.

  Back down the trellis and through the woods, his pistol worked double duty until with two magazines spent, he quickly harnessed, grabbed hold of the hang glider’s control bar and ran off the cliff. Soaring with the black mountain at his back, he said “Fire in the hole, fellas,” and smirked when the explosion lit up the night.

  ***

  Prague

  Morales reached for the vibrating mobile phone on the nightstand beside his bed, and his wife groaned. Although accustomed to being interrupted—by him—she still expressed her displeasure.

  “Five in the morning,” he said in equal disapproval, grabbing the telephone. “What?” he growled into the phone.

  “Jefe …” Luis’s voice wavered on the other end.

  “Do you dare wake me? This better be good. Have you arrived in Prague yet?”

  “No, señor. I was called back to Casa Luz early this morning. I will not be able to make my flight until this evening.”

  He sat up in bed and tightened his fist.

  “The hacienda … It was destroyed. There was an explosion,” Luis weakly said.

  He gritted his teeth and could feel the burn of anger to his cheeks. “Explosion? What happened?”

  “We do not know yet, but security checkpoints at the bottom of the mountain say no one breached, no one had access. The drones and video surveillance show nothing. Defense had been tightened both on the perimeter and the checkpoints as you instructed.”

  “Then how did it happen!”

  “El Negro. Your safe—it was only slightly damaged, and anticipating your instruction, I only opened it to verify that the book on the Panamanian officials was still secure.”

  Luis grew silent.

  “And?!”

  “It was empty except for a note. It was the enemy—El Negro.”

  Diablo threw back the bed linen and rose.

  “Juan … come back to bed,” Maria groaned.

  “Shut up! Where was our security around the mansion?” he barked into the phone.

  “Dead, Jefe. Twelve men, all dead, including one of our skilled cruzadors. They must have come with an army.”

  Storming from the bedroom, he grabbed the robe hanging at the door. “I want these people gutted like pigs! If you don’t find the head of this El Negro and cut it off … then it will be your head! Do you understand me? It will be the piñata at your godson’s birthday! And dessert will be your shriveled cojones—not macaroons from the local sweet shop!

  “Sí … Sí, señor.”

  ***


  Bolivia

  Bone tired from his midnight op in Panama and having not slept in close to 32 hours, Darcy welcomed the frigid snap of air when he exited El Alto International Airport into “the city that touches the sky,” La Paz, the capital of Bolivia.

  Surrounded by barren land, he momentarily admired the stunning landscape of the snow-covered Andes Mountains surrounding the airport and took a deep breath, needing the invigorating clean air—as thin as it was.

  The 3000-meter altitude barely affected him when he slung his heavy gear bag over a shoulder and searched through the thick, lunchtime traffic for a particular vehicle to transport him to yet another sleazebag hotel—the same one where he stayed during Operation Samba. Located deep in the valley, it was an hour drive both from the airport and to his sniping location within the South Andean Yungas rainforest.

  His mood was shit—of course it had been since leaving his Lakmé—but it was worse tonight after listening to another brief, heart-breaking snippet of conversation from the necklace during his flight.

  Dixon’s muffled voice asked, “Mrs. D, are you all right in there?”

  “I’ll be okay, I think.”

  Perhaps she’d removed the necklace from around her neck because her voice sounded far away—and then he heard her retch into the toilet and his heart sunk. Damn. She’s sick. If only I could hold her head and rub her back.

  “Would you like me to make you some tea in that there hotel coffeemaker or I can call up for room service and get some toast. You have to eat, Liz.”

  “I’m not hungry.”