by Connie Mann
“My heart hurts,” Elena whispered.
“I know, angel. Mine, too.”
Small arms wound around her neck, hampering her breathing. “I love you, Tia Regina.”
“I love you, too, Elena.”
“Your hair smells like smoke.”
Regina smiled. “Yes, I know. Now, off to bed with you. I’ll be in soon to hear your prayers—especially the one about eavesdropping on conversations.” She set the child on her feet and gave her bottom an encouraging swat to shoo her on her way.
By the time all thirty children were safely tucked into their bunks, faces scrubbed, prayers said, hugs and kisses given and received, Regina was falling-down tired. She could barely put one foot in front of the other.
Satisfied that Eduardo slept—at least for now—Regina headed for the shower, desperate to clear her thoughts. She needed to think. To feel clean. To wash away the pain. She grabbed a brush and soap and started scrubbing every inch of her skin, trying to remove the dirt. And the horror. First, little Leticia had been severely beaten and horribly raped. Now Irene was dead. Murdered. Dear God.
Regina stood under the hot spray and shook like a leaf in a windstorm, even as she scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to comprehend, to make sense of it all. Why would someone want Irene dead?
Two minutes later, she’d used up all the hot water and an icy spray pelted her bruised flesh, but Regina didn’t notice. She braced her hands on the tiled wall and let the sound of the water drown out her sobs. A pain unlike anything she’d ever felt tore at her insides. Arms wrapped around her middle, her legs gave out and she slid down the wall to the cold tile floor. Oh, Irene.
The sound of someone pounding on the bathroom door finally penetrated her consciousness. “Regina, is everything all right?” the housekeeper called.
Regina tried to respond, but no sound came out. She hauled herself up by the towel bar and managed to shut the water off after three tries. Struggling into her ratty bathrobe, she eased the door open a crack. “I’m okay,” she croaked.
Worry darkened Olga’s lined face. “I’ll fix you something to soothe your throat, child.”
A short while later, Regina sat in the old rocker in Irene’s room, a sleeping Eduardo cradled in her arms. Her eyes kept drifting shut, and she worried she’d let the poor thing roll right out of her arms onto the cold floor.
When the phone rang, Regina’s eyes snapped open, and she tightened her grip on Eduardo. “No more children tonight, God, please,” she muttered, though as soon as the thought formed, she rejected it. If a child needed her, she would find the strength to do what needed to be done. “Casa de Anjos,” she greeted hoarsely.
Silence answered her.
“Hello? Who’s there?” She kept her voice casual, non-threatening. Street children often called for help and then changed their minds. “It’s all right. Tell me who you are.”
“I saw you crying on television tonight,” a raspy voice said.
Chills raced down her spine. The voice wasn’t human. It was disembodied, mechanical. Regina held the phone slightly away from her ear, as though the evil could reach through the telephone line. “Who is this?” she asked again, only this time she couldn’t help the edge that crept into her voice.
“Irene didn’t deserve your tears.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs and her hands shook. “Please tell me who you are.”
“The guilty must pay,” the voice said again, and Regina heard the click as the caller hung up.
She slowly replaced the receiver and buried her face against Eduardo’s sweet-smelling neck, trying to combat the memory of that dark, evil voice and its terrifying implications. Had she just spoken to Irene’s killer?
Olga elbowed her way into the room. “I’m sorry I didn’t get the phone, but my hands were full.” She set the tray down and then turned, eyes widening. “What is it? Who called? Another orphan?”
Regina tried to steady her breathing. “I don’t know.”
“Then who?” Olga marched over and scooped Eduardo out of Regina’s arms, in full mother-hen mode. “Why do you look so frightened?”
Regina didn’t want to scare the older woman any more than necessary, so she asked a question instead. “How much of what the police said earlier did you hear?”
Olga looked away and shuffled her feet.
“It’s all right. It’s important that you and Jorge know what’s going on.” The elderly couple bore as much responsibility for the orphanage as she and Irene.
“I know the policeman said Irene was murdered, but that idiot is loco if he thinks you had anything to do with it.” She raised her eyes heavenward briefly. “I don’t understand God at times like this, but I know something is very wrong. First Irene, and now you sit here—pale as a ghost—after a midnight phone call.”
Regina took a deep fortifying breath. “I intend to find out what happened to Irene.”
Olga gasped and muttered a quick prayer. “That is dangerous, Regina. Let the police handle it.”
“And do what? Sit here and do nothing in the meantime? I can’t do that. And I don’t trust the police.”
“Not do nothing. Take care of the other children. Take care of Eduardo. That is what Irene would want.”
Regina’s eyes filled and she had to swallow hard before she spoke. “Irene always took care of me. And today, when she really needed me, I wasn’t there for her.” She swiped her cheeks. “How can I sit by and do nothing to help?”
Seeing the arguments forming on Olga’s lips, Regina asked, “Have you had any luck getting in touch with Noah or anyone at the Orlando office?”
“No, and that is very strange.”
Regina patted her hand. “Please keep trying.”
When the private line rang in his plush downtown Porto Alegre office, Francisco Lopez jumped guiltily and shoved the incriminating photo into his bottom desk drawer. He still couldn’t believe Irene had tried to cut him out of her life. How dare she? Didn’t she know how much he loved her?
Francisco deliberately calmed himself before he answered. He’d been dreading this call, but had been expecting it. The man operated with the precision of a Swiss watch.
He ran a hand through immaculately coiffed black hair, smoothed his silk tie, and wondered, for the thousandth time, how his life had gotten to this point.
When the phone shrilled again, he picked up the receiver and barked a greeting. Never let anyone, from political opponent to blackmailer, see a single one of your weaknesses.
“What do you want? I’ve already paid you.”
“Yes, you’ve been very generous. But unfortunately, that was merely a down payment. Especially after today . . .”
“What do you mean ‘after today’?” His volume belied the fear dancing in his belly. What did the man know?
“Tsk, tsk,” the voice taunted. “Such a temper, especially for a man who wants Brazil to see him as the logical choice for president. Although what you did today in broad daylight seemed rather bold.”
Francisco’s palms began to sweat. Had the man seen him leaving the café? “What are you talking about?”
“Turn on the television, Colonel. I’ll be in touch concerning the cost for my silence.”
Francisco fumbled with the television remote, but when he finally understood what the announcers were saying, it slid from nerveless fingers. He dropped his head in his hands as the knowledge pummeled him. His beloved Irene was dead, gone from his life forever. Grief sucked him under, but gradually, his political mind pulled him back up. This had not been a random accident. Bile rose in his throat. The monster blackmailing him had killed her—and somehow, he could make it look like Francisco did it.
He paced his lavishly decorated office, searching for answers, a plan. There had to be a way to stop this man—without revealing his involvement with Irene. If his wife found out, she’d cut off his money, and with it, his chance for the presidency.
But first, he had to find out about the boy. There were too many loose
ends. He picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number. “Noah Anderson, please.”
Rio de Janeiro
The images began again, and Brooks thrashed his head on the threadbare pillow, his entire body braced in an attempt to stop them. But their pull was as relentless as the sea. His fists gripped the sheet and sweat beaded his forehead as memories sucked him under.
The sounds of the jungle were all around, the air thick. His camouflage clothes clung to his back; his boots slid on the slippery ground. He stopped, signaling the men behind him to hold up. The guard wasn’t where he’d been that morning.
He pointed to Jones and Woody. In a crouch, they raced to the spot, silent despite heavy packs and the weapons cradled in competent hands. When they motioned that the guard was dead, icy dread settled in Brooks’s gut. Someone had beaten them here. A low cry pierced the air, and he and his men raced through the underbrush, praying they were not altogether too late.
When they spotted the woman and child lying in the small clearing, Brooks whispered, “Cover me, Jax,” to his fellow Ranger and best friend. Brooks sprinted through the trees, eyes darting back and forth. Every instinct screamed that they’d been set up, but he could not walk away from the hostages he’d come to save.
He dropped to his knees beside the woman and cursed the neat hole left in her forehead by her assassin. Her body was still warm, and she was fully clothed, so it didn’t appear she’d been raped. It wasn’t much to tell a husband, but it was something.
Jaw clamped in fury, Brooks turned his attention to the nine-month-old boy. Hope flickered briefly, but vanished when Brooks saw the sucking chest wound, blood pumping out with every heartbeat. He ripped the plastic covering from a first aid dressing and placed it over the wound, knowing it wouldn’t help. Big blue eyes gazed solemnly at him, darkened by confusion and pain. One breath, then another, and the child slipped away.
Brooks squeezed his eyes closed, cursing the tragedy of a mother and child lost to the whims of a drug lord. He gently closed the child’s eyes and did the same for his mother.
Then he leapt up, icy determination in his eyes. They’d been set up. Betrayed. He intended to find out how. And why.
When shots erupted, Brooks ran for cover, taking a hit to his right arm just as he reached the tree line. He tied off the wound, then returned his gun to the fight.
Pain slashed with white-hot agony, but he gritted his teeth and kept firing. Whoever had ambushed them wasn’t going to win. Not as long as he could still lift his gun.
Several yards to his right, Jones took a hit, hitting the ground with a nearly silent thud. Brooks crawled over to him, but Jones was already dead. Shaking with rage, Brooks fired again and again, but the shots kept coming. He looked down and saw blood dripping onto the ground. Relief that the pain had eased changed suddenly to desperation. He was losing consciousness. The spots before his eyes grew bigger, flooding his field of vision. He couldn’t give in. He had to protect his men.
Another muffled groan and Brooks watched, helpless, as Woody went down. He, too, was dead. Cursing, Brooks leaned against a tree and tried to raise his gun. Once. Twice. Then he couldn’t even see it anymore, though he focused with everything he had. Slowly, the ground rushed up and swallowed him whole.
In the next instant, Brooks saw himself walking in Arlington Cemetery, between rows of gleaming, condemning headstones. Each bore the name of one of his men, and like the talking trees in fairy tales, taunted him as he walked past. Your fault, your fault, they chanted. He wanted to run, but responsibility held him fast.
Suddenly, two more voices joined the condemning chorus: Beatrice Simms and her little son, Richard. “It’s all your fault.”
Brooks sank down against a tree, oblivious to the pain shooting down his arm. Because of his failure, four people were dead. He forced the condemning words out. “I don’t know what went wrong. I’m sorry, so sorry.”
A hand slowly brushed his thigh, penetrating the dream. Brooks grabbed it and rolled over, pinning the owner securely under him, his left arm across her windpipe. He found himself looking into a terrified pair of brown eyes.
He lifted his arm and scanned the room while panic clawed at his gut. Where was he? Familiar shapes clicked into focus and he released a pent-up breath. Night. Hotel. Brazil. Girl.
On a mission, a lapse like this could leave a man dead.
He rolled off the bed and studied the woman over his shoulder. After they evaded her pistol-toting brother, they’d gone to the hotel bar, and he’d ordered drinks. Money changed hands before she told Brooks that his long-time contact, Hector, had forbidden anyone to talk to him. Oh, and the man seemed terrified, but she didn’t know why.
End of story. He exhaled sharply and rubbed the back of his neck. So how did they get from the bar to his bed?
Eyes glued to his face, the woman leaped up and scuttled into the bathroom.
He had his back to the room when she cautiously returned. He couldn’t meet her eyes. In one night, he’d become just like his father. Take what you want with no thought for the woman or the consequences. He only hoped he’d had enough sense to use protection.
“Nothing happened, Senhor.”
He whipped around and she grinned ruefully.
“Except that you pinned me to the bed and scared me to death.”
When his cell phone rang, she turned to go.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Maria.”
He forced himself to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, Maria.”
“You said that all night long, too, in your sleep. I hope you figure out what you’re sorry for, Senhor.”
Before he could respond, his phone rang again. He flipped it open and barked, “I’m off the payroll,” before snapping it shut again.
“Will you be all right?” he asked.
Maria pulled the money Brooks had given her out of her blouse. “My brother will be happy you were so generous.”
As she prepared to slip out the door, his arm snaked out, blocking her path. “Not that generous.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t understand.”
“Picking my pocket was a bad idea.”
She paled and her eyes darted around the room. Slowly, she reached into her blouse again and came up with the contents of his wallet.
As he opened the door, the phone rang again. “Give your brother my best.”
Maria scuttled out the door, and Brooks growled into the phone again.
“Nathaniel, don’t hang up! I need to talk to you.” Carol Brooks Anderson kept her eyes trained on her husband’s still face as she spoke to her son. All around Noah’s Orlando hospital room, machines beeped and clicked in a steady, reassuring rhythm that should have calmed her racing heart, but didn’t.
“Hello, Mom,” Brooks said. “How are you?”
His distant tone grated. “I don’t like being hung up on, young man.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Carol could almost see his half-smile, so like Noah’s. Torn, she clutched the printout from Noah’s computer in a damp fist, and hesitated, not sure what to say, where to begin. Had seeing this photo from Brazil caused Noah’s heart attack?
“What’s up, Mom?” He still sounded distant, impatient.
Carol bit her lip and took the plunge. “I need your help.”
“Sorry, I’m unavailable,” he said bluntly.
“How’s the investigation going?” Carol didn’t know all the details, no relative of an Army Ranger ever did, but she knew something had gone wrong on his last mission, knew also that the wife and son of a good friend of theirs had been killed in South America around the same time. Knowing Nathaniel, he wouldn’t rest until he put all the pieces together.
“It’s going nowhere.” Each word sliced the air, sharp as a knife blade.
“I’m sorry. But I need your help anyway.” Carol took a deep breath, and then shot the words out, rapid-fire. “Your father has suffered a heart attack. A severe one. They’re not sur
e if he’ll recover.”
“That has nothing to do with me.”
Carol glanced toward the hospital bed. “Oh, Nathaniel, he’s your father.”
“I can’t help you.”
“You have to. Since Noah can’t do this himself, I need you.” She paused, glanced again at the horrifying digital photo she’d discovered on the monitor in Noah’s office. Irene Perriera’s car, blown to bits and a warning that no one Noah loved was safe. She shuddered. Why would someone kill the director of one of the orphanages? Irene—and Regina—were like daughters to her and Noah. It made no sense. Regina could take care of herself. But Eduardo . . . “There’s a little child, Nathaniel, a baby. I need you to bring him to the States from House of Angels. That’s all. It will only take a few days.”
“Get one of his minions to do it. I’m busy.”
“I can’t. There are things you don’t understand . . .” her voice broke off abruptly. She couldn’t tell him her suspicions about the baby’s parentage or that she thought Eduardo was in danger. After Nathaniel quit the Rangers, he’d sworn off the life. But if anyone could keep that baby safe—and make sure Regina and the other children were all right—her son could. When she spoke again, her voice sounded brisk. “This is important, Nathaniel. If you won’t do it for Noah, do it for me.”
The silence stretched, measured by the machines counting Noah’s heartbeats. “Sorry. No can do. Take care, Mom.”
Brooks flipped the phone closed and tossed it onto the bed, Carol’s I-love-you echoing in his head. His mother never asked for help, so Noah must be hovering at death’s door. The sharp flash of pain caught him off guard. Noah didn’t deserve his sympathy or his loyalty. Those things had to be earned, and his old man had blown any chance of that straight to hell a long time ago.
But his mother? Different story entirely. She deserved better than this from him. Besides, after two weeks combing every hellhole around, he still had no answers, just suspicions, bruises, and a light wallet. A two- or three-day detour wouldn’t make much difference.
Resigned, Brooks picked up the phone and started packing.