Rolling carefully out of the hammock, she left Sammy sleeping in order to discover what was troubling him. Sitting cross-legged on the floor directly in front of him, she laced her hands in his and held him tightly.
"What is it?" she whispered.
He sent her a faint smile. "What do you mean?"
"Something is bothering you."
That elicited an ironic chuckle. "How could that be? I'm in paradise with you."
The word paradise brought to mind the morning they had stood at the prow of the ship and he'd recited Wordsworth. A wave of regret rolled through her.
"We were in paradise," she recalled hardly able to credit their change in fortunes. How had they gone from enjoying their carefree vacation to being locked up in an old factory building, at the mercy of vile and ruthless killers?
The realization that she'd failed to embrace life completely even when it had been offered on a platter hit her suddenly. She had promised Juliet she would let her hair down and actually live a little, but she hadn't. Even when Jeremiah had bestowed all the romance, all the assurances a woman could possibly desire, she had still kept him at a distance.
What if—God forbid—she'd been wrong about love and the man sitting in front of her was truly her last chance? What if they all died here, murdered by the men who'd killed half of them already? Should she voice what was in her heart?
Their captors clearly had no compunction about killing. Joe was right. They would take whatever they could get using the bank and credit card information she and the others had provided. They would extort fifty thousand dollars from those loved ones who had the money. But what about those who didn't? And after getting what they wanted, they would probably round up their hostages and kill them anyway. They had no reason to release any of them.
The truth wrapped itself around her chest and squeezed until she could scarcely draw air. She thought of Sammy taking a bullet to the head, and her heart nearly stopped beating.
"I'm so sorry," she cried, covering her face with her hands to hide her grief.
"Shhh," Jeremiah soothed. Scooting closer, he drew her against his chest, putting his arms around her. She buried her face in his T-shirt, stifling the sobs that tore from her throat. Regret more acrid than any she had ever known—more bitter even than when she'd learned about Eddie's affair, seared her heart.
All the while, Jeremiah stroked her hair and gently rocked her. Bit by bit, the tightness in her chest subsided enough to allow her to talk. She swallowed the tears pouring down the back of her throat, wiped her eyes, and said, "I wish we'd had more time."
He pressed a kiss onto the top of her head. "We will," he predicted softly.
His words dropped a seed of hope onto the ashes of her despair. She sniffed and looked up at him. "You promise?" It was a ridiculous vow to ask of him, yet she did.
In the shadows, his eyes looked more green than brown. "Absolutely," he said with a reassuring smile that she almost believed.
Why on earth had she pushed this man away? Even if the first blush of love was a product of biochemistry, he would always command her admiration and affection. Unlike Eddie, he would never betray her. She knew that in her gut. If the chance ever arose again to claim him as hers, she swore to herself that she would seize it for the gift that it was.
"Okay then," she agreed, sealing her resolution with a kiss.
* * *
From the tiny balcony of a third-story apartment ideally situated across the street and a block down from Manolo's house, Juliet kept watch, confident that nightfall kept her hidden from curious eyes.
In his reconnaissance earlier, Tristan had located the ideal vantage point from which to keep tabs on Manolo. He'd later stuck a bargain with an elderly couple living on the third floor, agreeing to pay them one month's rent in exchange for exclusive use of their apartment for the next few days. Delighted by the offer, the couple had packed their bags and taken off to visit relatives.
Thus, within five hours of arriving in Mérida, Juliet and Tristan were ensconced within four walls, with one objective: to locate Manolo.
They were a good team, she had to admit. And even the knowledge that there was a single bedroom with a soft bed in it didn't bother her. They weren't going to sleep together because they were taking turns watching for Manolo. She shook her head. They weren't going to sleep together regardless.
Night had fallen, and the busy street below had gone dead quiet with only an occasional vehicle whizzing past. Then, eerily, salsa music floated out of an adjacent building, the lone sound in the quietness. Every now and then a couple of scruffy-looking men cruised the sidewalk looking for trouble, which was probably why the inhabitants of this neighborhood had locked themselves indoors.
Juliet felt for her phone again for the hundredth time, making sure it was still in her back pocket. It now seemed like a lifeline to her family. Somewhere, at the other end of that email, Emma and Sammy waited. Or so she hoped. While Juliet had made frantic phone calls to the consulate and learned that the families of other victims had received identical emails, Tristan had talked to his master chief. Then he'd slipped out to reclaim their car and bags, and to buy them food. He'd come back and, incredibly, cooked a passingly good fajita dinner with the cookware that had been left behind.
Not only could the Golden Boy drive fast, interrogate effectively, and sing like Garth Brooks, he could also cook. If he did one more thing well, Juliet was going to pull her hair out.
Speak of the devil—the cracked glass slider grated open and out stepped Tristan wearing nothing but his boxer briefs.
Good grief. Juliet tore her gaze back to Manolo's house. Her two-hour watch was apparently over already.
"Still no sign of him?" Tristan asked though it wasn't really a question. He stood alongside her, smelling of soap and clean man. His arm brushed her shoulder, and she had to brace herself against the lurching of her senses.
"Nope." A light shone outside the front door as if Manolo's mother was expecting him. But the windows had gone dark at about ten o'clock, and it was already after midnight.
"I'll take it from here," Tristan offered.
Exhaustion tugged at Juliet. She'd done about all she could do in one day's work, putting the consulate in touch with Detective Canché, who'd shared what he'd learned from his end of the investigation in Playa del Carmen. The military attaché at the consulate had promised to look for César Salvador, believed to be in Mérida, and he'd assured Juliet that the CIA was going to pin down the IP address from which the ransom notes had been sent. But they hadn't managed to do it yet.
Everything seemed to hinge on following Manolo to find César Salvador, and he hadn't shown up yet. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, then raised her head and looked at her "partner."
"Are you seriously going to stand out here in your underwear?" she asked him irritably.
"Who's going to see?" he retorted with a hint of laughter in his voice.
I am. She was going straight to bed, so it didn't matter anyway. But did he really have to taunt her right now?
Just then, the sound of someone coming up the sidewalk below them caused both her and Tristan to peer over the railing.
"Could be him," she whispered as a man stepped off the curb, crossing the street toward the yellow house.
"Looks like it."
Who else could it be? Young and rotund, Manolo marched right up to the front door of his house, unlocked it, and let himself in. The light on the stoop went out. Seconds later, a lamp shone in the upstairs bedroom. Manolo appeared at the window and tugged down the blind.
"Damn it!" Frustration prickled Juliet's scalp. "He's going to bed," she raged, digging her nails into her palms.
"Might as well get some sleep yourself," Tristan suggested matter-of-factly.
"I'd rather we break in there and interrogate him," she admitted, reaching for the railing and gripping it hard.
"Trust me, we'd get shot. At least we found him," he comforted in that s
ame accepting tone. "We'll get up early and follow him wherever he goes. Maybe he'll lead us straight to Salvador."
"Get up?" she asked, turning to face him.
That was a mistake. They stood less than six inches apart, and he was practically naked. "You're going to sleep, too? You're not going to watch his house tonight?" Her heart started to thud.
"There's not much point in keeping watch, is there? Don't worry. I'll get up in a few hours, well before he does. Come on." Throwing an arm around her shoulders, he escorted her into the dark apartment.
Suddenly, all Juliet could think about was how many hours were left until daylight. She'd told Tristan they weren't going to have sex again, but a part of her hoped he'd forgotten. How the hell else was she going to get through the night?
"You must be exhausted," he said, reaching back to lock the door behind them. His chest grazed her breasts, and her nipples pearled.
"Not really," she said, but that was a lie. She was tired to the bone but also keyed up—a strange combination that left her feeling a little loopy. And on top of that, her lips tingled with the sudden need to be kissed—by him, to be precise—and whisked into the rapturous state they'd shared before, leaving reality behind.
"I think I'm too wound up to sleep," she hinted.
"I know what you could do."
"What's that?" Her heart pounded with anticipation. A slippery heat seeped into her panties as she envisioned being manhandled the way he'd done the night before, flipping and lifting her while driving himself into her willing flesh until he pushed her over the edge—not once, not twice, but three times.
"You could take a hot bath," he said. "That's what I do when I can't sleep."
Was he suggesting that they take a bath together? She frowned. Tristan by himself couldn't fit in the bathroom's tiny tub, which was less than inviting anyway. It was all she could do to imagine standing on the grimy porcelain and showering off the last 24-hours.
"I put your bag in the bedroom," he added, "so you should have everything you need."
Wait. What? The prospect of imminent rapture disintegrated like film burned by an old projector bulb. Her gaze cut to the couch where she made out a sheet and a pillow.
"Sweet dreams," he added, brushing warm lips across her cheek.
His rejection cooled her heated body. "You're sleeping out here," she realized.
"Yep." He dropped onto the sofa with an exaggerated groan of relief. "Figured if I slept on the couch, I wouldn't tempt you."
"You don't tempt me," she snarled back, even as her girl parts throbbed with regret.
His smile lit up the room like a bolt of lightning.
How could he act like he didn't care one way or the other? Juliet suffered the urge to hit something. Instead, she whirled toward the bedroom, slammed the door, and marched into the tiny bathroom, snapping on the light.
One look at her flushed reflection and she had to admit she'd let him get to her.
In as little as a week, Tristan Halliday had worked his way under her skin. How could she have let that happen?
Luckily, he had more willpower than she did.
"Suit yourself," she hissed spying his shaving kit, which he'd left beside the sink.
She could weather this night alone, terrified for her sister and niece. After all, she'd survived four hours of being trapped inside a car while her parents both died up front. After that experience, she figured she could get through just about anything.
The face in the mirror lost all color as a thought broke over her—anything but the loss of her remaining family. Dear God, anything but that.
* * *
The sound of the lock grating open snatched Jeremiah out of a light slumber. The stygian darkness informed him that dawn was still hours away. Emma and Sammy slept in the hammock above him, unaware that someone was stealing into the upper level of the old factory—their intent most likely foul.
Spurred to take defensive action, he rolled to his knees and darted behind the nearest cement pillar.
The door grated shut. Two men whispered in Spanish.
"Who's there?" Joe called betraying his awareness of the situation.
Jeremiah peeked around the pillar. A bright beam shot across the room as one of the intruders clicked on a flashlight. Behind the column of light, he discerned two of César's men, members of the nighttime rotation clutching pistols and scoping out the hostages. The suspicion that they were high on cocaine sent a bullet of concern whizzing through him.
Did César even know that they were up here? Did they have permission to prowl upstairs and slake their lusts on one of the hostages?
Not Emma!
Rolling toward the other side of the pillar, he looked back at her. At Joe's words of warning, she had lifted her head and was casting her gaze frantically about, searching for Jeremiah. To his relief, she didn't call for him. But the beam of the flashlight slid over her, and the interlopers snickered under their breaths as they articulated crude thoughts.
To Jeremiah's relief, their interest turned to Joe's girlfriend, Cheryl, a busty blonde, who was also awake and clinging to Joe's thick arm.
"Don't even think about it," he growled as the men approached the pair.
His glowering face and aggressive posture must have convinced them he presented more trouble than they presently desired.
They drifted toward the three women traveling with Noah. Ann, Katherine, and Liz had also come awake, staring fearfully from their respective hammocks. As Noah jerked to a sitting position, the interlopers considered his taut expression, then evidently dismissed him as a threat. But the resolve in Noah's expression raised a red flag in Jeremiah's mind.
However young, the boy would defend his womenfolk—or die trying.
Keeping a wary eye on Joe, the larger of the two intruders ordered his companion to cover him as he holstered his Glock and produced a deadly switchblade in its stead. Showing it to the three women, he hissed at them in Spanish to keep quiet or he would slit the throat of the first person to make a sound. To reinforce the threat, his companion racked the slide on his pistol.
Jeremiah's blood ran cold. César could not have agreed to this. He wouldn't want any of his valuable hostages injured when he'd yet to get ransom for them. Also, the men wouldn't care about being quiet if their actions had been sanctioned by their leader.
As they reached for Noah's youngest aunt—unmarried, attractive, and petite—Jeremiah and Joe responded simultaneously. Lurching from his hammock, Joe tackled the man with the switchblade while Jeremiah pounced on the man with the pistol, jerking his arm up just as it discharged. The bullet struck the ceiling, and the flashlight hit the floor, flickering but illuminating the ensuing struggle.
The strength in Jeremiah's opponent caught him by surprise—cocaine, he realized, confirming his earlier suspicion. Or had his own lack of nutrition weakened him so much? It took a concentrated effort to sweep the narco's feet out from under him and throw him face-first to the floor while preventing him from squeezing off another round.
Wrenching the weapon from the man's slackened grasp, he hammered it hard against the side of his head, rendering him unconscious. Joe, meanwhile, had turned his opponent's switchblade back on him. Gutting him like a fish, the cop left him lying in a puddle of blood with the haft sticking obscenely from his stomach.
Palming the Glock he'd recovered, Jeremiah weighed his odds of using it. Joe simultaneously snatched the pistol from the holster of the knifed narco. Over the bodies of the fallen men, they looked at each other before the pounding of feet on the stairs sent them breaking for cover in opposite directions.
"Everyone down!" Jeremiah warned, ducking back behind the pillar.
With his heart galloping, he assessed his and Joe's odds of overcoming their captors and gaining freedom. As the lights blinked on, he shut his eyelids against the glare and quietly checked the number of rounds in the gun he held. Damn it, only two. He closed the magazine with a snick, opened his eyes, and waited.
Shouting for their leader, the newcomers rushed toward their fallen comrades.
Jeremiah peeked around the pillar, noted the weapons in their hands, and prayed for Joe to initiate.
"Qué pasó aquí?"
César's raging question cut through the cries of confusion as he elbowed his way forward.
Jeremiah stole another peek, and his hopes floundered at the sight of César's AK-47 resting in the crook of his arm, finger on the trigger. A vision of it spewing bullets at the other hostages ripped through his mind. If Joe came out shooting now, he knew what would happen.
Moving fast to avert what he'd seen, Jeremiah placed the Glock by his feet, kicked it gently toward his captors, and sidled into view with his hands raised. He found himself looking at the wrong end of half a dozen guns, including César's. In his peripheral vision, he searched for Joe but couldn't see him.
To his dismay, Emma scrambled from her hammock and jumped in front of him.
"Don't shoot him," she pleaded.
Jeremiah jerked her behind him, where she wouldn't get shot. "Everyone put your hands up," he suggested to his fellow captives.
The best they could hope for was to look subdued, to make it apparent that the intruders had been the aggressors, and they'd merely been defending themselves. One by one the captives put their hands into the air.
Following Cheryl's anxious gaze, Jeremiah realized Joe had hidden himself in one of the bathrooms, behind the narcos, who waded deeper into the room. If he came out shooting now, Jeremiah could still lunge for the gun he'd surrendered and shoot César with it—possibly killing him before he slaughtered anyone.
But Joe didn't emerge. A tense silence filled the chamber as César approached Jeremiah to snatch up the pistol. Spearing him with a suspicious gaze, César turned his focus on the bleeding narco as that man gasped his last breath then fell silent.
The shocked captives all stared at him. Stepping over the dead man, César crossed to his companion and nudged him with his toe, eliciting a groan. He ordered the man to wake up.
Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) Page 16