Last Spy Standing

by Dana Marton

  In the middle of the freaking day. Everyone had known what had happened in seconds, and half the camp rushed after them in pursuit.

  But only one had caught up with them. Megan.

  She was hot as all get-out. He wanted her so badly his teeth ached. Even if she’d messed up his mission in a big way. Even though he might have to hurt her to save Zak. But he didn’t want to. She was worth a dozen of the useless kid.

  Mitch stretched his legs, his muscles sore from all the miles he’d covered in the last couple of days. The wound on his leg still ached. He watched the night guards to see if their routine had changed since he’d last observed them. It hadn’t, it seemed. Good. The next breakout would be done the right way, engineered by him. By the time anyone realized Zak was missing, he and kid would be halfway to the extraction site.

  He didn’t want to think about where that would leave Megan, but the pesky thought popped into his mind anyway.

  He hadn’t seen her since they’d arrived a couple of hours earlier.

  She’d vouched for him again, even though she had to know that he was just another obstacle in her way. Attaining her goal would have been easier if she let Juarez’s men take him out. Or if she’d let Umberto take him out in the first place. But not only did she not turn on him, she didn’t speak against him when he’d said he wanted to guard the kid.

  None of the other men was keen on sleeping in a drafty shack instead of the cozy bunkhouse. They sure hadn’t fought him for the privilege. She had to know this played right into his hands. Yet she didn’t betray his true identity.

  He hoped she wasn’t nursing some dream that he’d help her and sacrifice Zak. If she did, she was going to be seriously disappointed.

  Mitch took a look at the kid through the gaps in the shed’s wood slats and felt a moment of pity. On arrival, Juarez had punched him in the face hard enough to break his jaw. The kid could no longer talk, which wasn’t a bad thing entirely. The less he said the less trouble he would get them all in. He was curled up on his side, worn out and miserable, not even bothering to swat away the little flies that drove every man and woman in the camp crazy.

  The trouble with having a permanent camp in the jungle was that every bloodsucker out there learned your address in a hurry and moved right in. Much better to always be on the go, in this one regard at least. Mitch swatted the bugs from his face and thought of the maté he’d find in the cantina. The kid looked like he could have used a drink.

  But Zak needed something stronger than maté. Mitch could afford to walk away for a short while. The shack was padlocked, and Zak wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Looked like he’d finally hit the proverbial wall. Mitch was familiar with the feeling, as well as the pain of a broken jaw. The key was to compartmentalize the pain and keep going. But he’d been trained to do exactly that, and had plenty of practice. Zak was just a kid. Mitch walked up the path, adding a thin bamboo straw to his shopping list.

  He moved in the direction of the most noise. Men were drinking around a bonfire in front of the barracks. He saw no sign of Megan, and wasn’t pleased that it was the first thing he noticed. He spotted a bottle of tequila being passed around, grabbed an empty bowl from the ground, and wiped it out with his shirt. Then when the bottle came his way, he sloshed some alcohol into the bowl before passing it on.

  Only then did he see Umberto, setting up a line of pebbles, on top of a partially collapsed stone wall. Mitch counted a dozen before Umberto finished and stood aside. Several men lined up fifty feet or so from the wall. Then the shooting contest began.

  Mitch glanced toward the shed, ready to return, but two shadows atop the ruins of the old Jesuit mission caught his eye. Juarez’s makeshift home leaned against the stone wall, the top of which was used as a lookout. Juarez and Megan were watching the contest from there.

  Mitch turned his back to them. Then, without meaning to, he ended up walking toward the lined-up men.

  The pudgy bald one at the head of the line hit nine stones out of the twelve. Not bad, considering the darkness of the night and the dancing flames, both of which made judging distances difficult. Umberto put the stones back while the next contestant stepped into position. That one got ten rocks. He moved on after a couple of his buddies slapped him on the back.

  Others took their turn. Most of the men were in the same range: nine hits, ten, eleven—clearly people who lived and died by their guns.

  “Paolo will hate missing this,” one of them called out. “Too bad he’s late.”

  They had no idea just how late. As in, arrival time: never, Mitch thought, as he moved to the head of the line. He hesitated. Drawing attention to himself might not be the best idea right now. Still, he couldn’t walk away now without drawing even more attention than if he simply took his turn.

  He set the bowl at his feet, with half a mind to drink that tequila himself later. Sweat rolled down his temples. The bonfire was too close, the flames licking higher and higher. On the upside, the smoke kept the bugs away. He took off his shirt and mopped his forehead with it, not wanting sweat in his eyes. Then he tossed the shirt next to the bowl. Okay.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. With each successful shot, the men cheered around him, toasting him. Nine. A cheer rose again. He looked at the remaining three stones, knowing he should miss.

  But then “You go, Mitch!” came from behind him. Megan was cheering for him.

  He took out the last three stones with three clean shots in rapid succession, regretting it the second he’d done it. What was he, stupid? Now he was showing off for her?

  He should never have kissed her, dammit.

  Not that he could truly regret that. Those lips… Her body… Her taste… He swallowed a groan.

  Maybe keeping him tied up in knots of lust was part of her master plan. Sneaky as the woman was, he wouldn’t put it past her.

  He glanced toward the wall, caught Juarez saluting him with a glass of something. He nodded in acknowledgment. Then he grabbed the bowl and his shirt and went back to Zak before he could make another stupid mistake.

  He didn’t need Juarez’s attention. He’d be better off flying under the radar so he could get out before anyone had a chance to figure out anything. That was supposed to be his current modus operandi.

  Give nobody reason to think too deeply about him. As for himself: think only of the escape. Except his mind was full of questions about whether Megan had been invited up to Juarez’s quarters to share more than a good vantage point to watch the target practice. Whether she’d been invited up there to share Juarez’s bed.

  She was trying to save her brother. He couldn’t condemn her. He didn’t really care one way or the other, he told himself.

  Except, he did.

  Damn it all. Damn her, in particular. He’d been thinking… What the hell had he been thinking? Probably whatever she’d wanted him to think.

  He was perfectly capable of taking the kid out of the jungle. And yet here he still was.

  Megan was the reason, there was no getting around that. First she’d manipulated him, tangling him up in a net of lust. Then she’d probably sleep with Juarez so the man would take her the rest of the way to her goal. The thought ripped at his gut, even as cold fury spread through him, looking for outlet.

  At last he reached the shed, and he smashed his fist against the wall, ignoring the splinters that stabbed under his skin.

  A frightened moan came from inside.

  Mitch pushed the door in, doing his best to banish Megan from his thoughts. “It’s me. I brought you something to drink.”

  MEGAN SNUCK THROUGH the sleeping camp. Zak was back, and other things had gone well for Juarez during her absence, which meant he was happy, which meant the men were happy, which meant they’d drunk even more than usual.

  Images of Mitch at the bonfire target practice filled her head—his naked torso glistening in the dancing flames, the way the muscles bunched in his back each time he’d pulled the trigger. She wouldn’
t have been a woman if she didn’t feel anything, if she wasn’t the least attracted.

  But that was absolutely not the reason why she was sneaking to him in the middle of the night. She had information to share with him.

  The night was cool and the bugs were gone until morning, which was a relief. She rounded the barracks and nearly slammed head-on into a dark bulk.

  “Chica.” Umberto steadied her. “All is well?”

  She nodded, looking for an excuse for why she wasn’t in her bed, but before she could come up with a semi-logical explanation, Umberto said, “You’re going to him.”

  She didn’t say anything. Better to be taken for a fool in lust than a traitor.

  “Be careful. I don’t like the eyes on that one. That one has secrets.”

  More than Umberto realized. “We’ve all done things we don’t like to talk about.” She shrugged. “I can take care of myself.”

  “That you can. I taught you well.”

  He had. She’d learned twice as much about jungle survival from Umberto than from her CIA training. And she had come to like the old guy. He was a murderer like the rest of them. And yet, considering that this was the life he’d been born into, the only one he knew, part of her couldn’t blame him. His father had been a bandit, his mother a camp woman, both dead before his first birthday, he’d once told her.

  “You’re tougher than most men I know,” Umberto admitted, then patted her shoulder. “Be careful anyway.” He turned and disappeared inside the barracks, before she could have responded.

  She moved on, not bothering with stealth after that. Their conversation had drawn the night guard who was walking up the path.

  “Que pasa?”

  This time, she was ready with her explanation. “Checking on the kid. I worked too hard bringing him in to let him run off again.”

  “No worries there. I’m on duty.” The guard puffed his chest out.

  “Pero tu es aqui, mi amigo, thinking about grabbing a bottle from the barracks, while he’s all the way over there.” She gestured with her head in the direction of the shack and smiled, keeping the mood light.

  The guard shrugged, not looking the least bit concerned. “Your gringo is watching him.”

  She moved past the man. “I’ll do a quick check, all the same.”

  She strode through the night, toward the small storage building that housed Mitch and the attached shack that imprisoned Zak. She checked on the boy first. He seemed to be sleeping.

  She looked up and sighed as the heavens liquefied for the third time that day. Rain drummed on the corrugated metal roof—small, slow drops at first. Then the rainfall picked up, drowning out the jungle sounds that surrounded them.

  She went around to Mitch’s side, but hesitated. The place had been used for storing weapons before a shipment of them had gone out a month or so ago. She’d managed to stick a tracker on one of the crates. Hopefully the home office didn’t have much trouble following it.

  She stepped closer to the closed door that was made of a mixture of old boards and bamboo, with plenty of gaps between. Inside, a hammock hung in the corner. It was attached to a hook in the ceiling with a mosquito net draping it. Since no lines from the generators ran all the way out here, an oil lamp on the floor did its best to fill the space with flickering light.

  Mitch kneeled in front of a bowl of water on the floor, stripped to the waist, washing up. His physique was more than impressive, more than enough to remind her that she hadn’t been with a man in a very long time. Not for lack of opportunity. Plenty had propositioned her here, but they weren’t the kind of men she was interested in. Even if she found one among them who wasn’t a conscienceless murderer, the moment she’d given in, she would have become so-and-so’s woman, and lost all respect and status in the camp. Juarez would never take her seriously then. Which would torpedo her mission. The only thing she should be focused on, night and day.

  Yet, she couldn’t deny that at the moment she was pretty distracted.

  Drops of water ran down Mitch’s back, wetting his skin and hair. He looked like some ancient, immortal warrior king.

  She swallowed a sudden rush of desire and stepped back, suddenly she was dizzy with need. Better walk away. They could always talk in the morning.

  “Come in,” he said without turning around.

  She stayed still. Okay, so he knew someone was out there. But maybe he didn’t know it was her.

  “I can smell your perfume.”

  Shampoo. One of her few small luxuries here. Juarez had summoned her earlier and she’d cleaned up first. Not for him. For herself. She’d been beyond grungy after their trek through the jungle. She wanted to wash the grime off, to feel semi-human again.

  She hesitated another long second in front of the closed door, unsure of herself all of a sudden. The attraction that drew her to Mitch was a serious threat to her mission. She didn’t like it. She wished they’d met anywhere but here, on any mission but this one.

  She found maintaining a professional relationship with him challenging, but since when had she run away from a challenge? She could probably go in there and have a professional conversation without swooning into his arms.

  Damn, that was no good.

  She drew a deep breath and tried again. She was in control.

  “Hey.” She pulled the door open and stepped inside, meaning to leave it open behind her, but it closed by itself on its crooked hinges.

  They were alone, enclosed in the intimacy of the small cabin.

  Chapter Seven

  The air inside was thick with humidity and something else…tension. It infected her immediately, set her on edge, tingled along her skin. The tenuous hold she’d had on remaining calm and collected slipped away.

  Mitch shook the water out of his hair and stood. Dark fire burned in his eyes as he gazed at her. His eyes didn’t miss a single inch.

  She swallowed hard. Maybe coming to him tonight wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had.

  “I know this is not what you wanted.” That was an understatement. He probably rued the day he’d ever met her. “I had no choice but to bring Zak back. My brother…Billy is…” She didn’t know how to convince him. Or even if that was possible.

  She tried anyway. “When I was nine and we were at my grandparents’ farm for the summer, traipsing all over the countryside, I fell into an old well. Billy, Andy and I were playing explorer.”

  They used to do that a lot. They played explorer, soldier and policeman. She’d had her dolls, but being outside with her eight brothers had always seemed more exciting than combing some boring doll’s hair.

  “The sun was setting,” she went on. “Andy ran for help. Billy climbed down after me, because he knew that even though I would never let on, I was a little scared of spiders. He fell halfway down the well and broke his ankle. I was fine.” She shook his head at the memory. “He was five, but such a little hero already.”

  Mitch watched her, his gaze intent and focused.

  “If things were the other way around… Even if I was in the darkest burrow of hell, on the most godforsaken spot on earth, he would come after me.”

  Seconds ticked by. She had no idea what he thought, what he felt. Awareness grew between them until the tension became unbearable.

  It didn’t look like she was going to convince him of anything. And if she stayed much longer, she might be the one who caved. Just give him the news, and get out, she told herself.

  “We’re leaving for Don Pedro’s place at first light,” she said quickly. “The trip’s been moved up.”

  “Juarez told you that?” He stalked closer, his shoulders stiff, his gaze never moving from her face for a second. His presence and masculine energy filled the small space.

  She nodded. “I got the sense that he was nervous. Toward the end of our conversation, he took a call. I left, but waited outside the door.” She prattled on. “From what I could make out, some of the other bosses are coming to the meeting, and he thinks one of the
m might make a move against Don Pedro. He thinks it’s Cristobal.” She had no reason to share that information with Mitch. His presence here had nothing to do with the local crime lords, but she didn’t seem to be able to stop talking.

  “I see you prettied yourself up for him.” He stood within arm’s reach, his voice cold—a contrast to all the heat in his gaze.

  “I spent the last couple of days in the jungle. I was due for a bath.”

  He stalked closer still, inhaled the air around her.

  Blood drummed in her ears, drowning out the rain.

  “So he’s taking you with him. Congratulations.” His voice took on an edge of sarcasm. “How convenient.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about. She tried to step away from him, but he grabbed her shoulder to hold her in place. He wasn’t rough, but firm.

  “Have you?” His voice was a coarse whisper as he searched her eyes. The lamplight behind him cast long shadows that obscured his face.

  The heat of his palm burned through her thin shirt and sent shivers of awareness down her spine. “Have I what?”

  “Been to his bed?” The words came out slowly, as if he was speaking with effort.

  Anger rose inside her, and she shoved him. But she might as well have shoved a Kapok tree. “Go to hell.”

  His eyes glinted dangerously. Instead of letting her go, he moved closer. Then crushed her lips under his.

  His kiss was punishing, but her body responded anyway, denied need bubbling to the surface. Then he pulled back, and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Sorry. I—”

  “Shut up.” She moved forward and pushed her lips back against his.

  He took things from there. A myriad of sensations spread through her. Her mind melted as images of Mitch flashed through what little of her brain was still working: the way he’d rushed from that bathroom at the guesthouse, naked, ready to defend her; his wide shoulders hovering above her as he’d torn Paolo off her; the way he’d looked by the bonfire, the quintessential alpha male, winning the shooting contest.