Risk no Secrets

by Cindy Gerard

  Praise for Cindy Gerard and her

  New York Times bestselling Black Ops, Inc. series

  “Gerard artfully reveals the secret, previously known only to wives, girlfriends, and lovers of our military special-operations warriors: these men are as wildly passionate and loving as they are watchful and stealthy. Her stories are richly colored and textured, drawing you in from page one, and not simply behind the scenes of warrior life, but into its very heart and soul.”

  —William Dean A. Garner, former U.S. Army Airborne Ranger, editor, and New York Times bestselling ghostwriter

  Feel the Heat

  “Edge-of-your-seat perfection!”

  —Romantic Times

  Whisper No Lies

  “An incredible love story… . Hot, sexy, tender, it will steal your brath.”

  —Her Voice Magazine (Winter Haven, FL)

  Take No Prisoners

  “A fast-paced tale of romance amid flying bullets.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Show No Mercy

  “Cindy Gerard just keeps getting better and better.”

  —Romance Junkies

  These titles are also available as eBooks.

  Also by Cindy Gerard

  Feel the Heat

  Whisper No Lies

  Take No Prisoners

  Show No Mercy

  CINDY GERARD

  RISK NO SECRETS

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

  incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are

  used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events

  or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Cindy Gerard

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or

  portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address

  Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the

  Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books paperback edition June 2010

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  Cover design by Lisa Litwack

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-5361-1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7704-4 (ebook)

  As always, this book is dedicated

  to the men and women of the United States military

  for their unfailing dedication to duty, to country,

  and to defending the American way.

  I am forever grateful.

  And to Joe Collins—my friend

  and my go-to guy for all things that go boom!

  Acknowledgments

  No book ever hits the shelves without a collaborative effort between the writer and the editor. I have been particularly blessed to have partnered with Maggie Crawford, editor extraordinaire, with not only this book but the first four books in the Black Ops, Inc. series. Thank you, Maggie, for not only making these books better but for making me a better writer.

  The truth of the matter is that you

  always know the right thing to do.

  The hard part is doing it.

  —Norman Schwarzkopf

  1

  The old cargo van caught Sophie’s attention the moment she stepped outside the Baylor Middle School’s double front doors. Instantly wary, she stopped on the top step and squinted into the blinding El Salvador sun. The vehicle was black and beat-up, the windows tinted dark. It was also as out of place as a tank on this street lined with school buses and high-dollar limos parked right alongside used compact cars driven by parents or nannies or maids waiting to pick up their kids on the last day before the school’s summer break.

  The van crawled like a heavy-bellied lizard stalking prey through street traffic that was thick and harried, stop-and-go. Students laughing and happily leaving the campus jammed the cracked sidewalks, the dirt-packed schoolyard, and the littered curb. All of the kids were anxious for summer to start. All of them were looking for their rides. All of them knew to beware of strange vehicles. Yet in their excitement to start their break, they all seemed oblivious to the possibility of a predator among them.

  Sophie had made the difficult decision to dismiss classes three days earlier than planned. It was a precautionary measure after a rash of kidnappings for ransom had paralyzed the community. Her heart ached for the two children who had not yet been returned. Her anger boiled at the thought of the ruthless monsters who preyed on a parent’s terror and for the corruption and ineptitude of the San Salvador policía who had been criminally incompetent in their efforts at recovery.

  Not again, Sophie thought, never taking her eyes off the van as she dug into her pocket for her whistle. Another child was not going to be abducted. Not from her school and not on her watch. Her students were well versed in what to do if she or any of her teachers sounded three sharp, shrill blasts. She was just about to sound the alarm when the van moved on down the street and disappeared.

  She drew a deep breath, let it out with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. Vigilance was one thing. Panic and paranoia, however, did not look good on a school administrator. It wasn’t very reassuring to the children, either.

  “Whoa.” Sophie laughed and caught her balance when little Juan Gomez ran up to her and wrapped his arms around her hips.

  “Le echaré de menos, Señora Weber.”

  Sophie bent down to return Juan’s hug. He smelled like youth and summer. The ten-year-old was a darling little boy. He’d come a long way from the shy, illiterate waif who’d arrived two years ago, wide-eyed and frightened and on a track to follow his older brother’s footsteps straight into the violent Mara Salvatrucha gang.

  “I’ll miss you, too, sweetie, but I’ll see you in the fall, okay? In the meantime, don’t forget your summer reading.”

  “I won’t.”

  No, he wouldn’t, Sophie thought as the child waved good-bye and skipped down the steps. The Baylor School had opened up a new world to Juan. A future that promised something more than poverty and despair. She grinned as he disappeared into the milling crowd of students, some of whom were privileged and some of whom were poor. To ensure minimal class distinction, they all wore the standard school uniform of white short-sleeve shirts and khaki shorts or skirts. To ensure equality, many of them had been awarded scholarships that came with the promise of a future they would never have had without her school. Juan was one of those children.

  She breathed deeply of the fragrant blossoms of a row of mature white coffee-bean trees lining the schoolyard. She would miss that scent and her kids during summer break. She worried about them, encouraged them, stood up for them. Granted, only one of the two hundred and fifteen middle-school students was
actually her child, but she considered all of them her kids. Because this was her school. The school she’d made happen five years ago in a part of the city where those most in need usually did without.

  Her sense of satisfaction was tempered with the wish that she could do even more. With Diego Montoya’s help, perhaps she could.

  She thought about the handsome coffee baron, knew he was still waiting for a response regarding his invitation to take her and Hope to Honolulu, where he wanted to show them Punahou School, a progressive college-prep school that could serve as a model for further development of Baylor or one of the schools she hoped to open in the future.

  She sighed deeply and wondered what she should do about Diego. He was persistent, she’d give him that. Had been ever since her divorce. Since he was also a major benefactor not only to Baylor’s scholarship fund but also to the general operation budget, she couldn’t afford simply to brush him off. Frankly, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to. Diego was … well, he was a very attractive man. A very powerful man. At times, he could also be an intimidating man, and he’d made it very clear that his interest in her went beyond professional. She supposed she should feel flattered, but in actuality, she wasn’t sure what she felt.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. He’d never given her reason not to. But something—she didn’t know what. Couldn’t pinpoint it, but for all of his polished manners, good looks, and generosity, he made her a little bit uncomfortable. Maybe it was simply all that overstated Latin charm. She wasn’t accustomed to such blatant and unabashed attention.

  Tomorrow, she thought, would be soon enough to tackle that problem. Today, she still had paperwork to finish up before she could call it a day.

  “You can smell the freedom in the air, can’t you?”

  Sophie grinned at Maris Hoffman when her vice principal joined her on the front steps, her pretty brown eyes sparkling, her native German tongue barely discernible anymore when she spoke English.

  “Do you remember that feeling?” Sophie asked her, congratulating herself again for having had the foresight and good fortune to hire Maris two years ago. Maris had proven to be an exemplary educator and administrator and also a trusted and cherished friend. “Being young and free with nothing ahead of you to worry about but summer sun and fun?”

  “Oh. You thought I meant the kids?” Maris laughed and brushed a straight fall of auburn hair out of her eyes. “I was talking about me. Two months without calls from parents, schoolboard meetings, and doling out detention. Ah, yes, the sweet scent of freedom.”

  “If I didn’t already know that the next couple of months, you’ll be pouring your heart and soul into curriculum content and ways to increase the quota on scholarship students, I’d buy that line.”

  Maris lifted a shoulder. “Oh, well. A girl can dream. So what’s on your agenda for the summer?”

  “Haven’t thought that far ahead.” Well, if she didn’t count Diego’s tantalizing yet somehow manipulative offer of that trip to Hawaii.

  Maris pushed out a huff. “And you accuse me of being dedicated.”

  Yes, Sophie thought again, all the stars had aligned when Maris interviewed two years ago. “Lunch next week?” she suggested as Maris turned to go back inside.

  “Sure. Give me a call in a couple of days. I’ve been dying to try that new place that was written up in the paper last week.”

  Sophie turned to follow Maris back inside and hit that paperwork but paused and smiled when she spotted Hope. Her lovely yet currently gangly daughter stood by the curb, chatting with her “BFF” Lola Ramirez, while waiting for Lola’s mother to pick them both up. Peas in a pod, those two. Both wore their dark hair straight to the middle of their backs, with thick bangs falling over their foreheads. And both so wanted to be older than twelve.

  Too soon, she thought, watching them. Too soon, Hope would get her wish. Her daughter was growing up, a truth that both saddened and thrilled her.

  Hope caught her eye just then and waved. When Lola also spotted her, she waved to Sophie, too. Smiling widely, Sophie lifted her hand to return their greeting—then froze on a sudden clutch of alarm when the black van reappeared out of nowhere, careening down the street, motor racing.

  The van wove recklessly among the waiting cars, then screeched to a stop by the curb where her daughter stood.

  Sophie’s heart slammed into her ribs like a fist. She grabbed her whistle, gave it three short, sharp blasts, and sprinted down the steps, her heart racing as fear shot adrenaline through her blood like jet fuel.

  “Run! Hope, run!” she cried as the side door of the van flew open.

  A man jumped out; he headed straight for Hope.

  “No!” Sophie yelled, her breath catching as knots of frightened children cried and screamed and ran for safety.

  She raced toward her daughter, but by the time she reached the street, it was too late. The driver gunned the motor, took the corner on two wheels, and sped off—stealing a piece of Sophie’s heart as the van disappeared.

  2

  Wyatt Savage was a true child of the South. Besides growing up hunting and fishing and playing war with his buddies in the woods behind his daddy’s south forty acres, he’d been raised on fried chicken, peach pie, and meddling for as long as he had memories. He was up for everything but the meddling—no matter how well intended. That was one of the reasons he hadn’t been home for a while.

  “Two years is not a while,” his momma pointed out.

  Wyatt sat beside her on the wide swing on the front porch of the only true home he’d ever known, sipping sweet tea before supper. The mouthwatering aroma of frying chicken drifted out of the house through the screen door.

  Beside them, his daddy sat in the green metal spring chair that had been a staple on the porch for as long as the swing; the look on his face said that Momma was right. It had been too long since Wyatt had been back to Adel, Georgia. The new lines on Margaret Savage’s face told him how long. The stiffness in Ben Savage’s arthritic fingers and the hitch in his shuffling gait were yet more proof of the march of time. And the loss of Wyatt’s railroad-engineer grandfather last year emphasized the inevitability of death. Wyatt had been deep undercover in Guatemala at the time. Hadn’t known about his passing until six months after they’d buried him. A fact he would always regret.

  “No, ma’am,” Wyatt admitted with no small measure of guilt, as a slow-moving ceiling fan and a muggy summer breeze labored to cut the steam out of the July heat. “Two years is a lot more than a while. I’m sorry for that.”

  “Well, you’re here now.” His momma’s face looked younger when she smiled, the gray hair at her temples not as pronounced. Her Southern drawl grew thicker. “That’s what’s important.”

  Yeah. It was important. He’d sat up straight in his rack one morning a week ago and thought, I need to see them. They’d both retired within the last three years—his Mom from teaching at the elementary school and his dad from farming. And while he called regularly, it wasn’t the same as seeing them face-to-face.

  So he’d flown into Atlanta from Buenos Aires and surprised them yesterday afternoon. Just shown up. He wasn’t sure why. Guilt? Fatigue? The need to refuel on something as constant, simple, and pure as home?

  Whatever the reason, his momma was dead right. Two years was an eternity—at least, it was in his world, where a single night could last forever, because his world was too often about death and destruction. Anyway, it was if he did his job right.

  His Black Ops, Inc. team members were back in Buenos Aires. He couldn’t help but wonder how deeply they were entrenched in scuttling an arms shipment en route to Mexico via Argentina that had originated in Tehran. Never a lack of bad asses to burn, particularly bad asses with a vendetta against Uncle Sam or democracy in general or some private citizen who might be the current target of their wrath. Yeah, his world was full of scum who profited from human trafficking or the illegal drug trade or who sold out their country and preyed on the weak in the name o
f jihad.

  A part of him wanted to be back there, fighting in the trenches with the BOIs. Another part was damn glad he wasn’t.

  That was the part that was weary. Battle-weary. Bone-weary. Soul-weary.

  “There they are!” The old porch boards creaked under his momma’s slight weight when she rose from the swing. Smiling with excitement, she walked to the railing and focused on the road that led to the old white farmhouse.

  Shielding his eyes against the glare of a low-hanging sun, Wyatt followed her gaze to see a snazzy late-model tan Ford pickup speed toward the house, a billowing trail of sand-colored gravel dust riding in its wake.

  “I see she still drives like a bat outta hell.” He couldn’t stop a grin as the pickup flew into the driveway and skidded to a stop. His kid sister, Annie, shouldered open the driver’s-side door, slammed it shut behind her, and sprinted to the house.

  She loped up the porch steps, her smile wide and white. “I’ll be damned. He does know the way home.”

  God, he’d missed that grin. “Hey, Spanky.”

  Wyatt rose and braced himself as she launched herself at him. He caught her in his arms with a laugh. She still smelled like the perfume she used to splash all over herself when she was a teenager. The scent was as sweet as it was innocent, and it brought back a ton of memories of the vital and vibrant girl who was now an amazing and beautiful woman.

  “Whoa, there. You’re breakin’ my back,” he teased. “You put on a pound or two, by the feel of it.”

  “Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel like you’ve missed any meals, either,” she shot back, laughing as he set her on her feet. She stood back so she could really look at him. “Damn. Look at you!”

  Wyatt knew what she saw. He was rock-hard, his skin leather-tan, his brown hair buzzed short, his jeans stiff and new—his concession to conformity—and not nearly as comfortable as the cargo pants he was used to wearing. Because she was looking too close, searching for something to be concerned about, she also saw only what he wanted her to see.