Risk no Secrets

by Cindy Gerard

  “It’s locked.” Sophie looked up from the back door of the restaurant, where she crouched with arms around the mother and child beside her.

  “Of course it is,” Wyatt grumbled under his breath, because, hell, he needed something else to fuck up what was already a fucking fucked-up mess.

  4

  The back door of the restaurant was metal, windowless, and yeah, Sophie was right, it was locked. Wyatt stood back and kicked it dead center, near the handle. It didn’t budge. Didn’t budge the second time he laid into it, either.

  “It sounds like they’re moving this way!” Sophie huddled over the trembling pair.

  The gunfire was getting closer. Wyatt just hoped to hell the good guys were winning. Sweating from exertion and heat from the close quarters and the bubbling deep-fat fryers, Wyatt inched around the corner and spotted what he hoped was a closet. A broom, a mop, and a stack of red work aprons was all he found inside.

  With the AKs still cooking off like fireworks in the background, he scuttled back to the exit door, swearing when something sharp pierced the back of his upper arm. Ignoring the pain, he grabbed the empty AK. The wooden stock had a metal butt plate; he used it to lay into the door. On the fifth smash of the stock, the latch finally popped.

  “Thank God.” Sophie shepherded the mother, who had come back to herself enough to have a death grip on her baby, out the door, with Wyatt hot on their heels.

  A hail of gunfire strafed the metal door as he slammed it shut behind them. They were in a long, windowless hallway lit by dim bare bulbs hanging high overhead. The baby’s wails echoed through the cement and metal walls as Wyatt scooped the mother up into his arms and shot off at a sprint in the opposite direction of the gunshots. “Stay with me!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Just try to lose me,” Sophie said, two steps behind him.

  Not more than fifty yards later, they encountered a pair of double bay doors. Receiving, Wyatt thought. This was where the trucks pulled up to deliver supplies. There wasn’t a soul to be found.

  “Where is everyone?” Sophie asked as they hurried down several steps to a regular-size door, where a red Salida—“Exit”—sign glowed above it.

  “Where would you be if you heard a war break out?” he yelled over the baby’s screams.

  “Right. Gone.”

  “Which is what we’re going to be just as soon as I can make it happen,” he assured her.

  “Please don’t let this door be locked, too,” Sophie whispered when she reached for the handle.

  Finally, a break. The door swung open to a burst of blinding sunlight, unimaginable heat, and suffocating jet-fuel fumes. Wyatt herded them all outside, set the woman on her feet, steadied her, and got a bead on their location.

  They were at the far south end of the terminal. It wasn’t yet ten a.m., and the heat and humidity covered them like a heavy blanket that had been soaked in boiling water. The muffled sound of continued gunfire punctuated the fact that while they were out of the direct line of fire, he still needed to get them away from the airport.

  “Where’s your car?”

  Sophie had thrown a comforting arm over the mother’s shoulders and was talking softly to her in Spanish. The baby had finally cried itself out and was sleeping in its mother’s arms.

  Sophie looked up and around to get a bead on their location, then notched her chin toward the west. “Over there—about four, maybe four and a half blocks away.”

  She started talking to the woman again in that soft, soothing voice of hers. Wyatt was far too aware of the need to get the hell gone from the airport, yet the sound of her voice took him back in time. He’d heard that voice in his dreams for years. Her soft, steady cadence, a little husky, sexy as hell, confident, and undeniably female.

  “Oh, my God, Wyatt, you’re bleeding.”

  Her eyes welled up with concern as he felt a fresh trail of blood trickle down his forehead. He wiped it away with his sleeve. “Just a glass cut. I’m fine. How about her? She with the program yet?” he asked as he located a piece of glass biting into the back of his arm and jerked it out.

  “Getting there.”

  “Then let’s move.”

  “Wait.” Sophie gently pried the baby from the woman’s arms. The mother gradually relinquished her hold as Sophie continued talking to her, offering reassurances, promising they’d get her to safety. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go now.”

  He supported the mother with a hand on her upper arm, and the four of them headed for the open parking lot at a jog trot. The baby slept on as the distant screech of sirens grew louder.

  “The local policía,” Sophie said keeping pace beside him.

  About damn time, he thought as the first brace of police cars roared past them, lights flashing and sirens blaring. A pair of ambulances flew by on their heels.

  Wyatt stepped out into the street and flagged one down. Thirty seconds later, satisfied that the mother was being treated for shock and the infant was physically okay, Wyatt gave Sophie a discreet nod. They quietly slipped away and ran to the parking lot. The last thing either of them needed was to get embroiled deeper in a situation that was becoming more explosive by the minute.

  They were both breathless and dripping with perspiration by the time they reached her vehicle. It was a late-model SUV. Black, with dark-tinted windows, four-wheel drive. Wyatt had no doubt that Hugh had selected it for its ruggedness, versatility, and off-road capability. He’d yet to meet an operator who would drive a car over an SUV.

  Sophie hit the keyless remote and climbed behind the wheel. “For God’s sake, get in,” she said when he dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and tied it around the puncture wound in his arm so he wouldn’t bleed all over her seats.

  She was already cranking the key; hot, stale air blew out of the air-conditioning vents when he ducked into the passenger seat. Another pack of police cars sped by. Three military choppers zoomed in low, their main rotors kicking up dust and debris, the thwump, thwump, thwump of their engines deafening.

  “I’ll say this much.” Wyatt had to yell to be heard above the noise. “El Salvador welcome parties are a little livelier than the ones they throw back home in Georgia.”

  Sophie pushed her hair out of her eyes and smiled. “I’m so glad that some things never change.”

  He shot her a puzzled look.

  “Once a hero …” she said, a world of appreciation filling her eyes.

  He reluctantly smiled back. “Yeah, well. I’m still workin’ on that little character flaw, sugar. My momma tells me I’ll live longer if I quit stickin’ my neck out.”

  “She’s right,” Sophie agreed, a bit sadly, and shifted into gear, “but, damn, I’m glad you didn’t listen to her.”

  Take charge. Take care. Take control. Same Wyatt. Same solid, stand-up warrior, Sophie thought as she waited impatiently at a light, then punched the gas when it finally turned green. He and Hugh were alike in that way—yet in so many ways, they were different.

  An electric aura seemed always to surround Hugh, setting everything and everyone around him on a razor-sharp edge of excitement that could be as exhausting as it was exhilarating. Wyatt, on the other hand, had always been so easy to be around. He was a warrior, there was never any doubt about that, but he never wore it the way Hugh did. Hugh was all about flash and swagger, while Wyatt was about understatement.

  Heads turned when Hugh walked into a room; she’d even heard women gasp when they first saw him, he was that stunning, commanded that much attention, with his dark hair and eyes, Hollywood action-hero looks, and tall, rangy frame. Wyatt’s bearing and quiet good looks would never draw a gasp. He was a good four inches shorter than Hugh’s six-foot-two, carried his weight more like a football player than the runner Hugh always made her think of. Now, as the first time she’d seen him, Wyatt wore his sandy brown hair in a buzz cut, military short, a crisp, stark contrast to Hugh’s, which always looked as if he’d just stepped out of a photo shoot. And while Hugh’s
dark eyes could pierce like lasers, the gorgeous light blue of Wyatt’s eyes made her think of a low-burning flame. Steady, warm, embracing, yet barely masking a simmering sexual heat.

  No doubt about it, Wyatt was handsome in his own understated way, but it took a closer look to see just how much of a man he was.

  If she’d been older, wiser, less blinded by Hugh’s brilliant light, she might have appreciated that more when she’d known him back then. Might have looked past her impressions of Wyatt Savage as a man who, while funny and smart, lacked the excitement that drew her to the lightning bolt that was Hugh. Wyatt had been comfortable. Papa Bear, Hugh had always called him. Wyatt had been a protector. A mediator. A level head.

  In retrospect, she realized that she’d been wrong the many times she’d tried to delegate a “safe” spot for Wyatt in her mind. Safe, like a favorite old shirt, all snuggly and warm and stable. Safe, because Hugh had always made her feel as if she was straddling a razor-thin edge of danger, and she’d needed Wyatt’s stability to counterbalance Hugh’s volatility.

  She needed stability now. God, she was relieved that he was here. She’d been nervous about seeing him again, and not just because of her concern over Hope and Lola. Twelve years was a long time to miss someone. Twelve years was a lot of time for a person to change.

  Like Hugh had changed.

  Wyatt hadn’t. Thank God. She’d known the moment she laid eyes on him in the terminal that he was the same Wyatt, and she’d been thanking God ever since and indulging in the solid, steady strength of him.

  “You look good, Wyatt. Well, if you don’t count the blood,” she added with wry concern. “I am so sorry. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Quit worryin’ ’bout me. I was a pint over my limit anyway.”

  She glanced at him then. Even in the worst circumstances, Wyatt had always been able to make her smile with his down-home Southern drawl and quirky sense of humor. Circumstances didn’t get much worse than this.

  “Any idea who might have been on that welcome committee?”

  She turned back to the highway, her hands gripping the wheel tightly as the air conditioner finally started blowing cool air. “Best guess would be the Guerrilleros Nacionales.”

  “The Guerrilleros Nacionales?”

  “The GN is an ultra-nationalist group committed to the purity of El Salvador.”

  “I know who they are, sugar, but what’s their beef with the Brits?”

  “What isn’t their beef—with any one—Brits, Americans, Germans. Pick a culture. They’re violently against any intervention from or even fraternization with outside governments, and they don’t care who gets hurt if it furthers their agenda. Kidnapping for ransom, by the way, is also one of their favorite tactics,” she said bitterly, and changed lanes.

  “You figure they’re in the thick of your situation?”

  “It fits,” she said, nodding. “They’re nothing but terrorists. Usually, they aren’t bold enough to stage a daylight and very public attack, though. The airport, for God’s sake. I can’t believe what just happened.” She shook her head. “God, I hope no one got hurt back there.”

  “News at ten,” he said.

  Yeah. The attack at the airport would make the news, all right. Just as the abduction had made the news.

  She looked sideways at him again, at his clean, crisp profile and the hard, world-weary look that men like him always wore, and felt a heavy sadness flood her heart. She’d often wondered what Hugh had done and seen in his lifetime. More often, she’d been content not knowing. Seeing Wyatt wearing that same look was somehow more disturbing than seeing it on Hugh. Wyatt had always been so … well, sweet was the word that came to mind, although she knew he’d roll his eyes at the notion.

  But he had been sweet, she thought as the traffic slowed, stopped, and started moving again. She couldn’t imagine Wyatt enjoying what he did the way Hugh did. The way Hugh always had. But she could see Wyatt doing his job. Like he’d done it today. Competently, professionally, but with resignation, not relish. Hugh thrived on adrenaline. He always savored an operation.

  She flexed her fingers on the steering wheel, thinking about the differences between the two men that she hadn’t seen or understood back when they’d all been young and idealistic and green …

  Langley Air Force Base, Hampton, Virginia

  Twelve years ago

  Sophie glanced up from her desk as her last two new students sauntered into her adult-education Spanish class. She did a double take, then shook her head as the two men sized up the room.

  “God,” she murmured to her TA, Dana Long. “Does the CIA really think they’re fooling anyone when they send me their ‘spooky boys’ under the pretense that they’re”—she stopped, checked the class list, and laughed—“U.S. embassy clerks?”

  “Must have missed the Subterfuge 101 class,” Dana said, following Sophie’s gaze. “At least they could try not to be so obvious.”

  Right. If these guys were clerks, Sophie was a tank commander. Just as it was hard to mistake the lingering scent of the disinfectant the janitorial service used to clean her class room as anything but industrial-strength, it was hard not to recognize CIA operatives as anything but spies. More than anything, their eyes gave them away. Watchful. Vigilant.

  She’d taught this adult Spanish class in the same classroom, with its gray walls, acoustical-tile ceiling, and metal desks, for two years now. She’d gotten good at recognizing students who weren’t what they presented themselves to be.

  “They’re pretty cute,” Dana said behind her hand as the two men found seats in the back of the small room. “Especially the tall one. What a stunner. What do you think? He remind you of anyone? Wait. I’ve got it. George Clooney—only with sharper, sexier edges. Man, I’d like to see him naked.”

  Sophie couldn’t stop a quick bubble of laughter and intentionally misunderstood. “Clooney?”

  “Well, yeah, him, too.” Dana grinned. “The way this guy’s looking at you, I’d say there’s a good chance you might actually get to see a grand unveiling.”

  Sophie glanced toward the back of the room, and sure enough, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome had rocked back on two chair legs, tilted his head and was sizing her up with an openly appreciative grin.

  “Now, the other guy,” Dana continued, “he’s not exactly TD&H but he’s hot in his own way, you know. He’s got that crisp, clean-cut, all-American man-boy look going on.”

  Another astute analogy, Sophie thought, with a glance at TD&H’s buddy. He was a few inches shorter than his partner in crime, a little heavier-built. Not that he was overweight. No, he was rock-solid, all muscle, and while he wasn’t fair-skinned, his buzz-cut light brown hair bounced him out of the dark part of the equation. He wasn’t what she’d call strikingly handsome. Dana was right. All-American suited him better. And that slow, conspiratorial smile he slid her way, well, what could she do but smile back when those dazzling and intelligent blue eyes caught her checking him out?

  Trouble. Both of them, she realized, and decided it was time to earn her pay.

  Sometimes she felt so fortunate to be doing what she did that she’d almost be willing to teach the class for free. And while she’d never get rich on her teacher’s salary, it was nice to know that as long as what she did made her happy, she’d never feel pressure from her family to “raise the bar” in the aspiration department.

  Not that she didn’t have goals. Lofty goals. Goals that included her own school someday, where she would teach children instead of adults. She had her parents to thank for that dream, too.

  Her father was a high-ranking U.S. embassy official, and her mother was a “proud and practicing” socialite who had been dedicated to various charitable causes her entire life. Because of her father’s embassy assignments all over the world, Sophie had acquired a taste for exotic places during her globe-trotting childhood. She’d also developed a strong sense of service from her mother, who Sophie knew would continue her philanthropic work eve
n after her father retired.

  Many of the impressions Sophie had taken with her from her childhood as they had settled and resettled around the world had been of the poverty and deplorable illiteracy rates, particularly in the many Central American countries where her father had been stationed. That’s why, at an early age, she decided to make teaching her life’s work. Because she herself had received an excellent education in schools attended primarily by children of U.S. military and embassy employees, her personal goal was someday to found a school somewhere in Central America that would offer scholarships to local children so they could have the same educational advantages as American children like her who were essentially visitors in their land.

  All dreams started with small steps, however, and Sophie understood that she had to establish herself and her credibility as an educator in the right circles before she could see that dream to fruition. That’s why, after graduating with degrees in both education and administration with a minor in Spanish, she’d taken a position with the State Department as a Spanish instructor for embassy employees.

  Employees like the cute “spooky boys,” who were sure to give her trouble before the three-month class was over.

  “All right, class,” she said, addressing the room of fifteen students. “Glad you could all make it. I’m Sophie Baylor. This is my teaching assistant, Dana Long. My credentials are posted on the school’s Web site, but I figure you already know what you need to know about me, or you wouldn’t be here, right?”

  She smiled to the room at large. “So, how about you tell me a little bit about yourselves and why you’re taking the class? Anyone want to start?”

  Two hands shot up at the back of the room. Of course, it was TD&H and his sidekick; both men were grinning from ear to ear. Brother. She was used to the occasional flirt, but these guys took it over the top.

  She pointedly passed them by and smiled at a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman in the front row. “Let’s start with you, okay? Then we’ll work our way to the back of the class.”