Risk no Secrets

by Cindy Gerard

  “Drop and spread and you live!” Wyatt shouted in Spanish after they fired off their initial salvo. “Fight back and you die.”

  They dropped. Like stones. Every last one of them. It was over in less time than it took to make a phone call.

  Once he was certain that Doc, Gabe, and Green had the fifteen ganja-smoking, cracked-out “bad boys” secure, he walked to the smaller hut, where Rafe had swung open the door and stepped inside.

  He could hear Rafe murmuring in Spanish, “You’re safe now, little one. We’ve come to take you home.”

  Wyatt ducked through the door and joined him inside.

  Jesus.

  The stench nearly knocked him over. And when he saw the filthy little girl, her hair matted and tangled, her clothes soiled by her own waste, curled up in Rafe’s arms, he wrestled back a vicious urge to march outside and empty a full mag into the bastards who had done this to her.

  Instead, he got a grip, stood aside, and let Rafe carry the child out into the fresh air.

  He turned to yell for Sophie, to let her know they’d found the girl, but she was already running out of the thicket toward them. She’d spotted Rafe with the child in his arms and raced toward them, tears in her eyes.

  “Baby. Oh, sweet baby,” she whispered as the girl burrowed her face into Rafe’s chest. “What have they done to you?”

  “It’s okay,” Wyatt told her as Rafe sat down on the ground, still cradling the child, and Sophie got down on her knees beside them. “She’s okay now. We’ll take care of her.”

  She touched a hand to the tangled hair, then drew her hands back to her thighs, knotted them into fists. “How could they treat a child this way?”

  He didn’t have an answer for her. Neither did she expect one. Wyatt had long ago stopped asking about the reasons for the atrocities man committed against his fellow man, the total lack of moral compass or humanity in a man’s soul that led him to abuse the most innocent among them. Yeah, he’d given up. It just was. Accepting it didn’t make it any easier to sleep at night, but it did make it easier to pull a trigger when he had to.

  He handed Sophie his water. “Try to get her to drink.”

  “Not too much, now,” Rafe warned as the girl grabbed for the water bottle with greedy, trembling hands. “Easy there, cara. Not too much,” he warned with a tenderness Wyatt had never seen in the combat veteran, not even when he addressed, B.J., his wife.

  “Oh, God.” Sophie sat back on her heels, staring, when she finally got a look at the child’s face.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Wyatt dropped down on one knee beside her, his gut telling him even before she answered.

  “This … this poor, tortured child.” Her emotions—anguish, sympathy, and despair—washed across her face and drained her of color. “Oh, God, Wyatt. This child … she isn’t Lola.”

  “You look uncomfortable,” Vincente observed with a deep sense of satisfaction. He leaned away from the table, hooked an arm over the back of the spindled chair, liking it that his “partner” felt uncomfortable and out of place. He caressed the blade he always kept with him, absently flipping it over and over in his palm. “My apologies if the surroundings aren’t up to your standards.”

  And fuck him if he didn’t like it, he thought, watching the man. Vincente had taken pains with his appearance, to make a statement about the differences between them. His pants were battle camouflage. His upper body was bare except for the bandoliers crisscrossing his tattooed chest and the white and blue colors of Mara Salvatrucha in a scarf knotted around his bulging bicep.

  Felipe and Emilio stood at his right and left shoulders, their AK-47s in hand, their colors worn on the scarves tied around their foreheads.

  Vincente had insisted on meeting the man here, in Soyopango. He wanted the face-to-face on his turf, where he was king. And he wanted to see him sweat. The way Vincente had sweated when he received the news that he had lost not only Tito and Benito on the Vega hit but that several of his outlying soldiers had been killed or arrested south of the city yesterday.

  The worst, however, the very worst, was that a very valuable piece of goods had been stolen from him. The Hernandez kid had been certain to net him a fat ransom.

  “Look, I know you’re annoyed by the turn of events.”

  Vincente laughed at the understatement and glanced at his blade. “Annoyed? Because the very men you had guaranteed me would not be a problem have cut deeply into my operation? You think that would annoy me?” He lifted a hand as if brushing it off. “No, my friend. What annoys me is that you are not a man of your word. What annoys me is that you assume that what is mine is dispensable.

  “What annoys me,” he continued, mocking the choice of words, until the eyes that stared back at him finally showed signs of apprehension, “is that I did not listen to my instincts and tell you to fuck off when you first proposed this joint business venture.”

  “I could not have known she would bring outside resources into this.”

  Vincente reared forward, flipped open the razor-sharp blade, and buried its tip in the wooden table, all pretense of civility gone. “And yet you should have! Your oversight has cost me.”

  While he flinched, he did not retreat. “You’ll recover the loss.”

  “No, my friend, you will recover my monetary losses. But I have also lost face among my men for trusting you. How do you intend to recover that for me?”

  He said nothing.

  Vincente stared at him hard, accepted that he had little choice but to see this through to the end.

  “You will fix this,” he said with deadly intent. “You will fix this fast, or I will. And trust me, my friend, you will not like the solution if it is left up to me.”

  20

  “We’re not going to get her back, are we?”

  Wyatt leaned against the door frame that opened into Sophie’s bedroom. They’d filed into her house around midnight, a little more than an hour ago, loaded down with takeout food and reeking of the stench of the day. She’d been the last one to shower—she’d insisted they all go first—and now, wrapped in a white bathrobe, she towel-dried her hair.

  It was almost painful to watch her; she looked so exhausted and defeated. Even the tempered high of returning a lost child to her parents couldn’t bolster her spirits.

  It had been six grueling hours since they’d rescued the little girl who was not Lola. The child’s name was Carmen Hernandez. This they’d found out when they returned to San Salvador and delivered her to the police station. Carmen was now being treated for dehydration and dysentery in a hospital and, Wyatt assumed, in the loving arms of her parents, who had given up on her being found alive. She’d been abducted six months ago.

  That little girl was safe. Lola, however, was still out there.

  “It’s not over yet,” Wyatt said, although he had to dig deep to interject some semblance of assurance into his voice. Before they’d left the thugs who’d been holding Carmen Hernandez captive like a caged animal, they’d questioned them. He’d known even before they resorted to threats that they weren’t going to get any information from the bastards. They were low-level flunkies and knew nothing. They were the bottom of the MS-13 food chain, who took their pay in ganja and fed their egos by toting AK-47s and telling themselves they were bad.

  Unfortunately for poor little Carmen, they were bad enough. Wyatt hoped they rotted out there in the jungle where he and the BOIs had left them tied together without food or water—just the way they’d tied that child.

  Wyatt had taken his time pinpointing their location for the police. Let them sit out there in the heat of the night and the bugs and the creepy crawlies for a while. Might put the fear of something greater than their gang leader into them.

  “We’re running out of time.” Sophie sat down heavily on the edge of her bed, holding a towel in one hand, a hairbrush loosely in the other.

  He couldn’t argue with that. They were down to a little less than forty hours by his calculations. And Sophie
was down to the last of her reserve of strength.

  He pushed away from the door and walked to her side. He hesitated only a moment before he sat down beside her and removed the brush from her limp hand.

  “No, sugar. Let me,” he said when she made a sound of protest. “You’ve been strong long enough. Just let me do this for you.”

  She closed her eyes on a sigh, and though he knew she wanted to tell him no, she just didn’t have the strength—of body or of will—to do it.

  Her hair was heavy and fragrant as he worked the brush through the damp strands, all the while quelling those voices that told him that one night with her in this bed didn’t give him the right to be here with her like this.

  He no longer cared about his rights. But he did care about this woman.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, then groaned, letting him know that what he was doing felt good.

  “Sorry?” He gathered the heavy weight of her hair in one hand and continued stroking with the brush.

  “That I fell apart … in the cantina … after—”

  “You didn’t fall apart,” he interrupted. “You reacted like any sane person would react to the violence. I’m sorry you got caught up in it. And I’m sorry I got tough with you after.”

  “I needed it. It ticked me off. Made me concentrate on what a bully you were and forget about the blood. Thanks.”

  “We aim to please,” he said with a soft smile. “You need to get some sleep.” He swallowed back the words he really wanted to say and the questions he wanted to ask. Words like I love you. Questions like Is there a remote chance for us to be together?

  Christ, he was tired. Damn tired, or he wouldn’t have gotten within a Georgia mile of those thoughts.

  “Stay with me.” Her eyes were liquid and hopeful and, because he was weak where she was concerned, too much for him to resist.

  He closed his eyes and drew a breath. Then he stood, walked across the room, and shut the door. The guys were catching a few wherever they could—Gabe had claimed Hope’s bed, Rafe was snoring on one sofa, and Doc was sacked out on the other. Green had commandeered the hammock out on the lanai.

  When Wyatt turned back to the bed, Sophie had turned down the covers. A not-so-subtle invitation. She’d slipped out of her robe and, wearing only a delicate white sleep gown, slid over to the middle of the mattress and made room for him.

  Her eyes were filled with something other than gratitude. Something that made his breath catch, his heart stall, and his hand stop in midair.

  And God, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to say no to the blatant invitation. She wasn’t the only one who was beat. She wasn’t the only one who felt raw and open to possibilities that would not be wise to explore tonight—or what was left of it.

  His muscles clenched with the desire to peel off his cammo T-shirt and fatigues, gather her in his arms, and indulge in all the warm woman sleekness of her against his naked skin. His heart slammed with the desire to explore, all over again, the places she loved to be touched, places she’d begged him to touch. Soft places. Wet, warm places that he’d remember until the day he died.

  Hell yeah, he wanted to strip down to skin and take her everywhere he knew she’d love to go. But he kept his clothes on, because he wanted it too much and because he knew, gut-deep, bone-strong, that whatever need she felt for him in this moment came from all the wrong places. It was need that came from tension and stress and fear. Need that started with gratitude but would eventually end with good-bye.

  He had a need, too, damn it—for something richer and deeper that would sustain them both. It was because of that need that he set his H&K within reach on the bedside table and lay down fully dressed. He steeled himself when she snuggled up tight against his side.

  “Sleep,” he whispered when she splayed her fingers across his chest. “Sleep,” he repeated on a gruff command, because, Jesus God, she was killing him as her small hand began wandering slowly south.

  He had a choice here. He could either go up in flames or go down in glory. Either way, it played out the same way in the end. He lost.

  He stilled her hand against his beating heart. Breathed deep.

  Turning her down had nothing to do with heroics. Nothing to do with self-sacrifice. It had to do with self-preservation. He was already in too deep with this woman, and he knew that the physical relief that mindless sex would bring could in no way offset the crippling sense of loss that would follow.

  That was because he wanted more than sex from her. Okay, yeah, what they had was more than sex. They liked each other, respected each other, but that’s where it ended for her. He needed commitment and all the goddamn bells and whistles, and yeah, damn it, the love and tender moments that went with it.

  But even if she might want that, too, he’d already figured out that she wouldn’t let herself go there. She’d committed to a warrior once before; she still wore the scars. She’d told Wyatt about some of them today. And even though she hadn’t said it outright, he’d heard, loud and clear, that she wasn’t about to subject herself to that kind of pain again.

  Christ, he was tired. So tired he was lying there, letting his head get screwed up over something that could never be a part of his game plan anyway. She was a woman who wanted and deserved babies. Deserved a man like Diego Montoya, who could give her respect and social standing and money. He wasn’t Montoya. He was what he’d always been. He killed bad guys and prayed to God he wouldn’t become one himself

  Finally, he felt the tension and the trauma ease from her soft body with her deep breaths. Felt the moment she let go completely and slid, all liquid and achingly easy, into sleep.

  Dodged that bullet.

  So why did he feel like he’d been gut-shot?

  It felt like he’d just fallen asleep when a rap on the door shot Wyatt to instant consciousness. He checked to make sure Sophie was still sleeping, then eased carefully out of bed so as not to wake her.

  Gabe stood on the other side of the door when he opened it.

  “Time is it?” Wyatt asked around a yawn as he stepped out into the hallway and closed the door quietly behind him.

  “Four-fifteen,” Gabe said. “We caught a few hours. We’re thinking we need to hit it again while the rats are still tucked away in their holes. Word about our little visit to that backwater cantina and the impromptu party in the jungle has to have reached the streets by now.”

  Wyatt scrubbed a hand over his face. Yeah, they’d been dealing with the MS-13 flunkies until this point. The bigger players in San Salvador couldn’t be too happy. And the marginal members—the ones who held a grudge because they’d been passed over for promotion in the ranks or shit on one too many times by the upper echelon—might be having second thoughts about gang loyalty. Someone might be ready to talk, either for the promise of cash or the prospect of taking out a rival gang member. Long shots, but it was all they had. The ransom deadline was noon Thursday. Thirty-two hours and closing fast.

  “I’ll take the guys,” Wyatt said. “You stay here with Sophie.”

  “Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” Gabe said. “We’re geared up and ready to rock. Besides, Sophie needs you, not us.”

  Because there was a modicum of truth in Gabe’s statement, Wyatt didn’t argue. Dawn was still a couple of hours away when Wyatt locked up behind them after warning them to watch their backs.

  For all of ten seconds, he told himself he’d catch a few more Zs on the sofa. Yeah, that thought held for all of ten seconds before he turned and walked back down the hall.

  He eased Sophie’s bedroom door open, slipped silently back into the room, double-checked the safety on the H&K, and set it quietly back on the nightstand. The only light in the room was a sliver of moonlight that leaked in through a window. Sophie was little more than a shadow on white sheets, the thin straps of her gown barely visible against her skin.

  He didn’t need light to know that beneath that gown, she was warm and fragrant and lush. Even in the dark, he could rememb
er the smooth perfection of her skin, the generous curves of her breasts, the rosy pink hue of her nipples. And he sure as hell didn’t need light to envision the whisper-soft moans of pleasure that had devastated him when she’d come in his mouth and then again when he’d come inside her.

  Indulgence was a memory of the ebb and flow of their bodies, how she’d cried out and clung to him. Yeah, indulgence was a memory, but it was necessity and a whopping dose of stupidity that had him tossing his hard-won control to the wind.

  Fuck his reason and good intentions, and damn him for a glutton for punishment. In this moment, in this room, with this woman, he no longer cared what happened tomorrow. He cared only what happened right now.

  He whipped his shirt up and over his head and stepped out of his cammos and boxers. Then he slid back into bed beside her. He needed to feel her against him with nothing between them but skin. He needed to sink into something wholesome and giving and distant from the violence his life had become.

  She stirred when the bed shifted with his weight, made a soft kitten sound of contentment when he eased back down beside her. She snuggled up against his side with a sigh, like she’d been doing this for years. Like she was coming home. Like he was the home she needed and loved and missed when he was gone.

  Easy, he thought, wrapping his arms around her and losing himself in the soft, warm lushness of her body, her tender sighs, and unquestioning trust. Easy, he thought again, pressing her cheek to his chest, where the warmth of her breath feathered across his heated skin. It would be so easy to fuel himself on both her serenity and her fire. To ground himself in her giving. To believe—just for the moment—that he could be the man she needed, maybe even loved.

  “I thought you’d left me.” Her breath was whisper-soft against his jaw.

  “Not a chance,” he promised on a groan when her slender leg slid between his and her hand, soft and sensual and on a mission, drifted down his chest, across his abdomen, then lower. He didn’t stop her this time when she cupped him in a loose, velvety caress.