Dangerous to Hold Page 10

  In a few succinct words, Enrique dismissed his leader. He pulled out a big-framed .45 with a silver replica of the Mayan sun calendar on its decorated grip. Chairs tumbled over backward as the men scrambled out of the line of fire.

  “And do you also expect your patrón to perform that particular unnatural act?” Jake inquired lazily. “He will be no more pleased than Che if you make him waste the money he’s laying out for the shipment.”

  The casual observation brought even the drunken lieutenant up short. Enrique knew as well as Jake that the drug lords would be far more relentless and exacting in their retribution toward one who crossed them than Che would ever be. The guerrilla leader wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet through an enemy’s forehead. The drug lords’ henchmen would make him beg for it.

  Enrique hesitated, the .45 wavering in his big paw. After a long, tense moment, he jammed it back in its tooled leather holster. “Maybe I won’t shoot you, after all. Maybe I will just cut off your cojones.”

  “You can try, my snout-nosed friend. You can try.”

  Jake loosened his grip on the weapon in his pocket. The palm-size .22 carried five hollow-point rounds, any one of which would’ve put Enrique down. Jake wouldn’t need them now. Tossing down a last swallow of tequila, he rose.

  A feral light sprang into the lieutenant’s eyes at the sight of the easy target. His hand moved toward the belt hooked over the back of a nearby chair.

  Jake’s razor-sharp machete sliced through the air. Its lethal, specially balanced blade pinned the leather belt to the chair-back and toppled the chair over with the force of the throw.

  “No knives,” Jake told the startled lieutenant. “No guns. Let’s settle this in a way that will give satisfaction to us both.”

  A slow grin spread across Enrique’s red face. “You’re right, gringo. I will much enjoy feeling my fists smash into your face. Almost as much as I will enjoy your woman squirming and thrashing beneath me.”

  Jake could have ended the farce that followed at any time, but he took a savage pleasure in reducing Enrique to a staggering, gurgling, bloody hulk. His rational mind argued that he needed to destroy the last shreds of confidence the other men placed in the lieutenant’s authority. A primitive, wholly male instinct, however, wanted to make sure Enrique understood what the consequences would be if he touched Sarah.

  Jake didn’t escape totally unscathed himself. For all Enrique’s bulk and drunken state, he packed the power of a bull behind his hammerlike fists. When the big man lay sprawled on the dirt floor once again, Jake hooked a foot around a chair leg and dragged it to the table.

  “Now, my friends,” he panted, dragging the back of his hand across his bleeding lip, “let’s finish that tequila.”

  Jake closed his eyes as clear liquid fire slid down his throat and curled in his belly. He sagged back against his chair, enjoying the heat, the feeling of satisfaction, even the pain that throbbed in his chin.

  He should go back to the hut. Sarah would be wide-eyed and trembling with anxiety, he knew. He also knew that there was no way he could soothe her fears and stretch out beside her right now. Not with his blood pounding in his veins and the remembered feel of her body next to his battling with the last remnants of his conscience.

  Sarah sat in rigid, unmoving silence. The flickering light of the Sterno lamp surrounded her and the children in a small circle of gloom. They huddled against her, clinging to the black robe she’d hastily pulled on. It had saved them once before. With a sick, wrenching fear, Sarah hoped it wouldn’t have to save them again.

  When no shots or screams sounded for what seemed like hours, the children’s fear slowly eased. Sarah’s, however, mounted with each passing moment. Where was he? she wondered with increasing desperation. What would she do if he didn’t return? Oh, God, he had to return. She squeezed her eyes shut and repeated for the hundredth time the prayers he’d suggested.

  Only gradually did Sarah realize that more than just self-preservation motivated her fervent prayers. It wasn’t the lean, unshaven mercenary she wanted to see step through that door. She wanted to see Jack. Or, better yet, the Señor Creighton Teresa idolized. The man who’d carved a doll out of a mango root and tucked a delighted, squealing three year old under his arm. The man who coaxed even the still, silent Eduard to speak. The man who made Sarah’s breath catch when he creased his cheeks in that damned crooked smile of his.

  The man who finally returned, however, wasn’t any of the ones Sarah had prayed for. She gave a glad cry of welcome when she saw his shadowy but unmistakable form silhouetted in the door, then gasped when he stepped into the little circle of light. Brownish dried blood covered most of his face and spattered his bare chest. Even in the dim sputter of the tiny flame she could see the dark bruise that covered one side of his jaw.

  At her startled gasp, he attempted what must have been meant as a reassuring smile but ended up as a grimace of pain. He staggered a bit as he put a hand up to his jaw.

  “Oh, my God!” She pushed herself out of the children’s grasp and flew across the hut to take his arm. “Move, children. Let him sit down on the crate. Teresa, get me the cloth we use to wash with. Eduard, you find the disinfectant. The little bottle of liquid antiseptic, not the dry powder we used on you.”

  “It looks worse than it is,” Jack muttered as she helped him ease down. “Most of the blood belongs, uh, belonged to Pig-face.”

  “Did he die?” Ricci asked, wide-eyed and tremulous.

  Sarah bit her lip as she took the canteen and the white cotton briefs from Teresa. That a three year old should have such a fixation with death tore at her heart.

  The gringo tried again. This time he managed more grin than grimace. “No, Squirt, he didn’t die. But he’ll probably wish he had when he wakes up.”

  “Good!” Eduard’s low response made up in ferocity what it lacked in volume.

  Jack’s head swung toward the boy. “You didn’t like old Pig-face, either, huh?”

  “For pity’s sake,” Sarah said, turning his chin back to examine it. “Hold still.”

  With a rush of relief, she saw that he’d been right when he said most of the blood wasn’t his. Aside from several swelling bruises, she discovered only one laceration, along his jawline.

  “Tilt your head back so I can clean this,” Sarah ordered, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t have to perform an ant-optomy.

  He propped his head back against the wall. Eyes closed, he allowed her to tend him. She wiped the last of the dried blood from the underside of his chin, then took the bottle of antiseptic Eduard handed her.

  “Ouch!”

  Sarah blinked. Somehow she hadn’t thought this tough-as-unchewed-leather mercenary would be so sensitive to pain. Gentling her touch, she dabbed at his chin once more.

  “That stings.”

  The plaintive complaint sounded so much like that of a little boy that Sarah couldn’t help smiling. She moved closer to his side and slipped one arm around his neck. Cradling his head against her shoulder as she would Eduard’s or Ricci’s, she swabbed his cuts.

  But the body pressed against hers wasn’t Eduard’s or Ricci’s. It was long and sleekly muscled and musky with the scent of a man. Sarah felt a stir of awareness at the feel of him leaning into her. Her swift, instinctive reaction quickly gave way to another emotion, however. An unexpected tenderness welled up in her heart. For so many days now, she’d drawn from this man’s strength. For so many nights, she’d fallen asleep knowing he was beside her. That he would now wrap an arm around her hips and lean into her for support filled her with soft, sweet warmth.

  She was so bemused by the feeling that it was some moments before she realized his head had turned a few degrees, until his cheek rested on the slope of her breast. And that his arm had slowly tightened, drawing her even closer into the heat of his body. It took a moment more before she registered the fact that the hand on her hip no longer just rested there. Through the heavy fabric of her robe, his fingers kneaded t
he swell of rounded flesh.

  “What are you doing?” Sarah gasped, pushing herself out of his hold.

  “I…” A wave of confusion crossed his face for a moment, to be replaced almost immediately by a scowl. His arm dropped. “Damn, it was the tequila.”

  Sarah was so disturbed by the sensations his touch had aroused that she didn’t even chastise him for his inappropriate language.

  “Tequila? Have you been drinking?”

  “A little.” He met her incredulous stare, then shrugged. “Hell, a lot.”

  Sarah’s mouth sagged open, then closed to a thin, ominous line. “You mean we’ve been sitting here in the dark, frantic with worry, and you’ve…you’ve been swilling tequila with that rabble out there?”

  At her accusing tone, a tinge of red rose in his cheeks. “Look, I was just cementing my relationship with the boys. So they wouldn’t come looking for Sister Sarah to tend their ‘aches,’ as well.”

  Sarah stood rigid while a slow, fiery fury flowed through her veins. He’d been drinking, while she sat here terrified, praying her heart out for him! He’d been schmoozing with his cretinous pals while she blocked out every despicable aspect of his character and painted him as a cross between Santa Claus and an unshaven Pierce Brosnan! He’d stumbled in, covered with blood, and made Sarah’s heart leap in fear. She’d cradled him to her breast like some hurt child. Now he had the nerve to sit there, his head tilted up at her belligerently, and scowl at her as though the whole thing had been her fault.

  Acting on pure impulse, Sarah tipped her hand and poured the entire bottle of disinfectant over his cut.

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  This time Sarah would have chastised him, if she hadn’t been so startled by his reaction. His drinking hadn’t dulled his reflexes, she discovered. With the deadly speed of a bush-master, he uncoiled his long body and sprang up. A hard hand grabbed her outstretched wrist and twisted it up behind her.

  Off balance, Sarah stumbled against his bare chest. The soft, springy pelt she’d fantasized about brushed her cheek. She tried to push herself away with the flat of her palm. He held her easily with one hand, which only added to Sarah’s pounding, white hot anger.

  “You want to explain that little bit of medical malpractice, Sister Sarah?”

  “Figure it out for yourself, gringo.”

  She realized her mistake as soon as the words were out. There wasn’t anything even remotely nunlike in the way she challenged him, eyes flashing, fury radiating from every inch of the body he held pressed against his own.

  His eyes narrowed. In the dim light, Sarah couldn’t see their expression, but she felt his body stiffen against hers. The hand holding her wrist behind her back tightened, and her breasts were crushed against a solid, unyielding wall of hard, male flesh.

  They stared at each other, unspeaking, until a small whimper shattered the tension arcing between them.

  “Please, Señor Creighton, you and Sarita, you must not fight.”

  Teresa’s tearful voice brought them back to the reality of a small, airless hut and three frightened children. The hold on Sarah’s wrist loosened, then fell away. She stepped back and drew in a long, shuddering breath.

  “I’m…I’m sorry,” she stuttered.

  His eyes were guarded, curiously so after his blazing anger of moments before.

  “I was petrified, sitting here in the dark, not knowing what was happening. I…I said every prayer I knew for you.” She stumbled through the apology, not really sorry, but shaken enough by what had just occurred that she felt the need to reestablish their previous relationship.

  His jaw worked for a moment. “Well, I suppose I have to thank you for your spiritual intervention, but I’ll damn sure let you know when I want any more of your medical attention. Now let’s see if we can get some sleep for what’s left of the night.”

  The children managed to drift back into quiet slumber, but they were the only ones. Jake lay still and tense in the darkness, waiting for dawn to slice through the cracks in the tin roof with its characteristic suddenness. He could tell from Sarah’s lack of movement that she wasn’t sleep. She lay with her back turned stubbornly to him, too far away to touch, too close for him to ignore the prickling sensation her mere presence caused within him.

  He knew the knife-edged tension that kept him awake was the culmination of the night’s events. The brawl with Enrique. The knowledge that the drop was set and Jake could finally contact OMEGA. The fiery tequila. The feel of Sarah’s hips cradled in his arm.

  The desire that had been curling in Jake’s belly since the moment she’d snuggled up to him all those hours ago suddenly jackknifed. He gritted his teeth, straining to keep a leash on his rampaging libido. Drawing up one knee to ease the coiled ache, he cursed himself and her in the darkness.

  Didn’t she know better than to hold his head against her breast like that while she swabbed his cuts? Didn’t she know that every time she even brushed his arm, fire streaked all along his nerves? Couldn’t she sense how it twisted his gut every time she feathered her fingers through her hair?

  For all that she wore a nun’s habit, wasn’t she still woman enough to recognize the effect she had on a man when she flashed those magnificent, fury-filled eyes up at him? At that moment, Jake had come so close to forgetting who she was and where they were that it scared the hell out of him.

  His jaw clenching, Jake played and replayed that strange confrontation in his mind.

  He’d dealt with enough people in his time to know that no human being ever really fit a stereotype. The toughest first sergeant he’d ever worked with had had an almost pathological fear of heights. The sweet, honey-haired second-grade teacher he’d dated for a while after his divorce had kept a library of porno flicks just the other side of kinky. Maggie Sinclair, with her long legs, sparkling brown eyes and infectious grin, could put a bullet through the center of a target forty-four out of forty-five times.

  So it didn’t bother Jake that Sarah wasn’t exactly a younger version of Mother Teresa. He could accept that she sported a fall of silvery-blond hair under the black veil. He understood that she was only human, like when she alternated between quiet competence and frazzled weariness with the children. He knew that the fear and strain of waiting for him tonight had toppled many of the barriers between them, causing her to blaze up at him like any outraged female confronting an errant male.

  Still, that confrontation bothered him. And he didn’t know why.

  Jake’s mouth settled into a tight line. Maybe it was his own internal alert mechanism that had activated this indefinable tension that shimmered right below his skin’s surface. Maybe his body was signaling that he’d gotten too close to this operation, too emotionally involved with Sarah. He needed to back off, to avoid any repetition of the fierce, primal protectiveness he’d felt when Enrique threatened her. He sure as hell needed to avoid any more physical contact with her. From here on, he had to concentrate more on his mission and less on this woman who intrigued, irritated and aroused him in equal measures.

  That was it, Jake decided. He had to get this operation moving forward again. As soon as he could slip out of camp, later today, he’d reclaim his backup transmitter and reestablish contact with his OMEGA control. Now that he knew the approximate time of the drop, he could work out the details of the extraction and strike with Maggie Sinclair.

  Some of Jake’s tension eased at the thought of Maggie. Once again he thanked his lucky stars she was the controller for this operation. Not that the others weren’t good—damn good. But Maggie and that sixth sense of hers were in a separate category altogether. Of course, her uncanny instincts were probably going bananas right now. No doubt she’d worn a track in the tile floor of the control center with her pacing over the lack of contact with Jaguar.

  Jake wiped away the trickle of sweat that signaled the imminent arrival of another hot, humid dawn, then grinned wryly in the dark. At least Maggie was doing her worrying and pacing in air-conditioned
comfort.

  Chapter 8

  Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so hot!

  It was still early morning, just an hour past dawn, and yet her heavy black robes were already sticking to her back. She sat on the sticky vinyl seat of the bus taking her into Cartoza’s capital and fanned the air with one hand. The sleeve of her habit flapped energetically but stirred up a lot more dust than breeze. Despite the heat and the crowd packed belly to belly in the wheezing, huffing bus, however, Maggie felt a familiar drum of excitement beating in her veins.

  She was back in the field!

  After an intense session with Cowboy to get him up to speed and a hurried outfitting by the OMEGA uniform specialists, she’d left Washington just after midnight. An air force jet had flown her to her insertion point at a base in neighboring Costa Rica. From there she’d boarded a commercial flight into Cartoza’s only airport, thus establishing her cover as a newly arrived medical sister.

  And now she was back in the field!

  So what if sweat rolled down her ribs? So what if her stiff black habit scratched and the white wimple got in her way every time she unthinkingly tried to rake a hand through her hair? Maggie would’ve endured far worse—and had in the past—to feel the intensity and awareness of everything around her that came only with being in the middle of an operation.

  Settling her small brown suitcase more comfortably across her knees, she made sure the blue steel Smith & Wesson .22 automatic pistol tucked in her sleeve didn’t show, and sat back to enjoy the ride into the capital. She’d stay at the sisters’ chapter house today, until she heard from Jake. Or until outside pressure or circumstance made her decide to go in for Sarah Chandler.

  As the bus bounced over the rutted road that led out of the airport, chickens squawked, babies cried, and deafening music blared from a loudspeaker. The old woman next to Maggie smiled at the din, then held up a gnarled, arthritic hand to display the rosary beads she clutched. It didn’t take Maggie long to realize that the old woman wasn’t saying her rosary just to pass the time. She was probably praying fervently that she survived the trip. Maggie herself muttered a few prayers as the bus careered along the narrow, twisting road that led from the airport into the capital. On one side, lush vegetation in more shades of green than Maggie had ever seen climbed up the steep hillsides. On the other was a sheer two-hundred-foot vertical drop to the sparkling blue-green Atlantic. Sure that the bus would sail off the road at every turn, Maggie tried to focus on the bright flashes of brilliantly colored flowers on the right and ignore the empty stretch of air on the left.