This was the informant who had broken through international intelligence communication?
Wedge that firmly enough into his psyche and he’d have an easier time interrogating her tomorrow.
Her bottom, deep-pink lip puckered softly as if in thought. She leaned an elbow against the base of the window and propped her head, struggling to stay awake, probably trying as hard to figure out where she was going as Carlos worked to keep his cabin location secret.
The blanket slipped off her shoulder to pool around her waist. Her baggy gray pants and oversize T-shirt sure as hell didn’t camouflage the curvaceous body.
Especially the damp T-shirt that clung to her breasts.
Carlos felt a stir inside his jeans and scowled at the purely male reaction. Not the time for his body to remind him he was way overdue for some R and R.
He bumped the heat a little higher even though the warmth fed his body’s need for sleep as well, but he could stay awake another half hour.
Her eyelashes fluttered against the cream-white cheek.
The minute her breathing fell into a constant rhythm, Carlos turned off the main road. The night closed in around the Beemer headlights as he slowly wound his way up a lonely ridge road.
Gabrielle’s soft and steady breathing filled the silent car. He reached over and lifted the blanket back around her shoulders. The urge to keep her safe thrummed as strong as it had when bullets were flying earlier.
An urge that was in direct conflict with the job he’d have to do at headquarters.
But for tonight, she’d be safe from everyone.
When he approached the secluded drive to the cabin, he hit a button in the headrest panel that opened an electric gate. He entered slowly, watching to assure the gate closed behind him.
At the house, he let the car idle in the circular drive while he lifted a remote from the console between the seats and pressed a series of three buttons. Had one signal come back in a default of any kind, he’d have continued around the circular drive and left immediately.
All clear.
Once he had the car inside the triple-door garage, Carlos locked the doors and left Gabrielle while he opened the house. He made a physical check of each room, then returned to her side and opened her door slowly to catch her. Unclipping her belt, he lifted her into his arms, grunting at the stab of pain in his forearm and side. The jagged bullet gash and glass cut would need stitches tonight.
He carried her to the master bedroom, where he’d already drawn the covers back on his first pass through. She didn’t stir while he removed sneakers and her sweatpants, which had finally dried. When he lifted the edge of her top, he found the tail of a silky undergarment, so he took the T-shirt off, too.
She curled up in a ball of smooth skin, candy-red lace underwear, and a matching silk camisole.
How could someone who looked like a librarian wear sin underwear? He debated over how to secure her for the night.
She could rest unbound while he was awake, but he needed sleep and would crash hard once his head hit the pillow after so many hours on his feet.
The safest thing would be to cuff her hands and arms to each corner of the bed, especially if armed guards showed up tonight to take her into custody.
The vision of her cuffed spread eagle in that red lace rushed through his brain then charged south to his loins.
And that kiss still lingered on his lips, in his thoughts.
He really had to straighten out his thinking about her, starting with not thinking about her mouth…or her underwear.
Carlos pulled the covers over all that temptation.
The information she’d shared electronically may have led them to Mandy, but he’d never met an informant who was simply a Good Samaritan with no hidden ulterior motives. They always wanted something and couldn’t be trusted since their allegiance shifted with the best deal being offered.
So think enemy.
He glanced back down at her sweet profile and regretted having to stake her to the bed, but he couldn’t leave her free or she’d run at the first chance she got.
There was another option. But she wouldn’t like it.
Hell, he wouldn’t either.
His head hurt too much to make one more decision, so Carlos dug a quarter out of his pocket and flipped it.
SEVEN
DURAND KNELT ON a wool blanket to keep from ruining his black dress pants. He lifted the L96A1 sniper rifle, settling it against his shoulder, then centered the crosshairs on the head of his six-foot target standing two hundred feet away. The wind slipped through trees on each side of him that created a canopy of relief from the afternoon heat weathermen had warned would reach the high nineties in nearby Caracas today.
Like fall in Venezuela was not always hot?
Ankle-deep grass stretched between him and the target so small against the lush tree line and the imposing mountains farther back. So vulnerable. When his breathing slowed to shallow breaths, Durand gently pulled the trigger.
The explosion rolled across the empty field and echoed against the ten-foot-high stucco wall at Durand’s back. Sulfur odors stung the air. His target’s head burst, pieces of clay flying in all directions.
Cheers went up behind him.
Durand grinned, then swung around, making a theatrical half bow for his audience of four elite Anguis soldiers he’d chosen to train with the new rifles. They wore an assortment of jungle-camo fatigues, black cargo pants, dark T-shirts, and sleeveless camo shirts. With their ages ranging from early twenties to late thirties, there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat among them.
“I only buy the best for you,” Durand said softly his smile growing. “And in return, I expect the best. ¿Entienden?”
They answered a resounding “Sí,” all confirming they understood. More than that, their eyes beamed with respect for him. Durand constantly proved to his men he was a cunning leader with vision. A man who put family above all else and treated his soldiers as his family.
A man who deserved uncompromising loyalty and would accept no less.
“You are the mejor, my finest marksmen,” he told them, watching each man silently accept his praise. He waved them toward a row of tables displaying rifles, scopes, silencers, ammunition, and more. Everything a marksman needed. “Choose your weapon and begin training.”
He frequently spoke English in his compound to lead by example. The better a man understood anyone outside his camp, the more formidable an opponent he became.
Durand left his men joking and laughing as they picked through weapons and accessories like children given free rein in a toy store. He strode toward the rear of his private compound enclosed by the butter-yellow wall built to match his hacienda it protected. Spiked, black wrought iron ran along the top ledge interlaced with cascading bougainvillea that perfumed the warm air. A landscape architect had designed the rock gardens with tropical plants that ran low to the ground along the exterior base of the wall, hiding trip wires.
But the exterior was nothing compared to the landscape artistry inside his fortress.
At the arched oak door that allowed rear access, two guards in pressed khaki shirts and pants held H amp;K assault rifles at the ready. The older of the two men lowered his weapon to pull open the ornate door carved with scrolled vines, which hid a core of solid steel.
“Hola, Ferdinand. How is your son’s knee?” Durand paused before passing through the doorway. The gray-haired soldier had come to him many years ago, asking for help. Ferdinand’s wife needed medical care that Durand provided for six months, but her cancer had proved too advanced and she died.
“He still uses the…” Ferdinand’s wrinkled forehead drew tight in heavy concentration. “Sticks.”
“Crutches?”
“Sí.” Ferdinand sighed and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with a cotton bandanna. Fifty-eight years of living had carved deep lines in his forehead and around his mouth that lifted with a smile whenever he spoke of his son.
Durand wa
s only six years younger and eye level with Ferdinand, who stood five feet eleven inches and was still strong for an old hombre. But the similarities stopped there, because time had been hard on Ferdinand’s face. Durand was still a virile and attractive man. He kept his body fit and wore his silvery mane tied back with a leather thong. Women admired strength in a man just as his business associates respected power in a peer.
Ferdinand shrugged. “You know how a young hombre is too proud to ask his papa for help, but I go anyhow. I tell him working in the pawnshop when I leave here is better than doing nada at home. He will be much improved in a few days.”
Durand frowned over his man having to work all day for him then nights and weekends for his son. “You may have this week to go help him, then come back Monday.”
Shaking his head, Ferdinand argued, “No, Don Anguis. I do my job.”
Durand patted him on the shoulder. “Go, old friend. I want you to. When your son is better, tell him to come see me. He can make more here than at that pawnshop. Sí?”
“Sí.” Ferdinand swallowed, then nodded. “Gracias.” He backed away then to hold the door open.
Once inside, Durand strolled along the stone-paved walkway that snaked through tiered gardens. Two acres of paradise. Nothing like the filthy hovel he grew up in. Three of his five gardeners trimmed hedges, shaped the bougainvillea, and planted fresh flowers. Celine, his latest novia, liked something to always be flowering.
A small price to pay for what she can do with that mouth.
Guards stood at each corner of his nineteen-thousand-square-foot hacienda, a magnificent two-story stucco backdrop to the pool that stretched the length of his Mediterranean-design home. Double glass doors in the center of the lower level opened. His sister pushed the wheelchair with her son Eduardo outside, wheeling the chair to the far left under a cabana next to a kidney-shaped pond with rare fish Durand had personally selected.
He started each day by sipping coffee at the pond, watching his fish play. He found it peaceful.
Maria insisted her son needed a daily dose of sunshine.
Durand headed their way, but his eyes strayed to the foot-long bloated body of a dead fish partly hidden beneath the leaves of a water lily. His favorite scarlet-and-white one he’d raised from a guppy size.
Stopping next to the pond, he fisted his hand.
“Qué te pasa, Durand?” Maria called to him.
“Nada,” he answered, then corrected himself. “No problem.” He relaxed his fingers and made a mental note to have Julio deal with it. His bootheels clicked against the hand-painted ceramic tiles covering the concrete perimeter of the pool as he reached the pair. His nephew lifted his head and gazed Durand’s way before averting his eyes.
That boy was such a waste. Durand regretted that Eduardo wore the tattoo of an Anguis soldier with the scar of a blood relation. His life was full of regrets, such as Alejandro, who had walked away from his family rather than take his rightful place.
He asked his sister, “Did you confirm your plans?” Heat burned through his silk shirt from the sun bearing down on his back. Why didn’t his sister put Eduardo out here if he needed sunshine?
“Sí, nosotros-,” his sister started to answer.
Durand interrupted her by shaking his head. “Please, Maria. In inglés.”
Her mouth turned down in a frown until she caught herself and quickly recovered to nod, a passive mask in place. She had never been a beauty, but she was not unattractive either at forty-eight. Her head reached his shoulder and she had a full womanly figure a man would like if she allowed someone to date her. He’d given several men permission, but she refused any invitation.
Dios mío. Durand hated the submissive droop in her shoulders. She was his baby sister. He loved her. He did not tolerate insolence from his men, but he would never raise a hand to her.
“Sorry.” She kept her hand on her son’s shoulder. “Yes, everything is confirmed. We leave on Thursday.”
“How are you today, Eduardo?” Durand asked for Maria’s benefit. The boy got on his nerves.
“Bien.” A paraplegic since an accident in his teens, Eduardo could use his upper body. He could raise his head and look his uncle in the eyes, but no.
Durand sighed. He’d had the pool built so the boy could be wheeled into it from the far end, but Eduardo refused to go into the water.
“Do you need me to do something for you?” Maria never failed to draw his attention away from Eduardo, ever the protective mama.
As if she thought her own brother was a threat?
“No.” He scratched his chin. “I must speak to Julio.”
“I saw him in his office on our way out.”
Sweat ran inside the open collar of his silk shirt. Durand excused himself with “Until dinner.”
Inside the hacienda, he ran into Julio in the two-story hallway, who said, “Were you looking for me, patron?”
“Sí. I have an errand for you.” Durand explained about the dead fish, finishing with “Find that pond keeper Tito and kill him.”
Julio nodded, but before walking away he shared, “The Italian called to say he was on his way and should arrive in the next fifteen minutes.”
Durand dismissed Julio and headed to his office. This meeting would determine if he and Vestavia would remain partners. He’d settled into the leather chair behind his burled-pecan desk and had finished making a call when heavy footsteps approached.
“My associates aren’t happy.” The stocky Italian entered his office on a sweep of anger. A few inches taller than Durand, Vestavia was not a huge man, but he was thick like a bull.
“I expect better manners in my home,” Durand warned. Few people were even allowed to step on his land in central Venezuela. Even fewer were invited inside the compound.
“You want better manners? Give me better results.” Vestavia shoved an uncompromising gaze back across the desk. The black-rimmed glasses he wore belonged on an accountant, not that bulked-up body covered with a tailored suit designed for boardrooms in New York. The rough-cut, dirt-brown hair reminded Durand of American cowboys.
“Please.” Durand pointed at the inlaid-wood humidor on his desk, silently inviting his guest to choose one of the ten most exquisite cigars made in the world.
Instead of answering, Vestavia withdrew an OpusX cigar, ran the premium blend below his nose with the intimacy of smelling a lover. He used Durand’s engraved snipper from the desk, lit the cigar, and took a seat in one of the two liver-colored leather side chairs.
While his guest settled, Durand twirled a stiletto between his fingers. Vestavia should respect his elders. Vestavia could be no more than late thirties. The respect was due.
“We both suffered losses.” Durand pulled his lips tight in a grim smile. This man Vestavia had shared little about the mysterious group he represented. But the money and underworld connections he brought to the table were too substantial to dismiss. “You think I am pleased to have lost fine men?”
“You assured me you could do this project,” Vestavia countered.
“And you assured me you could locate Mirage.”
Vestavia quieted, his lips not moving until he blew out a stream of smoke. “We did find the informant. We-”
“-may have located the informant, but you do not have him. Excuse me for interrupting, but I believe I know more about the outcome than you do.” Durand placed the stiletto on the desk and selected a custom-rolled cigar from the humidor for himself.
That drew a brief flicker of concern into Vestavia’s gaze that dissipated just as quickly. He puffed, watching Durand with the eyes of a predatory bird patiently waiting for the perfect moment to attack. “Go on.”
“As I understand it, Baby Face found a connection, which I assume was due to some help you must have given him since all my people claimed Mirage could not be found without access to supercomputers.” Durand paused until Vestavia gave a slight nod of his head in agreement. “I have men looking for this informant as well. Ever
yone with a computer and a weapon on both sides of the law is after Mirage. Baby Face was brilliant, but his ego became a liability. He bragged online about, as he put it, ‘hitting the mother lode’ or some such. This allowed Turga to catch scent of the deal and cost Baby Face his life.”
“Who is Turga?”
“An old associate who will unfortunately not see his next birthday. He is what you would call a poacher, who shows up to snatch a prize at the last moment, then auction it to the highest bidder. I understand he was very hard to kill, but he is also dead. His helicopter pilot was the last one to see everyone alive. He told my people that Turga caught a man and woman who escaped Baby Face. This pilot is on his way to meet with me. By tomorrow, I will have an artist’s sketch of the man and woman from his description.”
Vestavia’s face never changed, eyes as flat and cold as the first time Durand had met him. But this man’s vision for the future-or his organization’s vision-was exceptional, a world where the Anguis family would thrive and rule in Venezuela, then all of South America.
If he and Vestavia could reach a point of trust.
“So we have both been disappointed, no?” Durand continued. “As for Mandy, my men did their job. She was delivered to the chalet on time, but a black-ops team ambushed my men. I will find who was behind the attack.”
“Going to be hard to do that with all your men dead.”
“No really. I never send my men in on a new operation without surveillance.”
“What do you mean?”
“I sent Julio, my most trusted soldier, ahead of the team. No one knew he was inside the house. He entered before they arrived and used lipstick cameras that fed to a terminal in the basement where he stayed the entire time.”
Vestavia sat forward, tense. “Why did you send a spy?”
“I am a cautious man.”
“No.” Vestavia moved his head slowly from side to side. “I think you don’t trust me, which I find insulting.”
Durand smiled. “Trust is the question between us, yes? I have not known you long. What kind of leader would I be if I do not assure of a way to make someone pay for ambushing my men?” Durand drew on his cigar and exhaled, sending wavy circles into the air. “Using Julio keeps my men sharp. I tell them things about their missions they think I cannot possibly know. They respect that. You see, respect is like trust, it must be earned.”
Whispered Lies Page 10
