by Zoe Dawson
His fingers snagging in her hair, he forced himself to remain immobile. Every muscle in his body demanded that he move, and his shredded nerve endings sent raw need shooting painfully through him. She was quite aware of what she was doing to him.
It took him some time, but he was able to get himself under control, and he could finally breathe without it nearly killing him. Releasing a shaky sigh, he adjusted his hold on her, drawing her deeper into his embrace, his lungs constricting.
Finding out her reaction to him was as strong as his reaction to her made everything much more intense and complicated. He pressed her head against him as she shrugged out of the pack, her arms coming around him.
Knowing that this was going to go downhill fast if he didn’t let her go, he tried to release her, but her arms were too tight around him, the fullness in his chest expanding. She was so damned beautiful, and he’d wanted her for so damn long. He wasn’t sure how they were going to get out of this and not end up with pain they both didn’t need or want.
He was so close to the edge that it wouldn’t take a whole hell of a lot to push him over. The feel of her and scent of her drove him closer; he wanted her naked body all over him.
Unable to control the urge, he widened his stance a little, pressing her against the hard ridge of his flesh, turning his face against her neck and kissing the soft skin. He wanted her to have the presence of mind to push him away.
But she didn’t. Instead, she curled her hands into his shirt and navigated him backward until the back of his legs were against the bed; then he was on top of it and she was on top of him. She made a low, desperate sound and twisted her head, her mouth suddenly hot and urgent against his. The bolt of pure, raw sensation knocked the wind right out of him. Her hand tightened around his wrist as she drew his over his head. He shuddered and widened his mouth against hers, feeding on the desperation that poured back and forth between them. She made another wild sound and clutched at him, the movement welding their bodies together like two halves of a whole, and he nearly lost it right then. Vaguely aware there was a tightness around his wrist even as her hand moved, he got lost in the exquisite taste of her, his heart pounding hard with desire and adrenaline.
“I’m so sorry, Russell,” she whispered like a prayer against his mouth. “So sorry.”
Then he heard a distinctive snick, and she was suddenly gone.
When he came to his senses, she was standing over him, and he was handcuffed to the bed.
“What the hell!” he swore and wanted to kick himself all over again for falling for her seductive trap. He pulled at the cuff, but it was secure against the metal frame of the bed. “Let me go,” he snarled.
She backed up, whether from the raw rage on his face or the lethal sound of his voice, he didn’t know or care.
“No,” she said, bending and slipping into the pack. “I’m going to kill Ammon Set, and that means if I’m caught, I’m dead. I can’t ask you to put your life on the line and commit a highly illegal act for me.” She adjusted the straps and then said, “Go back. Don’t follow me.” Her voice was weary and firm.
She turned away, and he couldn’t believe this. She was actually leaving him behind again. His fury mixed in with a healthy dose of panic. For the first time in his adult life, he was terrified, and he’d been in some tight, harrowing spots in the Marines, but nothing compared to this. He jerked at the cuff, the metal singing with the force of the pull. “Neve!”
She turned to face him. “Russell, please…”
She looked at him as if she were ready for a fight, and he was prepared to give her one.
“I want to talk to you.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”
His jaw set in determination, he snarled, “Too bad, sweetheart. We’re going to talk anyway.”
Folding her arms in a defensive stance, she stared at him, her voice taut. “Say what you have to say because I’m not sticking around very damned long.”
His breath released in an exasperated sigh, then he said, “You want to know what you’re getting yourself into? The Darién is an extremely dangerous place. It’s probably the most dangerous place in the Western Hemisphere, most definitely in Colombia. The Darién is filled with so many ways to die—if you’re not kidnapped and held for ransom. There’s a tough, nasty jungle to navigate, with caiman, lizards, jaguars, anacondas, poisonous snakes and frogs, and scorpions, not to mention some of the plant life is lethal. Impenetrable swamps that have to be navigated, drug traffickers who will kill you on sight, Ejército de Libertad guerrillas, unreasonable, trigger-happy government troops and no marked trails. You need me! Now, let me go and I’ll forget about this.”
A muscle twitched in her jaw, and she drew another deep breath. “You’re trying to scare me.”
“I’m freaking dead serious.”
She narrowed her eyes, a warning glint appearing. She shook her head and took a step back.
“Dammit, Neve. Use your head.” He rattled the cuff again, drawing it tight.
“Forget it,” she said, looking at him, her expression bleak. “Stay safe.” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat and squared her shoulders, once again adjusting the pack. “I meant it when I said not to follow me.”
“Neve!” he called as the door closed behind her. Frantically he shoved off the side of the bed closest to the wall, jerking wildly at the cuff. He had to get free. Geezus! He was going to lose her, and that would effectively be the end of him, too. If he lost her, if she died out there because he’d been too lost in his desire for her and had let down his guard again, he would never, ever be able to forgive himself.
He might as well put a bullet in his head.
Even as she exited the cantina and followed the bartender’s instructions on finding Brayan Muñoz, a guide the bartender said would take her up the river in a dugout canoe called a piragua for a five-hour trip to Boca de Cupé, a remote jungle village, she couldn’t get Russell’s desperate voice out of her mind. If he’d been angry before, he was now way past that and into fury. She pushed that from her mind and his order for her to come back and release him. The agitated way he’d called her name, limned with a ferocity that was palpable.
She would pose as a Panamanian nun and use Boca de Cupé as her base of operations as she hoofed it into the jungle and searched for her nemesis. It was rumored that Ammon Set had a compound in the surrounding area.
She didn’t want Russell involved, though she acknowledged that it would have been comforting to have him covering her back. But if he got hurt, that would destroy her. And she’d have more guilt on her conscience on top of the guilt she already felt for failing to rescue Set’s family members. She had to make this right, protect her family.
Neve had noted the intense rage that hadn’t yet been banked or neutralized. Dammit, she didn’t need Russell in this state, and she regretted terribly what she’d had to do back in her apartment in San Diego, and she regretted what she had done here to him even more. But he gave her no choice.
She disliked hurting his feelings, since the anger was more about that than it was about her being stubborn. He wanted her to lean on him, but she couldn’t do that and keep her conscience clear.
She had failed to save Set’s family. She wasn’t crazy about having to kill a man in cold blood, but now he was threatening her family. That rescue, the loss of those people weighed heavily on her. The storm had been a factor, but she knew deep down she had been too sensitive and had argued for the rescue in light of the storm’s ferocity. She’d been reprimanded and told to rethink her commitment to the Coast Guard while she healed from the injury she’d sustained. Her commander indicated that being a team member was all about considering everyone involved.
That’s what Russell had wanted, too, but she couldn’t do it.
She approached the “docks,” using that term loosely, as they were nothing but a concrete platform and a stretch of dirt embankment with some wooden stairs and skinny boats floating along the
shoreline. Produce was being unloaded, mainly plantains, yucca, coconuts, and bananas. She stopped at a vendor and bought a slice of watermelon and a couple of oranges to augment her meager stash. Spotting a man in a blue tank top and brown shorts, she approached him and said in Spanish, “Are you Mr. Brayan Muñoz?” He nodded and smiled, showing some gaps and yellow teeth. He had hair as black as her own, was about two inches shorter, and had dark brown skin. His almost black eyes went over her in a quick inspection, lingering for just a quick moment on her full lips.
“Sister Mary Agnes,” Neve said, smiling back. I would like to take passage to Boca de Cupé.”
“That is no problem, Sister. Just call me Bray,” he said, gesturing to a twenty-five-foot-long boat with gas and supplies. They would be heading up the Tuira River.
It was Neve’s understanding that there would be security checkpoints at El Real and Vista Alegre, and she’d have to contend with SENAFRONT, Panama’s elite border security force, which had a strong presence in much of the region.
She pulled off her pack and Bray took it, the air breezing across her back, cool against her moist shirt as he assisted her into the piragua. He stepped in after her, handing her the pack, which she stowed in the middle, taking the forward-facing seat.
When he finally pulled out onto the water after firing up the outboard motor, the simple craft cut into the silty brown water and the wet, humid air.
On either side of her, the forest was a blanket of rolling green, the air thin and the jungle so dense she could barely see a few feet beyond the banks. Each of the buildings had straw roofs common to the Emberá people; they were elevated on thick poles at the edge of the river.
Local natives paddled their own piraguas chock full of the chief crop of the region—plantains.
Behind her, Bray’s eyes focused straight ahead, and he adjusted his course to miss a very large, black caiman in the water. Neve looked down at it as they passed. All she could think was that this large, scary gator was basically a dinosaur that never got the extinction memo.
Neve caught her breath at the sight of a beautiful heron with a turquoise beak, yellow breast, and light gray wings, along with several of a different species that were larger and a darker gray.
Later they had to stop for a military checkpoint. While there, she ate lunch—lentils and rice—and drank a beer while she waited for the quick approval from SENAFRONT. They searched her pack, but she’d temporarily removed her weapon and stashed it in the waistband of her pants. With the calls of exotic birds and a sighting or two of flashes of color overhead, they continued on and finally made it to El Real, a small village where the border patrol occupied a crude fortification of sandbags and camouflage netting.
Back on the river, the air was so still, the humidity and heat increasing as it slipped into late afternoon. When they were no more than fifteen minutes away from Vista Alegre, Neve felt a rounded barrel in the center of her back.
“I am doing God’s work,” she murmured in Spanish, and Bray laughed. “The people of Vista Alegre are expecting me. They need spiritual attention.”
“Then you might want to pray for my black soul,” he said. “You better hope that you get someone to pay your ransom, Sister, or you’ll be meeting God very soon.”
He guided the boat to the bank and motioned for her to get out. She hadn’t gone two feet when there was another gun in her face. Great. Just great, she thought, working at staying calm. The man in front of her grabbed her by the arm, and the odds of overcoming her captors, now that there were four, including Bray, was unlikely. Best to hedge her bets and try to escape later. How she would deal with a ransom demand was another matter. She was well aware they wouldn’t pay for her, since she technically didn’t really exist with her fake identity, and it was the Catholic Church’s policy not to pay kidnappers. It was their collective opinion that it only encouraged more abductions. If she fessed up she was an American, that might be worse. The US government wouldn’t be shelling out any dough for her either, per the same policy as the church. She decided to remain mum for the time being, swallowing down her fear and working to remain calm. She was used to tense and dangerous situations. Panicking wasn’t going to help and would most likely get her killed.
The man with the gun pulled a burlap sack over her head. He bound her hands behind her back and led her around, chuckling when she stumbled. Kicking and screaming wouldn’t do anything but get her smacked around. Besides, by the sound of footsteps, she was getting more outnumbered.
From inside the foul-smelling sack, she heard the voice of her guide, the backstabbing scum, say she was a nun and they would get a good ransom for her.
Heavy hands forced her to a spot under a tree, the relief from the sun instant and welcome. She swore there were bugs in the sack but tried to ignore that.
After a brief respite, she was walked, tripping and stumbling, over the jungle floor to a place that smelled of rotting vegetation, sweat, and booze. She thought of Russell and his warning. He’d been right; she hadn’t expected this to happen. She should have been more vigilant, and in the future, once she escaped, she would be.
In the back of her mind, she chanted, Don’t panic, an opportunity for escape will present itself. She just hoped her escape didn’t include white lights and crossing over to another plane of existence.
An engine rumbled, racing nearer, and she flinched at the slide of pebbles and dirt. A door slammed, and a new voice broke past the noise, the command in his tone clear and thundering. He was taking the prisoner.
“This is our captive. Our ransom.”
Then she heard a scream, and something hit the ground near her. For a moment she thought Bray was dead. Then he begged for his life. She tipped her head in an effort to pinpoint voices. The mental picture she had wasn’t pretty, and through a thin spot in the hood, she glimpsed Bray.
About two seconds later she heard a gunshot.
Chapter Five
The frigid temperatures of a high altitude-low opening jump decreased as rapidly as his descent. The land came rushing toward him at 120 mph before he released the chute, abruptly slowing his silent free-fall into the jungle.
Right into drug dealer paradise.
If anyone saw him, he wouldn’t feel it when he hit the ground.
As he dropped toward the thick canopy, the wind tore at his black jumpsuit, the fit tight to avoid generating sound, his body rapidly warming as hot air slowed him further. Through his night-vision visor, he saw heat signatures dotting the landscape. Below him was nothing but a dark void accelerating toward his face. It was a personal high. He didn’t get excited about many things but jumping out of a speeding aircraft topped the list.
He aimed for the sweet spot, a small clearing that would be tough to hit without getting snagged in the dense trees. When his boots brushed the treetops, he pulled the suspension lines of the parachute close, bringing him straight down rapidly.
His feet hit with a jolt that rattled up through his boots, and he tucked and rolled, pulling the black chute with him. He spat out the oxygen mouthpiece, then unhooked his helmet, on one knee, weapon aimed.
He didn’t expect company, but preparation was his middle name. Switching the visor to thermal, he surveyed his surroundings, sweating inside the suit and layers of clothes. It showed him nothing but dense forest and a couple of monkeys.
In the dark, he stripped off the jumpsuit, wrapping his jump gear in the chute, then dug a deep hole. Equipment buried, he positioned rocks and foliage over the pile, dusted his hands, then pulled out his GPS and marked the location.
He shifted items in the pockets of his worn black cargo pants, then pulled a khaki shirt over his black T-shirt. He took care with the weapon carrier strapped to his chest and soon had assembled the pieces—a gleaming black death dealer that had put fear into the hearts of the Taliban.
A British-made L115A3 Long Range Rifle weighed roughly fifteen pounds and in his hands was as deadly as anything that roamed this jungle—four-legge
d and two-legged predators alike. “The Long,” as snipers dubbed it, could take out an enemy from nearly a mile away. Silent death.
He’d refreshed his memory of the topographical terrain before leaving the US. Shouldering the rucksack and the rifle, he drew the machete as he started walking.
Even as dawn broke, the rain forest was wet, hot, and dark.
Easy in, he thought. Entering the country under the radar kept him invisible, and that’s how he expected to remain throughout this op. His passport was stamped, just not in a customs office, but it was real enough that no one would question it. This was drug- and gun-smuggling territory. People didn’t ask too many questions.
He had no need to ask any questions.
His mission was locked.
His target clear: Petty Officer Neve Michaels.
He would take out anyone who stood in his way.
Neve opened her eyes to the shadows. She was lying on her side on dirt. Her wrists were still bound behind her back, and when she tried to move her legs, she found that they had tied them, as well.
Her mouth felt as dry as the Sahara, and she worked her jaw where she’d been tapped, and it’d been lights out. The walls were moving…and it took her a moment to realize that it was because they were a creamy canvas. She was in a tent.
Then she froze at the movement not far from her face. The dim light didn’t reach the shadows, but her breath caught when she saw the small creature moving steadily over the ground.
A scorpion.
She gasped softly and inhaled a little dirt, coughing. The flap of the tent flipped open, and a man walked in. He stepped on the scorpion, crushing it with a sickening, crunching sound beneath his boot.
“Ah, the sister is awake.” He crouched. “You don’t look like a nun.”
The man who had shown up in the jeep. He’d taken her from Bray. This hadn’t been a handoff. Bray and his three-man crew were most likely dead. A petty kidnapper was all he was. But this hombre was a lot more. He wore an olive uniform, and that told her he was part of some type of paramilitary organization. There were a few that liked to make the Darién their hideaway home and conduct illicit activities free of the government’s involvement. Even with the SENAFRONT and Colombia’s increased interest in cleaning up the Darién, there were still some snakes in the grass.
