No One Lives Forever

by Jordan Dane

  "Understood. And thanks, Chief Zharan. You won't regret it." He ended the call and fixed his eyes on Raven. "We're on. I'll fill you in on the details. But tonight I want you all to myself. Deal?"

  He held out his hand.

  "Deal." She nodded and shook it.

  Staring into Raven's deep, soul-branding eyes, Christian thought of only one thing. You must be abso-frickin' -lutely out of your mind, Delacorte!

  After dinner from room service, Christian and Raven spent a quiet evening, preparing for tomorrow morning. They had showered together, taking time for every caress and holding each other in the hot stream—a loving intimacy he had never experienced. Neither had spoken, during or since.

  The grueling trip to Brazil and his complete surrender to Raven had left him drained . . . and more than a little worried.

  Dressed in a white hotel bathrobe, Christian forced himself to go through Jasmine's stuff, a necessity that hit him hard. He couldn't get his head wrapped around Jasmine being gone. Here today, gone the next, he wanted to believe life and the human spirit meant more than that. The thought that it might not lurked in his mind and twisted his gut. He felt an obligation to find out what happened to Jasmine. He owed her that much.

  Strange too. Somehow, he felt certain she'd do the same for him.

  Christian had left Raven in his room, packing a rucksack they'd share tomorrow. The chore wouldn't take long, but he wanted to give her space. Quiet prep time allowed each of them to grapple with the reality of what tomorrow might bring. Death was the silent partner they dealt with each and every day. For Raven, murder was part of her job as a homicide detective. But for him, death had entrenched itself into the emotional baggage he would carry the rest of his life.

  Still, as he saw it, a guy comes into this world alone and he goes out the same way. No sugarcoating required. He could deal with his own death, but the thought of something happening to Raven ripped him apart. A wave of serious second thoughts hit him until he put things in perspective.

  Raven had followed him to Brazil out of love. How could he argue with that? He would've done the same. She was a headstrong woman with a mind of her own, one of her more endearing qualities—and one of the reasons she put up with him.

  As a cop, she faced dangerous situations all the time. Her badge put her in the line of fire. When he started this relationship with her, he knew he'd have to deal with that fact or leave. He chose to stick it out and treat each day with Raven as a gift. The alternative would be living in a vacuum, without risking his heart. He'd been there . . . done that.

  Until now, when dealing with Raven's line of work, that reasoning had done the trick. But Zharan's words still resonated with him. If he left Raven behind and Duarte took her into "custody," he would never forgive himself. He couldn't take the chance.

  In the end, he didn't want Raven out of his sight.

  "Okay . . . that's it," he muttered under his breath.

  Every weapon in Jasmine's gear bag had been tossed onto the mattress for his closer inspection. The woman sure knew how to pack. And with what he brought, Raven should have plenty to choose from. Christian stuffed the essentials into a small day pack and locked away the rest. He left Jasmine's room, carrying the bag with him.

  But when he got to his bedroom door, he stopped cold. Slowly, he laid the pack on the floor near his bare feet. Raven had been busy all right, but it was not what he expected to see.

  The bank of recessed lights in his room had been turned to a soft glow and she'd moved every candle in the suite to the bedroom. They flickered and cast soft shadows on the walls. And no one looked better in candlelight than Raven. Her dark hair shone auburn strands, reflecting the warmth of the flames and the blush of her cheeks.

  "Dear Lord," he whispered his thanks, finding it hard to catch his breath. Very hard.

  She smiled, a tender yet seductive lure. The pale light accentuated her perfect skin, velvet soft like a rose petal at dawn. And she lay naked under his blankets with nothing but a crisp white bed sheet over her breasts and down the length of her body. He had never conjured up a wet dream as flawless as Raven Mackenzie . . . and never would.

  Still spellbound and unable to move, he licked his lips, taking everything in.

  "Hey you, those lips are mine and I need my fix." She pulled back the bed covers on his side and patted the mattress, gesturing for him to join her. A lusty smile on her face.

  Christian hooked a thumb under the belt to his robe and tugged. He shrugged out of one shoulder, then the other, and let the robe drop to the floor. Every move, every action, was foreplay. He didn't want to rush it. Using every ounce of willpower, he took his time making his way toward the bed, not taking his gaze off her. He loved the way her eyes traveled the length of his body, and he savored the moment. When she saw his erection, her smile faded, replaced by hungry need.

  "You've been busy." Christian conjured an inspired grin. "Now I've got all night to return the favor."

  Dawn

  Outside Cuiabá

  Day eight

  A molten sun cast its fire across clouds that streaked the parting night sky. Soft billows absorbed the color, borrowing from the marvel of sunrise—an inverted and undulating sea of red. Truly breathtaking. The vivid hue washed over the interior of the vehicle, bathing Christian in its fire. In awe, he watched the rising sun and drank in the beauty of this land as he felt the shape of the talisman Bianca had given him, the soft pouch under his shirt. Ever since he first put the trinket on, the weight of it never let him forget he wore it over his heart. Strange as it was, he couldn't bring himself to leave it behind. Not today.

  Along the horizon, the backdrop of the skyscraper city, Cuiabá, stood in dark silhouette. A reminder of man's intrusion. Even at dawn with cloud cover, the temperatures were sweltering.

  "Bad weather, I'm afraid." Detective Fuentes drove his unmarked vehicle onto the tarmac of the heliport. Christian sat in the front seat, Raven in the back. "What is it they say about a red sky?"

  "Red sky at morn, sailors be warned." Even as Christian smiled at the old adage, he smelled humid-

  ity thick in the air. Real muggy. "Good thing we're not navigating by boat."

  The detective shrugged. "Yes, but we may need one before the day is done."

  "I see your point."

  Up ahead, over a dozen men were hard at work, prepping for the mission. Dressed in camo BDUs with tactical-level body armor, Zharan's men looked like a team on maneuvers, a formidable army. They were equipped with Kevlar helmets and protective goggles, binoculars, extra mag pouches, radios with two-way headsets and ear pieces for stealth. For weapons, he saw everything from short-barreled shotguns and sniper-scoped M-14 rifles to shoulder-fired grenade launchers and H&K MP5SD submachine guns with suppressors.

  Christian had read about Brazil's military police force being armed with military-grade weapons, trained in counterinsurgency tactics, and armed with machine guns and armored cars—a necessity in a war zone filled with drug smugglers and arms dealers who were better equipped.

  Between the drug traffickers, gangs, and the well-armed police, he wondered about the civilian population caught in the middle, but shoved the thought from his mind. The men here today would risk their lives to rescue his father and right an injustice. Enforcing the law brought order to chaos. That had to be enough.

  Two Bell 412EP helicopters were the focus of the activity up ahead, metal gray with green and white stripes down the fuselage and on the rear rotor, colors of the Brazilian flag. Each looked to hold up to fifteen men.

  "Helicopters?" Christian asked. "How far are we going?"

  Detective Fuentes pulled up to a group of vehicles and parked. "It's not how far exactly. Our target is accessible by road, for the most part, but we would lose our element of surprise and run the risk of ambush. I will let my chief explain the details. You understand this, no?"

  "Yes, of course." Christian opened the door and got out of the car, Raven sliding out on his side of
the vehicle. Nervous tension colored her eyes, no matter how much she tried to brush it off. She carried the rucksack, but Christian took it from her and hoisted it on his shoulder before heading toward the man in charge.

  "Be sure to get medical supplies in each aircraft. And extra water bottles and batteries," Chief Zharan said, raising his voice, pointing to one of his men loading the far helicopter. When he saw Christian and Raven, accompanied by Detective Fuentes, he joined them halfway, shaking hands with them.

  "Good morning. We are just about loaded." The man narrowed his eyes and shifted his focus between them. "I have rain ponchos and tactical body armor for your protection. I take it you have your own weapons as we discussed?"

  "Yes. And extra mags." Christian nodded. "We're set."

  "Fuentes, please see they get ponchos and body armor." Zharan gave the order and Fuentes took off. "I've got an aerial map. Let me explain what will happen today."

  Grim-faced men hustled by them with a sense of urgency. No idle conversations, only work with a focus on the mission.

  The chief escorted them to the open cargo door of the first aircraft and unfolded a topographical map with satellite aerial images. Zharan explained where the village was located and its layout. His men would land miles away, using it as a staging area for the operation, to minimize the sound of their approach. They'd trek from the north over a ridge, circle the village, and find the location where Charboneau was being held before they launched the raid.

  After their briefing, Fuentes returned and handed Christian two dark green pouches containing rain gear and the body armor. Although he offered the rain gear to Raven, she declined. Christian noticed none of the other men wore it. Going into a potential skirmish, the rain protection would not only be awkward for hand-to-hand combat, but it might also interfere with any maneuvers involving stealth. The enemy would hear them coming.

  Yeah, rain gear would keep them dry and deter the leeches. But the way he figured it, if the enemy hears you and shoots you dead, who the hell cares if you're dry and leech free? The ponchos got stuffed into his backpack. But without a second thought, Christian did shrug into his body armor, then helped Raven into hers by tightening the Velcro. The military-grade body armor would be bulky and hot to wear, but where they were going, they'd need it.

  As they got organized, Zharan continued.

  "This man, Rodrigo Santo? He's actually Mario Araujo, the leader of these people. We do not know how many in his village are involved with the kidnapping of Mr. Charboneau. There are probably women and children at this location, so we must be very careful. You will stay with me and follow my orders. Agreed?"

  "Yes, certainly." Christian nodded.

  "Agreed, yes," Raven chimed in.

  "Then we are ready." Zharan turned and waved an arm, giving the order. "Green light. We have a go. Load up."

  Rain began to fall, spotting the asphalt. It made a gentle patter on Christian's vest as he helped Raven into the first helicopter, holding her hand a little longer than necessary. She turned toward him and smiled, putting on a sturdy front. He climbed in and sat near her. A man on the ground shut the cargo bay door and gave a thumbs-up to the pilot as he backed away, heading for a small building near the helipad.

  Two crewmen were in the cockpit, going through their checklist. Zharan sat next to Christian and Raven, with ten other men sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. Rapt in their own thoughts, Zharan's men stared straight ahead, not acknowledging their presence.

  Rotor blades cranked overhead for both aircraft. The pilot in the other craft signaled with a nod and waited for his turn to take off. The fuselage rumbled and the skids lifted off the tarmac, the ground drifting out from under. They were airborne. As much as Christian wanted to speak to Raven, he kept his silence. The engine was loud and they had no privacy.

  As the craft climbed, then pitched forward, the rain doused the outer hull. Beads of water streaked the windows, but through the rain Christian caught glimpses of the terrain below. Spotty areas of civilization and commercial outbuildings soon gave way to dense jungle. Rivers he didn't know the names of converged into larger tributaries, a maze of wetlands carved through lush foliage and trees. Miles and miles in every direction. The vast expanse made him feel small and insignificant.

  The helicopter flew parallel to the other craft, the engine and rotor noise drowning out everything, even hampering his private thoughts. When the aircraft veered left, his stomach lurched. The queasy feeling reminded him of the gravity of what they were about to do. He found Raven staring back, as if she knew what he was thinking, but she wouldn't be completely right.

  Yes, he thought about Charboneau and the fact this ordeal would soon be over. Soon he would know what had happened to his father. And soon he would know the price he'd pay for that knowledge.

  But with that thought, flashes of Jasmine leapt into his memory, images from their time in Brazil. Raven might misinterpret his gut twisted in guilt, yet now he had a small appreciation for what Jasmine felt about failing to protect his father. He had taken over the rescue. Her rescue. She should've been allowed to finish and clear her conscience.

  Christian crossed his arms and stared out the window. Although he shoved Jasmine Lee out of his mind, he knew she wouldn't stay put.

  CHAPTER 20

  Outskirts of Cuiabá

  Dressed in worn jeans and a faded black T-shirt, Luis Duarte stared out the filthy cracked window of a clapboard shack wedged into a terraced shantytown. It was his home away from home since he'd gone underground, staying beyond Chief Zharan's reach. After the chief issued a bulletin on him, Duarte made a difficult choice to walk away from his life. Resentment churned hot in his belly, but he could not afford to confront the bastard. Not until he was stone cold ready.

  Today he would be.

  His dwelling for the last two days, no bigger than a matchbox, was crammed into the side of a slope with countless others above and below, between narrow dirt streets only wide enough for foot traffic. It had been abandoned long ago, but drug users and hookers still made use of it, at least until he moved in. It smelled of urine, body odor, and the tang of sex.

  Trash and clumps of weeds had been shoved into cracks in the walls and ceiling to block bad weather. The recycling effort had not worked. Today, the steady downpour of rain leaked in and puddles of mud were gaining ground. The foul weather only made things worse, forging doubts in his mind about what lay ahead. A bad omen, if he believed such things. And with the feral cat population running rampant throughout the favela, feeding on rats and roaches, he could make a point they belonged here more than he did, but he wasn't so sure anymore.

  The irony of his choice to retreat to such a place wasn't wasted on Duarte. Long before he became a police officer, he lived in a similar dwelling growing up as a child. It had defined him, irreparably. At the time, he did not realize the desperate poverty his family had endured. It had been his life, but now he didn't think he could return to it. He had seen too much, experienced too much. No, he couldn't go back to that life. And, insult to injury, the slum overlooked the modern silhouette of downtown Cuiabá. He glared at it now.

  His personal reminder of the intolerance of this world . . . and what had been taken from him.

  "No more," he muttered under his breath. "Not after today."

  Reclaiming his life wouldn't be easy, but he had a plan. A duffel bag of personal belongings lay at his feet. Duarte dropped to a knee and stuffed one of his uniform shirts into it, zipping the bag shut before standing. He glanced at his watch, hating to be apart from the action, pinned up like a caged animal.

  When his cell phone rang, he answered it, eager for news.

  "Yes?"

  "Sorry to disturb you, Luis, but our target is on the move." Duarte held the phone to his ear, recognizing the man's voice and the sound of road noise in the background. "As you said, he used a heliport north of the city to launch two helicopters. We counted over twenty men, heavily armed."

  The man he had
questioned most of last night had spoken the truth about Zharan's operation. Torture had a way of making life simple. A man either wants to live or he does not. Quite simple. He hoped everything the man said had been the truth. Life and death would depend upon it.

  "Good work, Manolo." Duarte smirked. "You have a tracking beacon on both aircraft?"

  "Yes, sir, we're on it. Time to go ... but there's something else."

  "Oh?" Duarte hated surprises.

  "Sir, as you figured, the American went with him. But there is another woman with Delacorte. And we have not yet identified her. Another American."

  The complications kept mounting. Duarte was not pleased. "Stick with the plan. We've got no choice now." He heaved the bag onto a shoulder and hustled for the door, phone to his ear. "I'll meet you at the rendezvous point in five."

  "Already on my way. What do you want to do with the woman?"

  Manolo had not asked about the American woman with his question. Images of Jasmine Lee flooded Duarte's head. Having her along might prove useful.

  "Tell them to bring her, but don't let anyone see. She's not a woman easily forgotten ... or trusted."

  Duarte ended the call, wondering if Jasmine Lee or Nicholas Charboneau would have any appreciation for poetic justice. He hoped after today he'd be alive to appreciate the irony himself.

  They had outrun the rain—for now—a short reprieve from what would come. The sun stabbed through an accumulation of darker clouds, fighting a losing battle. And as far as Raven's eye could see, the Amazon rain forest spread its dense blanket, covering this corner of the world.

  She had no sense of which way they'd flown out of Cuiabá. Not that it mattered. Raven flew over a world so foreign and primitive, none of it felt familiar. With the added tension, the flight seemed to last an eternity, but now the pilot skirted treetops, heading for a small clearing, but big enough for both helicopters to land. Soon she'd leave the safety of the aircraft in search of a native tribe that had kidnapped an American for money.