Blind Ambition

by Gwen Hernandez

  “You saw the news?” He knew she could handle herself under fire. Literally. It was one of the reasons Kurt had agreed to hire her after she’d quit her old job. But that didn’t stop both men from looking out for her.

  Colin Di Ferio had fucked up more than Dan’s life. He’d pulled Tara into the fray, and now her ex-boyfriend-turned-abductor’s facing a grand jury had rekindled old nightmares for both of them.

  “Hard to miss the headlines,” she said with a brittle laugh.

  Dan paused and really looked at her. She was perfectly put together as usual—a sleek combination of stunning and professional—but dark shadows marred the skin beneath her eyes, and her mouth was tight.

  “Seriously. How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “I thought guys didn’t talk.”

  He raised one eyebrow and waited.

  She shrugged with one shoulder and examined her shiny red fingernails. “I’m fine. My friends are alive. Colin’s behind bars. Everyone else is dead. Sometimes I can sleep.” Her brown-eyed gaze met his. “You?”

  He hesitated. Her stubborn jaw dared him to poke at her tough facade, but she wouldn’t thank him for it. “The same.”

  Surprise flickered across her face, but she chased it off with a placid smile. “So we’ll live.”

  “Yeah.” He grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured himself a cup of coffee, adding three sugars to make it palatable. “Let me know if the media gets too zealous. Kurt can assign someone to keep them at bay. Maybe Scott or Todd.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, thanks.” Gesturing toward the door, she said, “Kurt’s ready for you.”

  “Great.” He squeezed her upper arm gently. “Hang in there.”

  She gave him a tiny salute. “Yes, sir.”

  He shook his head and smiled as he walked toward Kurt’s office, his running shoes quiet on the thick carpet.

  Kurt looked up at Dan’s quick rap on the doorway and waved him into his spartan gray office with its military-surplus metal furniture. He was dressed in his standard uniform: a black Steele Security polo and khaki cargo pants with running shoes. He’d been a PJ with Dan, but after recovering from the loss of both legs—physically, anyway—he’d started Steele Security. A warrior was a warrior. Kurt might not be fit to fight, but this company gave him a way to stay in the game.

  “Seen this?” Kurt asked with a scowl, gesturing to the paper before he waved Dan toward a chair.

  “You think having everything rehashed in the news will hurt business?” He took a sip from his mug as he sat, hissing as the coffee nearly stripped the skin off his tongue. “Shit, that’s hot.”

  Kurt smirked. “Pansy.”

  Dan gave him the finger, then sobered. “Seriously. I can take a leave of absence or…resign if you think it would be best.” Best for Kurt. Not him. He hadn’t wanted to stay in private security of any kind after the nightmare in Afghanistan and its aftermath, but he wasn’t good for anything else.

  Besides, he needed the money. And his best friends worked here.

  “Resign? Hell no,” Kurt said with heat. “Let them talk. Everyone who matters knows what kind of guy you are.”

  Dan squirmed. “Thanks.”

  His boss waved off his gratitude. “Don’t sweat it. I have a job for you.” He shifted in his squeaky desk chair and slid a folder toward him. “A woman was taken hostage in St. Isidore. Her father contacted me last night.”

  St. Isidore. Dan’s pulse tripped at the mention of the tiny Eastern Caribbean paradise. “I was there a few years ago.”

  “After the earthquake, right?”

  “Yeah.” He and several other PJs had been part of a four-week humanitarian mission to help with the massive casualties and cleanup. But it was memories of a curvy strawberry blonde and their hot nights together that set his heart racing.

  He shook his head to clear out the distracting thoughts. That was years ago. He was over it. Over her. “So what’s the story?”

  “Ever hear of Cristos Alyssandratos?”

  “The shipping magnate?”

  Alyssandratos had made the news last year after security contractors on one of his ships repelled and killed a band of pirates off the coast of Somalia. Not to mention the man made the Forbes “400” list every year. He didn’t court the spotlight—and Dan would be hard-pressed to say what he looked like—but most people would recognize the name.

  “Exactly.” Kurt sipped from an insulated Aim High coffee mug and tapped the folder. “It’s his daughter, Alexa. Yesterday SIR snatched her in Terre Verte. They’re asking for two million.”

  Dan scowled. “What was she doing down there?” St. Iz wasn’t exactly a tourist destination these days, not even for the rich and bored. The recent hurricane and SIR—the St. Isidore Resistance—had seen to that.

  “She’s a nurse working for Hygiea.”

  “So, not a pampered princess.” Maybe. “Why does Alyssandratos need us? This sounds like something for the SEALs or Delta.”

  Kurt ran a hand over his short black hair and nodded. “He doesn’t want anyone to know she was taken.”

  Dan’s eyebrows lifted. “To protect her or himself?”

  “Probably both. The U.S. has a strict no-ransom policy. Alyssandratos doesn’t want to reward the terrorists for kidnapping her, but he wants to keep the option open in case we fail. He’s had friends go through this recently, and the U.S. government kept them completely in the dark. The man wants more control, especially after the recent failed rescue attempts in the Middle East.”

  “How did he find out the rebels have her?”

  “He received a ransom request via email from Frederick Jeannot.”

  The coffee in Dan’s mouth turned bitter. “Do we know where’s she’s being held, or if she’s still alive?”

  Kurt fixed his inky black eyes on him. “According to the digital proof-of-life image, she was alive last night. Apparently, her dad’s investigator hid a GPS tracker in her watch when she started working for Hygiea, but there’s no way to know if she’s still wearing it. I have its current location.”

  Dan rubbed the stubble on his chin and sat back. Spotty intel made things riskier, but search and rescue was his specialty. And here was a chance to do something meaningful again. Something more important than babysitting corporate execs and trying to bypass companies’ security to expose their vulnerabilities. And the distraction from the media frenzy wouldn’t hurt. “Just me?”

  “We can’t risk a political incident, with their government or ours. One man is easier to explain away than a team of commandos. But I’ll have Jason and Todd on standby, just in case.”

  Dan was used to working as part of a team. PJs lived, breathed, and trained together. Someone always had his back and he had theirs. But acting alone gave Steele and Alyssandratos the necessary deniability.

  “If you don’t want this one,” Kurt said, “I can give it to someone else. But Alyssandratos asked for you personally.”

  Dan’s head snapped up at that. “What?” He frowned. “Why?”

  Kurt shrugged. “He said you came highly recommended by that tech company CEO you guarded in Brazil last month.”

  Norris. An arrogant but brilliant man whose suits cost more than Dan’s truck. “All right. You got a plan in mind?” He snagged the folder, skimming through the preliminary intel. “One that will get me back before Mick and Jenna’s wedding?”

  He was the best man at the ceremony on Saturday. Kurt was a groomsman and Tara was the maid of honor, and they all had to be in South Carolina by Friday evening for the rehearsal dinner.

  “Do it right and you should be back tomorrow. Wednesday latest. And there’s a nice bonus if you get the girl back by Thursday. The St. Isidore airport is still shut down, so you’ll fly into St. Lucia instead. I’ll have a small yacht lined up for you at the marina there, and a contact to pick up weapons. St. Lucia is strict as hell about bringing them in, so you’re going to have to stay under the radar there.”

  “Wh
en do I leave?”

  “There’s an early afternoon flight into Hewannora. You should have plenty of time to get to the docks before dark. Tara will handle the rest of the details.”

  “Perfect.” Dan riffled through charts and maps and snippets of intel about SIR rebel camps and sympathizers while he and Kurt hashed out the rest of the plan. Idly, he flipped to the last page.

  And stopped breathing.

  His body turned to ice at the image of a stunning woman with intelligent blue eyes and honey-red hair that skimmed her shoulders.

  “Alyssa,” he whispered as acid pooled in his stomach. Fuck.

  “Yeah, she goes by Alyssa Drake to protect herself, but her name’s Alexa,” Kurt said absently. He must have noticed something on Dan’s face, though, because he straightened. “What’s up?”

  Dan suddenly understood why Alyssandratos had asked for him, and it had nothing to do with Norris’ recommendation.

  He shook his head and willed his heartbeat under control, clearing his throat against the sudden constriction. “No, nothing.” He forced a grin. “She’s hot.” A fact that he could verify from experience because he’d known her—intimately—for three of the most incredible weeks of his life.

  Right up until she shattered his heart.

  The evening after her abduction, Alexa woke in the dark to low voices from outside. Her jail was a block-brick building maybe twice as big as a porta potty, and sporting a similar—though much smaller—hole. The only ventilation came from a four-inch screened gap that ran under the eaves of the high metal roof and let in weak moonlight, but little air to cool her down.

  An evening shower had flooded in through the opening, slicking the cement floor so that she had no dry spot on which to lie. But she no longer cared about being wet. She’d been damp nonstop since her arrival in St. Isidore.

  After stitching Frederick’s wound, she’d been shoved back into the van’s cargo hold and driven another half hour or so to…wherever this was. Since then, she’d slept as much as possible to keep anxiety for Garfield and Flore from gnawing a hole in her chest.

  She’d been counting sunsets to track the days. One of the guards had stolen her watch, but he hadn’t found her locket. She had to take comfort in the little things.

  At the sound of a key in the lock, she shifted to a seated position and pressed her back to the rough block wall. So far Frederick’s men had dropped her in the cell and left her alone. Alone was preferable to the alternative, but it didn’t give her much opportunity to escape.

  The door swung inward on surprisingly quiet hinges and her guard entered, moonlight glistening off the sweat on his young face. He couldn’t be much over twenty; his neck and shoulders didn’t fill out his T-shirt the way they would in a few more years. He grinned as she tried to become one with the wall.

  “I have a proposition for you, lady,” he said, his voice genial as if he were merely passing on a tidbit about the weather or his favorite cricket player.

  Her mouth went dry and she could only stare as he stepped inside.

  “You be good to me,” he continued, his eyes glinting with something fearsome that didn’t match his friendly tone, “and I’ll be good to you.”

  He reached for her and she whimpered, hating that sound of weakness as it escaped her lips. She scrambled to her feet, nearly slipping on the wet floor, eager to give up her position of vulnerability on the ground.

  “No,” she said on a harsh breath.

  Before she could discern his intent, he yanked her sideways and shoved her face first into the wall. The bruise she’d sustained in her earlier struggle sparked with pain so intense that bright lights flashed in her skull.

  She rammed an elbow back into his stomach, but he dodged the worst of the blow and clamped her hands together with one of his own, swearing under his breath. He might not have filled out yet, but he was still strong. And she was weak from lack of food and water.

  All of the self-defense lessons Hygiea had paid for were worthless if she couldn’t put any power behind the moves she’d learned.

  Her heart walloped her chest as she struggled for purchase on the slick cement without being able to use her hands for balance. If she kicked back, would she go down instead of him? If she screamed, would the others come to her aid, or join her attacker? She wriggled against his hold and sent one heel back into his shin.

  “Salop!” He hissed the insult, slamming her into the block wall again.

  Her mind turned to fog, and nausea climbed her throat. If she let him take her down…

  Beyond desperate, she quit fighting and dropped like a stone. Taken off guard, her captor slipped and lost his grip as he flailed toward her with a shout. She scurried to her left, out of his grasp, and launched herself at the doorway. He snagged her collar and yanked her back. The shirt pulled tight against her throat, and she coughed.

  The guard flipped her onto her stomach and pinned her with his body. “So you like it rough,” he said with a low chuckle. “I can—”

  “Get the fuck off of her,” a deep voice growled.

  Alexa’s heartbeat skipped. An American! Her attacker’s weight lifted, accompanied by a gurgling sound. She scrambled to the far wall and faced the man who filled the doorway, barely visible in camouflage-print clothing. He hooked a thick arm around the guard’s neck, his face concealed behind dark camo paint and the shadow of a floppy hat as he waited until her attacker went limp.

  She pressed her back against the cool brick and held her arms in a vain attempt to keep the trembling at bay.

  “Stay there,” the commando whispered. Then he lowered his unconscious burden to the floor and shackled the kid’s wrists and ankles with zip ties. He stuffed a rag into the guard’s mouth, and turned his attention her way. “Come on.”

  Relief flooded her limbs and left her shaky. “Who are you?”

  He glanced at the door and hesitated, then removed his hat. She’d recognize his face anywhere. Her heart skipped.

  “Dan?” Her voice was breathy, his name barely even a whisper. Could it really be him? “What are you doing here?”

  He crammed the hat back on his head and reached out a gloved hand. “I came for you. Can you walk?”

  She took his hand and pushed aside all of her questions for a better time. He pulled her to her feet, and she winced but managed not to cry out at the pain in her ribs and hip.

  As she moved into the moonlight spilling in through the open door, he stilled and reached a hand toward her face. “Fuck, Lys.” He dropped his arm, but held her gaze. “What’d they do to you?”

  He was the only one who’d ever called her Lys… She shook off the painful memories and made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “I’m fine. It’s just a few bruises.”

  “Like hell.” Dan straightened and stepped to the door to survey the area around the hut. Jerking his head toward the forest, he said, “Let’s move.” He gripped her hand and led her down the stairs.

  She followed him into the shadow of the dank hut, and crept through the darkness. Her entire left side ached and her muscles were like jelly, but she took shallow breaths and focused on crossing the open field to the forest. Every sound made her flinch and she continually scanned behind her, sure the alarm would sound any minute and rebels would run them to ground.

  They entered a banana plantation that skirted the clearing around the camp. The once neat rows of squat plants were now a mess of undergrowth, dead leaves, and rotten fruit that filled the air with the pungent smell of fermentation.

  She and Dan moved slowly through the cool, humid air that made her shiver in her damp clothes. Her brain screamed at her to run, but she knew stealth was better than speed in this case. Not that she could have run if she tried. Dehydration, exhaustion, and pain conspired to bring her down, and she fought to stay upright with every step.

  She had no idea where they were—she’d passed out from the pain shortly after Rugby had thrown her over his shoulder to haul her away from the orphanage—but t
he further they moved from the SIR outpost, the more she relaxed.

  Dan stopped next to a small group of banana plants and guided her behind him before going absolutely still. Her heart gave a kick, but she followed suit. What did he see?

  A few heartbeats later, the orange glow of a cigarette appeared as a sentry passed no more than twenty yards in front of them, his white shirt nearly glowing in the faint light.

  If Dan weren’t blocking her from view, she’d shine like a beacon in the night with her khaki clothes and pale face.

  They waited several minutes after the guard trudged off, then Dan prowled forward, silent on the damp earth as he slowly parted the broad banana leaves and guided them back into place after she’d followed.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, the plantation gave way to a tight knit of vines and palms and towering trees with thick roots. Dan continued the mind-numbing pace. Questions whirled in her brain as she cautiously trod where her guide had already stepped.

  Why was he here? PJs didn’t usually take on this kind of mission, did they? Where were they headed? Would they rendezvous with his team? He must know who she really was now. Was he pissed? Would he understand?

  Alexa’s knees buckled, no longer able to support her weight. She lost her grip on Dan’s hand and landed on all fours on the pungent soil, jarring her tender ribs. She had to bite her lip to hold back a cry of agony.

  He turned and dropped to one knee in front of her. “What’s wrong?” he whispered, leaning in close so his breath fanned her ear.

  She shook her head and gulped for air. Her whole body throbbed, but it wasn’t just the physical pain and fatigue that overwhelmed her. It was everything. Flore, Garfield, spending the last day and a half in a constant state of fear. Nearly being raped by a macho kid with a gun who could have been so much more if given the chance.

  “Where are you hurt?” Dan asked.

  She gestured along her left side and tried to bring her breathing under control. “I’ll be okay in a second.”