Sabra said nothing. She knew they would go to another public phone, and she’d make the call to Perseus. Her heart swelled with joy at being able to share the good news that they’d located Jason. The feeling was quickly dampened by reality. How could they rescue him? Could they? As soon as they made the call, got something to eat and showered, they would have to get back out to the estate and watch.
She knew Laura would be ecstatic over the news about Jason. Sabra hoped Jake and Wolf could make her friend understand that just finding her son didn’t mean all that much. The worst part was ahead of them. They couldn’t trust the police. They could trust no one but themselves. A ragged breath eased from Sabra’s lips, and she reached out and squeezed Craig’s hand. It was a strong, steady hand, covered with scars that would always remind him of his past.
Covertly, Sabra stole a look at him as he drove cautiously through the fog. Dawn was just touching the horizon somewhere to the east of the island, the fog like a gloomy blanket.
“Craig?”
“What?”
“Do you have any dreams?”
He gave her a wry look. “Plenty of nightmares.”
Sabra glanced back apologetically. “No, I mean dreams of the future—of what you want your life to be like.”
“Me? I live hour to hour. Day to day. I’m afraid to look at the future because of the past that sits on my shoulders in the present.” He saw her eyebrows dip. “What are you getting at?”
“Oh, I just wondered.”
“Do you have dreams?” he countered.
“Yes.” Tentatively, Sabra nodded. “Well, I used to.”
“Until Josh died?” he asked out of sudden intuition.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“What did you hope for before then?”
“I’d always dreamed of marrying a man who would love me for the way I was, not for what he wanted me to be. I’m afraid I’m not much of a cook or housekeeper. My mother went crazy with me in the kitchen. I burned more stuff than I care to think about. I ended up wrecking several of her pots and pans in the process. I hated to dust. I hated to do dishes.”
“What would you rather do?” He studied her shadowed face, now set with unhappiness.
“I loved to play soccer. I liked being outdoors. At night I always had my window open, even in the dead of winter, because I loved the fresh air. I guess that’s why I like Perseus so much—most of my assignments are outdoors.”
Craig tried to tell himself that as her friend, he wanted to share other, private parts of himself with Sabra. Or was it friendship? Damn this mission. There was no time to sort through his feelings. What the hell, he wanted to share with her. “You sound a little like a mustang my brother Joe got from one of his Navajo friends for his fifteenth birthday,” he ventured.
“Oh?”
“His friend Tom Yellow Horse gave him a mustang no one could tame—a pinto mare, I think. She’d been on the rodeo circuit and she’d bucked off everyone. She hated saddles and hated being snubbed to a post. She’d lash out with her legs if Joe tried to get near her.”
Sabra studied his grim features. “What happened to her?”
“Joe eventually realized that the mare wanted her freedom. She didn’t like humans. So he let her go.”
“He did?”
Craig nodded. “He got me and Dan up early one morning, kicked us out of bed and made us help him. That mare would charge you if you got in the corral with her, so he wanted our help. I remember opening the gate for Joe and watching his face when she galloped off to her freedom. He cried.”
“Your brother sounds like a guy with a heart.”
“He is,” Craig murmured. He glanced at her then frowned. “You’re like that mustang, because you don’t want to be saddled with house chores or indoor duties.”
“One of my stellar eccentricities…” she whispered, her voice trailing off. How she ached to see that tenderness return to his eyes, but it was gone—forever. All Craig had needed was her body, she reminded herself—her ability to love him that one, beautiful time. Sabra wanted to cry, but choked the tears down deep inside herself.
Chapter Eleven
Sabra waited, gritting her teeth as she knelt on the ground beneath the thick foliage. They were less than fifty yards from Garcia’s estate. For the fourth night in a row, they had crept close to the wrought-iron fence near the helo-landing pad. For the past three nights, at exactly 0300, Garcia had arrived by helicopter with Jason in tow. He always left again shortly after 1800.
Sabra had no idea why, since they couldn’t contact the police or any federal agency to help them track the helicopter’s route. One thing was evident, however: Jason was never out of Garcia’s sight or far from his side. Tonight, she and Craig had decided to rush forward shortly after the helicopter landed and take Jason away from Garcia.
Not liking the plan, but having no other, Sabra crouched on the ground, fear eating at her. She hated operations like this one, for there was nothing clean or simple about it. What if, instead of one guard meeting the helicopter this morning, three or four appeared, armed with submachine guns? As it stood, even if only one guard came out, they had to render him, the pilot and Garcia unconscious.
Instead of bullets, they carried pistols loaded with a powerful tranquilizing agent that Killian had provided them with. Almost as soon as it pierced the skin, a victim fell unconscious. Sabra agreed with the decision. They didn’t want an all-out war with Ramirez or Garcia—they only wanted the boy back. Sending the message that they weren’t going to kill unless absolutely necessary might help Ramirez decide to spare Morgan’s life—if he was alive.
Still their choice left them uncomfortably in the line of fire. Sabra had no doubt that the guard had real bullets in his submachine gun, and she was sure the pilot and Garcia, were also armed—and more than willing to shoot to kill. Adjusting the bulky armored vest she wore beneath her nylon suit, Sabra knew it was the only thing standing between her and sudden death. She was glad Craig was wearing one, too. He knew as well as she did that Garcia didn’t hire slouches who couldn’t shoot straight.
Her mouth grew dry as she glanced down at her watch, a dark piece of cloth shielding the luminous dials. It was 0255. Her heart pulsed strongly in reaction. They would sneak close, wait until just after the helo landed, then leap up on the edge of the concrete pad, open the wrought-iron gate and fire. If Jason was accidentally hit, he would survive the dart tranquilizer—another reason to use them rather than bullets.
She raised her eyelashes and squarely met Craig’s dark, narrowed gaze. Anxiety was clearly registered in his eyes. Tension hung around them, and Sabra’s thoughts turned to their recent time together. What they shared was like this mission—surprising and unstable. Precious moments of intense friendship, communication and awareness were broken by awkward silences, sudden coldness and confusion. The snatches of sleep they’d gotten over the past few days were always in each other’s arms, but they were too tired to make love, sleeping only two or three hours at a time. Each day they’d moved to another motel to avoid detection, and each day they’d hidden in another area to keep tabs on Garcia’s movements. The situation was too crazy for anything to be properly resolved. Sabra had been forced to put their relationship on the back burner until the mission was completed.
The only real hope she felt over their situation was the fact that the Perseus jet was finally on the Maui airport tarmac, and Killian was shadowing them from a safe distance. He’d landed two days ago, and they’d met near dusk in a remote motel on the south side of the mountainous island, cross-checking all their information. He’d provided them with tranquilizing darts and other gear for the mission. Perseus had put out feelers, trying to discover if there was a leak in the local police department, but it had to be done carefully. In the meantime, Killian had contacted the FBI for help.
Again Sabra ran the plan through her mind as they lay quietly beneath Garcia’s silent estate. They would snatch Jason and make a run for it do
wn the slope to where their camouflaged car waited on a dirt road off the highway, four miles away. Then they would speed down the highway to the airport, another twenty miles away, near the center of the island. They would meet Killian and the FBI at the Learjet, which would be ready to take off, with Dr. Ann Parsons, an emergency-trauma-trained physician, as well as a psychologist, standing by. Sabra prayed that Dr. Parsons’s help wouldn’t be needed. Of the utmost importance in every action was Jason’s safety.
Trying to moisten her dry lips, Sabra closed her eyes, continuing to review the plan. They each wore headsets, with microphones close to their lips, should they need to talk. Killian had brought a special radio, set at a frequency that wouldn’t likely be detected by anyone on the island. And the FBI agents involved were from D.C., not local island agents.
So far, no one knew where the leak was, and everyone was suspect until it could be found. But the two agents with Killian had worked with him a number of times before he retired from active duty with Perseus. Sabra knew Killian’s reputation for caution and trusted his choices with her life.
She tried to relax, but it was impossible. Her emotions swung wildly between worry over Craig and worry for Jason. She knew the guard would open fire. He had to be taken out first—and that was her job. Craig would take care of Garcia and the pilot. She had to disable the guard and watch to make sure no others came out the rear door at the end of the building nearest the pad. But what if Craig was wounded? What if she was? If either of them was hurt, they were to be left behind. Get the boy and run. Saving Jason was paramount.
A fierce tidal wave of fear threatened to suffocate Sabra as she ran various scenarios through her overactive imagination. If Craig was shot, she knew in her heart she couldn’t leave him behind. But if she didn’t run with Jason in tow, all of them would be captured. So much depended upon their swift initial assault—and on luck. She glanced over at Craig’s set profile as he watched the estate. How unlike Josh he was. Craig made no apologies for his problems. Miraculously, during the times they had slept in each other’s arms, the nightmare had not stalked him. Craig was amazed and grateful, but had warned her it wasn’t gone.
Sabra knew it, but she also knew that Craig trusted her as he had no one else since that ugly crash. In trust, there was friendship, and she accepted that. Not that he’d ever said a word to suggest anything more. No, he was very careful about how he phrased things to her, even in their brief moments of passion. Sometimes the look in his eyes belied the distance he’d been treating her with. Nor could Craig stop that endearing half smile, filled with vulnerability, that inevitably pulled at his mouth when she made him laugh. As wounded as he was, there was so much to love about him. Sabra knew he was ashamed of his fears and reactions. And she wondered if he could possibly love her.
Every night when he heard Garcia’s helicopter, Craig broke out in a heavy sweat and his hands shook. He couldn’t control either action. Sabra hurt for him, but there was no way she could help him. All she could do was hold him for those precious few hours afterward, and let him know through her actions that she loved him with a fierceness that defied description.
Moving carefully, Sabra turned to study the night sky. The fog was beginning to form in earnest between four and six thousand feet on the volcano, as it had every night. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Garcia had ordered it, using the fog as a cover for his early morning returns to his estate—to hide from the prying eyes of the law, perhaps. The fog was coming in sooner than usual tonight, and she could see fingers of it reaching the estate, muting black shadows to gray. Would the helicopter come soon? Would it still land, with the fog already approaching?
Worriedly, Sabra glanced at Craig. His face had been blackened, a black knit cap drawn tightly over his skull, with the headset beneath it, the mike almost touching the hard line of his mouth. Sabra’s flak vest chafed beneath her suit. Shivering as the fog stole across them, she began to chew nervously on her lip. If it settled too soon, the pilot might divert the flight to the airport. That would mean putting off the operation to another night, waiting for another chance.
The whap, whap, whap of helicopter blades sent a shiver down Craig’s back. He felt every hair on the back of his neck rise in response. Cutting a glance to Sabra, he saw that she, too, was aware of the incoming flight. It was 3:05 a.m.; the aircraft was five minutes behind schedule. Earlier this evening, they’d seen Jason board with Garcia. Would he be there now? Gripping the night goggles, Craig settled them over his eyes. Normally, the helo made a low pass directly over them on its way to the landing pad, where it would stop at about one hundred feet, hover, then slowly descend to the waiting concrete. His chance to verify if Jason was on board would be on the pass.
Anxiously, he studied the thickening fog. It was coming in too soon, and a light haze covered the area. Would the pilot assess the situation and leave without landing? The conditions were iffy for a helicopter. As a pilot, Craig had hated fog. Helicopters weren’t properly equipped for such weather. Military ones were now, but civilian or commercial helicopters ones such as this didn’t have the advanced instrumentation to fly safely through thick fog. Looking up, he saw the lights twinkling beneath the belly of the approaching craft. Soon. Very soon.
He was sweating heavily, exacerbating his concern over Sabra. She could be killed in the coming firefight. They had no lethal weapons on their side, and Garcia would be sure to use some against them. Craig’s only consolation was the armored vests they wore over their vital organs. Still, a shot to the head would kill them instantly.
Was Jason on board the aircraft? Craig’s hands felt clammy and damp with tortured anxiety. Positioning himself, he held the night goggles steady against his eyes. The whapping of the blades grew more powerful—and more emotionally shattering.
His stomach knotted so painfully he felt like groaning as he swung his gaze skyward. The helicopter was coming in for a landing despite the worsening weather! Good. The fog could work for them, if they were lucky. Right now it was drifting in—thin here, thick there, offering more cover than they’d anticipated. But could they take out the three men before a bullet was fired? One shot could alert the entire armed compound. Craig’s heart was pounding hard in his chest. Particles of the nightmare crash blipped before his eyes. Sweat ran down his face. Cursing to himself, he forced the images aside. The belly of the helicopter roared overhead, the vibration pulverizing him. Yes! He’d gotten a brief glimpse of Jason. The child was on board!
Dropping the goggles, he leapt to his feet and made one, sharp gesture to Sabra, confirming Jason’s presence. The whapping sound thickened as the blades hit the dense fog at the estate. The lights were switched on at the helipad, as always. Craig drew his tranquilizer pistol and crouched, snapping a look to his right. Sabra had her gun drawn, too. Her face was taut, her eyes slitted in intense concentration. He couldn’t see the bird, could only hear it laboring in the thick moisture. Helicopters didn’t do well in heavy moisture or high humidity. As Craig moved swiftly through the foliage toward the iron gate, he knew the pilot had his hands full right now. Let it make him less alert, he prayed silently.
Plant fronds slapped at his body as he lunged up the slippery, damp slope. The fog was thicker, but the vibration of the helicopter shattered through him, shaking his confidence. Blips of the crash again blinded him momentarily. Angrily, Craig forced through the scene. Sabra passed him and moved swiftly toward the gate. It was her job to get the guard who would appear shortly at the door. Craig would leap up on the fence, fire at Garcia and then at the pilot. They would be rapid shots. He’d have to be accurate when Garcia opened the door to climb out. Timing was everything. One missed shot and they could be killed. One mistake and Jason could die, too.
But, as he’d hoped, the fog had become their friend. It was so thick that the lights around the landing pad took on a hazy appearance. He marveled at the pilot’s skill. Craig could hear the aircraft descending slowly, carefully. The mist whipped and swirled
violently around them, foliage dancing as the whirling blades of the helo disturbed the area. Wind buffeted him as he crouched beneath the fence, waiting.
Sabra disappeared into the fog as she headed for the gate, and his throat constricted with fear. He couldn’t see her at all! Would she be able to spot the guard in time? Looking around, Craig could see the fog moving in bands, torn by the helicopter’s blades. Straining his eyes, he could make out the white underbelly of the aircraft. Twenty more feet and it would make contact with the pad. His mouth went dry and his heart rate tripled. His fingers nearly cramped around the pistol as he held it ready.
Where was Sabra? They had communications, but they didn’t dare break the silence. One of Garcia’s sensitive pieces of equipment might pick up their voices, and their cover would be blown. His heart ached in his chest. Why in hell hadn’t he told her earlier that he loved her? What if he died? What if she was hurt? Captured? The bitterness in his mouth swept through him. What a fool he’d been. He’d never loved a woman as much as he loved Sabra. Now it was too late.
In the dim, scattered light, Craig saw Garcia sitting grimly on the passenger side of the helo. Right now the guard should be coming out to open the door for him. No one came. Had Sabra gotten to him? Craig gripped the bottom of the wrought-iron fence, ready to aim the pistol. He saw Garcia’s strained features, saw the perspiration on his thick, mustached upper lip. The helicopter landed. Anger was in Garcia’s eyes as he twisted around, waiting for the door to be opened. The pilot looked harried, stressed by the danger of the landing.
Come on. Open the door! Craig compressed his lips as Garcia jerked the latch and swung the door—wide open. Craig raised his pistol and fired once. The dart sank deeply into the druglord’s neck. He slumped, tumbling heavily out of the helicopter.
Craig saw the pilot’s eyes widen. The man leaned down. Damn! He had a gun! Craig saw Jason, his eyes puffy with sleep, looking around in confusion. Leaping upward, his muscles straining, Craig took aim as the door swung one way and then another. There! The dart slammed into the pilot’s chest. The man let out a little cry, then slumped forward in his harness, the gun dropping from his hands to the deck of the aircraft.
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