Dane swiped the back of his hand across his brow, catching the trickle of sweat. Brazil was a goddamn hot jungle of a place. He sighed. There wasn’t a chance in hell his friends would wait. They would be off the island like a shot.
He didn’t want to have to rescue them all. But what the hell—who was he? Maybe he’d started to believe the legend bullshit about himself.
“I promised to call the rest of the crew in twenty-four hours. If I’m not back, call David. At 0600.”
“You’re a pip. You know that? If I didn’t owe you for saving my ass—”
“Never mind. We’re here to get Shana.”
“And Oscar. Remember him?”
Dane laughed. “Sure, if I run across Oscar while I’m in this godforsaken jungle nation, I’ll bring him out too.”
“We will. I’m on the team.” Acer set his jaw. Dane knew the look.
“One other thing,” Dane said. “Do not tell the CIA I’m down here. Under any circumstances.”
Shana came to in the back seat of a car, not with a sore head, but with a sore arm. The sore spot was a bruise likely surrounding a needle puncture. She was still foggy a few seconds later when the car stopped and two men she didn’t recognize pulled her from the car and carry-walked her to a waiting helicopter.
Her heart pounded with alarm and her head pulsed with confusion as she tried to orient herself. In spite of the clearing brain fog giving way to the recognition of a dangerous predicament, the one thought her mind continued to dish up as she was hustled up and into the bird was what happened to Dane?
She recognized the copter as an NH Industries NH90 and felt the tic of alarm. This was a military model notable for its long-range capacity. She wondered how the hell these thugs had got hold of it—and where the hell they were taking her.
But the thought relentlessly slamming through her head distracted her. Where the hell was Dane?
She refused to push her mind past the question to speculate on the answer. Palpitations threatened as she was dragged inside the obviously customized NH90. She was cuffed in place to a seat—which ominously came equipped with the cuffs for her wrists and ankles built in to the floor and sides.
The noise was too loud for her to bother to try and speak to the men—her captors. By the time she was in full control of her limbs, she was left with no way to fight back save a head butt, which would only end up knocking her backwards against the seat and back into the dreaded fog of senselessness. The only thing left to her—which she embraced—was to listen and observe the men and everything around her, to watch and wait for her chance, to understand what their end game was. And most importantly, to figure out who the hell they were.
If she wanted to keep herself together and survive without sinking into despair, Shana had to leave unanswered and unexamined the question of what happened to Dane.
The first cogent observation she made, that penetrated even in the disoriented first few moments of her awakening, was that the three men were not speaking English. By the time she’d been cuffed to her seat, her mind had cleared sufficiently to puzzle out the fact that they were speaking Portuguese. These men were Brazilians.
The chill of goose bumps flashed to her skin from the sudden hard freeze in her gut. Every bit of the surface of her body had been raised and every hair follicle seemed to electrify to stand on end with the sudden knowledge.
These men were connected to the Tavares brothers. They were part of the human trafficking organization that she and Dane had encountered in their first mission. The chill along her skin redoubled.
One of the Tavares brothers had been killed during the confrontation leading to the arrest. It didn’t matter who took the shot—the Tavares brothers and their band of thugs had been about to ship out in their yacht with a beautiful young heiress in their cargo hold when she, Dane and Cap had led the charge in a shoot-out to stop them. The Tavares brothers had been stopped dead. Literally. One dead and the other arrested and put on trial. She was certain he was in a federal prison now. Shana felt momentarily satisfied as she kept her jaw rigid and her eyes watchful.
As her mind spun through her options, she realized it might be prudent to look scared and intimidated, though it was against her grain. She decided to feign disorientation until she figured out the best strategy and how to carry it off.
The men spoke to each other loudly over the rotor noise, and she listened hard, trying to discern what they said. When she heard the one single word that confirmed her suspicions, she shuddered. The pilot had clearly and distinctly said, “Blaise.” Terror spread from her gut and she struggled to keep control, to make herself believe that she was not doomed. How wrong she realized she’d been, relying on Dane to come to her rescue. How she’d relied on him to have her back. That wasn’t her. She’d always been self-reliant. She would fight with every last ounce of life she had to get herself out of this—and she would need to use her head. She would need to appear helpless and unthreatening.
The man in charge, who seemed to be the oldest of the three, turned to her and shouted above the noise, “Enjoy the flight. You are now the property of the Tavares family organization. You will enjoy Rio. Far, far away from everyone you know.”
Chapter 6
When Shana sobbed, it was only partly an act. The tears streaming down her cheeks were real. She let her chin drop and hunched her shoulders, shrinking back into the seat. The man laughed and said something to his friends and then they all laughed. They sounded pleased with her response. It was what they wanted. Squeezing her eyes shut, she vowed to hurt each one of them the instant she had the chance. It was difficult, but she unclenched her fists.
Now she had to hope it would inspire a relaxation of their vigilance over her and an opening for her to escape—and maybe do some damage to one or more of them in the process. She felt Dane’s influence—like he was in her head coaching her. She nearly smiled, but remembered her pose and remained cowed.
But now the cowering was entirely an act. She felt certain that she could stave off the worst of whatever they had planned until she escaped. The plan held enormous appeal. Maybe Dane was rubbing off on her too much—her ego was getting big. And so was her confidence.
The bubble of doubt in her chest came as she thought of Dane again. She knew he was all right. He had to be. She refused to contemplate what happened to him and where he might be. Dane had to be okay.
She had to escape. On her own. Because she realized with a red-hot fierce fear turning to rage that maybe he needed her help more than she needed his. She clutched the rage to her breast covering her heart, protecting it from any mind-weakening fear or worse—anguish—concerning Dane’s fate. Everything in her churned with the scalding anger.
Once they landed, the men hustled her into a waiting limo. After only a minute in the hot wet jungle-like air she felt chilled, sliding into the middle of the leather seat of the icy cold vehicle. She shivered. The man that crowded in next to her laughed.
“Don’t worry. I think you are a special guest.” He laughed again. It wasn’t too hard for Shana to act afraid. The corner of her soul that was scared to death caused her heart to beat too fast. She braced herself on the inside. She forced fear onto her face at the same time as she marshaled her angry vigilance and observed everything about the place and the men.
They drove through a crowded city where Shana caught glimpses of a brilliant turquoise ocean, but they were driving away from it—westward. The city buildings thinned and the road went uphill—northwest of the downtown area she figured—until they entered a walled compound along a long drive and into a garage. Before they pulled inside, she noticed the north side of the compound bordering a heavily treed area.
The two men in the front seat got out and both came around to open her door and pull her from the back seat. The stifling air of the lush environment hit her. She breathed deeply—or as deeply as she could of the heavy air—as they walked her in cuffs toward a gate and through a garden. They took her through a wrou
ght iron gate to a lavishly landscaped pool area in the back of what she supposed was the main house. It looked more like an office building, made of cement and going up three stories.
Flanked by her three thug captors, she stood facing an older, well-dressed gentleman, a severe-looking but attractive younger woman, and a younger man with a sinister grin. Shana still acted cowed, but the role was starting to leave an acid taste in her mouth. It was difficult to hide her rage now.
The conversation between the older man and the woman was too rapid for her to follow, but it ended abruptly. The woman turned to Shana with cold dark eyes and smacked her across the face hard enough to make her stumble. The surprise and sting of the slap exploded any semblance of cowering. Shana squared her shoulders, stood straight, and thrust her chin high as she shook against the two men who’d been holding her off. The sickening taste from a warm trickle of blood inside her lower lip made her spit. Directly at the woman. The woman jumped back at first, and before she had a chance to reverse direction and attack Shana, the young man took hold of the woman, laughing and admonishing, still in Portuguese. Shana’s escorts took hold of her again, gripping her arms tight, causing the cuffs to dig into her wrists. She gritted her teeth. She could still taste the blood. She decided not to spit again. For the moment.
The older man raised his brows at her and spoke in decent English. “You are a spitfire, I see.” He smiled at his own witticism and the younger man laughed. Even her escorts chuckled. Only the woman glared, still in the grips of the young man. Shana needed to know who they all were. She waited for the introduction rather than ask.
“You have angered Gabriela. She assumes you killed her brother, Bento Tavares. And you have imprisoned her brother Aldo.” The man reached out his hand and patted Shana’s cheek. “But I know it wasn’t you—it was your partner. He is the wild one.” Lucky for Uncle Tavares he took his hand away before Shana could bite into it. The effort of restraining herself was enormous. She knew they wouldn’t hurt her. She knew their end game for her had nothing to do with killing or maiming or even torturing. And the thought made her blood race like liquid fire.
“Or maybe it was the police. They were doing their job. No?” The young man spoke.
“This is Erico Tavares, my son. He understands the nature of our business. My poor niece is less tolerant of the dangers since she became orphaned some years ago and is now brotherless. She would like revenge,” Uncle Tavares said with a pleasant smile. “I am Henrique Tavares, CEO of Tavares Enterprises,” he paused then added, “and ruler of the Tavares family. I am the one who decides your fate.”
Shana ignored the icy tingle along her skin at the ruler reference. She shrunk herself into the role of helpless female.
“I didn’t kill anyone. I was trying to help my friend—”
Gabriela wrangled free from her cousin and spat back at Shana. It missed. The woman had a lot to learn.
“Gabriela has yet to learn that there are many forms of revenge,” Uncle Tavares said. He was no longer smiling, but rather assessing. “We know you are with Scotland Yard, my dear.”
“Not anymore. They fired me. I’m a beach bum—with my boyfriend. I followed him because I thought he was cheating on me. No, I knew he was.” She spoke with venom in the direction of Gabriela to generate any girlfriend identification there might be.
Erico laughed and Uncle T. scoffed and clucked, back to his veneer of harmless patriarch.
“You are a very good storyteller,” Erico said. “What happened next?”
“I don’t remember—someone hit me.”
“You are a useless coward,” Gabriela shouted and made a move forward. Erico caught his cousin by the arm and held her with some force. He was turning out to be an ally of sorts. Not particularly reliable in the long run, but Shana was working minute-to-minute now.
“My family has no money. What do you want with me?” She gritted her teeth for the answer but figured it would be useful to have them admit it to her. When she got out of this, she would make a perfect witness.
“Very good question. What do you think, Erico? Is she everything your cousin Aldo said she was?”
“So far. I will continue to evaluate her.” Erico looked her up and down. She felt naked in her black t-shirt and jeans., His smiled lightly as if they were thinking of playing in the waves along Ipanema beach instead of contemplating holding her as their whore-slave. Or selling her.
Shana held back the flare of her nostrils and assumed as neutral and passionless a demeanor as she could manage. If ever there was a time for self-control, this was it. She thought of Dane. Of what he might do, how he would behave. He would be cooler than these three Tavares relatives, making them seem like mere snowflakes next to his glacial attitude.
“Later. There will be time. We’re expecting guests soon,” Uncle T said. “Take her to her… quarters.”
“Do not touch her,” Erico said to the men, stepping forward and reaching out to touch her hair. Shana couldn’t help the flinch. The gesture reminded her too much of Dane and for the first time a deep red searing ache of sorrow and loss shot through her.
“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” He said it in a way that meant she could count on being hurt by someone else instead.
The three men she came in with tugged her wrists to turn her around and they took her inside the open glass doors to a back hall. They walked her through a steel door into a long gray corridor that must be a wing of the building she hadn’t seen. The long hallway looked like the inside of an office building with unmarked doors at regular intervals. She counted them until they came to a heavier door, unlocked and went through it to a cement stairwell, again making it seem as if they were in a high-rise office building. Except the stairs went down.
She continued observing her surroundings and tried to revive her role as the scared helpless woman by crying and whimpering her way down the stairs. They walked her down three flights while she struggled to stay helpless. Based on the confrontation with the Tavares clam, she thought she might have one ally, Erico Tavares. But she wouldn’t book fifty bucks on him to come through in a pinch, and she hoped to hell she didn’t need to bet on him with her life.
Uncle Tavares—she preferred to think of Henrique Tavares, the self-proclaimed family ruler, this way—went out of his way to seem indifferent, but she would bet a million bucks he was far from it on the inside of his steely control. An image of Dane flashed in her mind at the thought. The young woman, Gabriela, was angry and hateful and menacing. She hadn’t bothered hiding a thing. Shana could identify—she felt all those same things but couldn’t afford to show her rage—she’d showed too much as it was. She was disgusted at herself for her outburst and the unnecessary defiance. There was no need to fuel their fire. She could hear Dane in her head telling her, “You have a lot to learn, girlie.”
She only hoped she’d live long enough to apply today’s lesson.
After walking along a short dungeon-like corridor in the subbasement, they stopped at a heavy metal door with a small high window. From outside, this floor hadn’t looked like it belonged in a residence—or even an office building for that matter. It was as if they’d run out of money or the desire to finish the space.
The three men, now treating her like a chore, unlocked the door with a regular key and tossed her into a rough cement room sans windows. Inside, the dungeon room was raw with half-finished stone walls and no furnishings. A light bulb dangled naked from the cement ceiling. The only difference between the door to this room and the others had been that it had a window. After the men shoved her into the room they followed. She noticed what looked like a surveillance camera in one corner of the ceiling.
The only other thing she noticed in the room was dead center. There were heavy chains attached to wide metal cuffs bolted to the floor.
With his fake documents and disguise in place, Dane observed the Tavares place through the unobtrusive scope built into the special eyeglasses Acer had given him. He looked more
like a dork than a spy with the thick glasses and matted black-dyed hair. But it was better than wearing a wig in the heat. Standing on a corner on the edge of Rio, he gazed eastward down the road toward the Tavares complex. There were two outbuildings within the remote Tavares compound likely to be holding prisoners. There were two entrances and exits through gates in the cement wall surrounding the place. He’d bet on dogs inside the compound as well as other hidden electronic surveillance that he had no time or resources to find out about. The situation was less than ideal, and Dane felt the passage of time like a band saw slicing through his chest and aiming for his heart. Meanwhile, his heart was beating abnormally loudly and hard as if his blood had turned to cement. Maybe that was good. He needed to get into his block-of-granite mindset to carry this off. In his favor, Acer had provided him with some nifty gadgets and his friend would be in the jungle at an outpost twelve minutes away as the bird flies—and he would be flying his bird in within twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four hours to get the lay of the land and come up with an angle to get inside, find Shana and get her out.
Whether or not he got himself out was optional.
Dane would normally do extensive surveillance and scope out the place but since he had limited time, he gave himself two hours. The town where Acer left him was to the west of the compound and not within walking distance. It was small and muddy but he noticed a few trucks and a beat up fifteen-year-old Jeep parked at a storefront that looked like combo hardware and feed store. He walked over and waited a few minutes, leaning against the wall in the shade from the squat building, until an old man came out of the store and walked to the driver’s side of the Jeep with a small bag. Lucky for him. Dane approached the man.
In Portuguese Dane said, “This your truck?”
The man looked wary and remained silent. He was about to reach for the door, but Dane stopped him. He pulled a fat wad of twenty U.S. dollar bills from his pocket and started peeling them away in rapid succession. This caused the man’s wary face to lighten and he finally spoke.
Beachcomber Trouble Page 5
