Only A Whisper

by Gayle Wilson

  “You sold me, you bastard. You set me up. That’s why you called—to get me here, so you could give me to the cartel.”

  It was the last, most bitter disillusionment. In spite of what she had known about Rafael Ramirez, she’d never dreamed he would betray her.

  “No, querida,“ Rafe denied softly, his eyes still on Grajales.

  “No, Ms. Phillips,” the man at the door agreed, amused by her anger, perhaps. “Your name was given to me by Peters. A long time ago. Apparently the only worthwhile information he ever provided.”

  “Kyle gave you my name?” she asked, stalling for time, trying to figure it out. What the hell was going on? Paul had told her Kyle had been dealing with Rafe, trying to sell him information. If that were true, then who the hell was Grajales?

  “Unfortunately, before we could make use of that information, you disappeared,” the man with the gun continued, apparently enjoying his role at center stage. “And then you reappeared, rather miraculously, considering what Peters had done to the others. There had to be some significance to the fact that you didn’t die and Peters did. I felt all along you might be the key to what we sought. All I had to do was be patient, and eventually you would lead me where I wanted to go.”

  To the courier, Rae thought. He believed she would lead him to the courier, but of course, she had never known—

  The revelation was instantaneous, like a cartoon light bulb going on over her head, but there was absolutely no doubt in her mind. Oh, dear God, Rafe. Lead him to the courier, Grajales had said, and that was exactly what she’d done. She had finally led the cartels to the courier. It had come full circle, she thought, remembering that cold night and the man she’d never forgotten.

  This was why she’d trusted Rafe from the beginning, had believed him when he’d denied responsibility for the deaths in the task force. This was the reason Paul hadn’t taken him into custody. It even explained Carlos’s reaction the night she’d made her bitter accusations. And, of course, Carlos had been the diplomat who had made the original contact with Hardesty.

  Rafe had been the man in Virginia. And with that information, all the pieces of the puzzle shifted into place. Of course, Hardesty wouldn’t have arrested him. Not because he had diplomatic immunity, but because—and her heart lifted at the thought—because he had never been what she had thought him to be. This was what Dell Stewart had wanted Paul to tell her, what he had thought she had a right to know, because it was dangerous for her not to be told. That Rafael Ramirez was the man who had whispered into the darkness that night in Virginia—and that someone was still out there searching for him.

  Rae fought not to look at Rafe again, fought to keep her eyes focused on Grajales’s face. Maybe he hadn’t figured it out. It had certainly taken her long enough. Maybe she could still protect Rafe, convince Grajales he had nothing to do with the man he sought, that he was just a competitor with the same goal.

  “And where is that?” she asked. Her voice sounded remarkably steady. Considering the stakes.

  Grajales simply smiled at the bewilderment she’d tried to inject into the question. “You know very well what I’m looking for, Ms. Phillips. The man who has a very special expertise,” he explained patiently, “which he employed with great effect against my former competitors. The man who gave Hardesty the money-laundering information about Medellin.”

  “Then you and Ramirez are looking for the same thing,” Rae lied calmly. “I really hate to disappoint you, but I don’t know anything about that man. Ramirez can tell you. He used drugs to pick my brain. To get his name. I don’t know the name of the man you want. You’re wasting your time,” Rae said.

  “I must admit I was a little slow in figuring it all out, Ms. Phillips, but the time for deception has passed. I truly didn’t understand until I saw Señor Ramirez, but now, of course, it’s very obvious.”

  Obvious. Why hadn’t she known? Because she hadn’t listened to her instincts. To her heart. Because she’d believed all their lies, his and Paul’s. Because they both had lied to her from the beginning.

  “The clues were all there, but the role was completely out of character for the man you had always appeared to be,” Grajales said, his attention directed now to Rafe, away from her, and she tried to gather her resolve. To think of something, anything, to get them out of this.

  “You have the ability, of course,” Grajales went on. “Well documented. And the financial background. Your title is…” He paused, but when Rafe didn’t provide the answer he sought, Grajales simply smiled at his refusal to cooperate.

  “Investment counselor?” he guessed. “For all your family’s very legitimate and extremely profitable businesses. Your disappearance from both the playing fields and the social scene should also have been pointedly coincidental, but, still, I’m afraid I never put it together. Whatever made you decide to become involved?” he asked, his tone almost taunting.

  For the first time, Rafe allowed his eyes to find Rae’s and it was to her that he spoke. Explained the reason he’d begun the deadly game that had now reached its climax.

  “They killed my brother,” Rafe said. “And his family. His baby. I thought that wasn’t right,“ he added softly.

  Slowly she nodded. In Colombia, we still believe blood is thicker than water.

  It was almost as if the threat of the man in the doorway no longer existed. Or at least had become unimportant. Rafe had told her the truth in this room that night. Not all of it, of course, but at least the truth about his brother. Why, then, hadn’t he confessed the rest?

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked the question aloud and knew by his slight smile that Rafe understood.

  “That’s the reason I asked you to come today. To explain all the whys. After what you said, I knew there were explanations I had to make.”

  “An impulse to confession for which I’m very grateful,” Grajales interrupted the quiet exchange, reminding them of his presence, of the continued threat he represented.

  “You’ve been following me?” Rae asked, trying to buy time. Time to think. There had to be something she could do.

  “On occasion. Mostly I’ve listened to your phone conversations, which have been remarkably dull. Until finally, today, my patience was rewarded. A call from someone who promised to tell you all about the man in Virginia. This has been a long and frustrating search, but I am a very patient man, and the promised reward was…extremely high.”

  “You’ll never get away with it,” Rae said.

  Movie dialogue, she thought in disgust. B-grade. He would get away with it unless she thought of something. Her brain was racing, but nothing that occurred to her was much better than the empty threat she’d just made.

  “And who do you think will stop me?” Grajales questioned, letting his amusement show. “I don’t believe Hardesty’s cavalry will show up for the rescue this time. However, I do think it’s time we were on our way—just to prevent any chance of an unexpected interruption. I have a car outside. Mr. Ramirez, if you would.”

  He smiled at Rafe, who made no move to obey. The big gun slowly traced toward the man still sitting calmly on the ivory sofa. When the eye of the revolver finally arrived at its target, nothing in his dark features had changed.

  “No,” Rafe said simply.

  The blood in Rae’s heart congealed, a thick, cold knot in her chest. Please, God, she prayed. Please, don’t let him shoot. Don’t make me watch him die. Not now. Now that I finally know what he is.

  Even as she prayed, she was measuring the distance to the door, calculating how quickly she could cross it. Do something, her instincts screamed, but she knew that if she did the wrong thing, she would only trigger a response she didn’t want, one she had just prayed wouldn’t happen.

  Grajales wouldn’t kill Rafe, she told herself. Rafe was safe because he was the man who could find the treasure. Rafe was safe, so that left…

  “It won’t do you any good,” Rafe said. “I won’t do what you want. You’ve waste
d a great deal of time and energy.”

  “Do you think so?” Grajales asked politely. His eyes moved slowly and deliberately to Rae. “I, on the other hand, believe you will do exactly as I want you to. Because now I have Ms. Phillips. You may be very willing to die, however slowly and painfully I could arrange for that to happen, but somehow…” His gaze returned mockingly to Rafe. “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll be so willing to watch her suffer. You do remember how painful that suffering can be, don’t you, Señor Ramirez? The savages from Medellin almost killed the goose that could provide the golden egg— the man who could find Escobar’s money. What a shame if they had succeeded. I suppose we should all be grateful to Mr. Hardesty for his intervention.”

  Grajales had come to the same realization Rae had reached. She was the key to making Rafe do what he wanted. He began to cross the room toward them.

  Closer, Rae urged the advancing figure. A little closer. Just give me some kind of opportunity, she thought. A chance was all she asked for.

  He stopped finally, facing the fireplace, the third point of the intimate triangle they formed. He was too near now to adequately cover them both, but his gun had shifted to Rae during his journey, its muzzle aimed at her body like a pointing finger. She was the one standing, the greatest threat. And the greatest leverage. Leverage to use against the man who still sat, unmoving, on the ivory sofa.

  The .357 shifted slightly to focus on her left shoulder.

  “The other shoulder this time, I think,” Grajales said. “I’ll try for a flesh wound, Ms. Phillips, but I can’t really promise that. It’s difficult to be that precise, as I’m sure you know.”

  Rae remembered the day she’d taken Kyle’s bullet. The fear she was going to die. The pain. It was all there in her head, but she tried to allow none of what she felt to show in her face. Rafe didn’t need to know how afraid she was.

  “Now, Mr. Ramirez,” Grajales ordered again. He never even glanced at the seated man, his attention completely on Rae, a small satisfied smile playing about his lips.

  Rae forced herself to be patient. The opportunity was Rafe’s. He would have to make the move because he wasn’t covered by the big gun’s threat. And when he did, she would be ready to dive out of the line of fire. He would never let Grajales shoot her, and whatever action he decided to take, she would be ready, she thought, feeling the adrenaline kick in. She certainly wasn’t going to get into a car with this bastard. And neither was Rafe.

  “Or do you need help?” Grajales asked, his politeness blatantly false now, the small smile broadening. “I’m sure Ms. Phillips would be very willing to assist you.”

  “I don’t need assistance,” Rafe said.

  He bent down for something lying on the floor at the end of the sofa. Something hidden in the shadows between the couch and the table that held the decanter.

  The eyes of the man holding the gun never wavered from their focus on Rae, but again she had almost forgotten him. She watched as Rafe gripped and fitted the metal forearm crutches he’d picked up. Watched him use them to lift himself off the couch. He was so tall, she thought irrelevantly, when he was standing, leaning slightly on the sticks.

  He looked up to find her eyes on him.

  “I told you, Rae. Not the prince of the fairy tales,” he said softly.

  She defeated the sudden blur of tears, but she couldn’t seem to produce an answering smile. Paul had warned her so long ago about the scope of the injuries the courier had suffered. He hadn’t lied about that. And at last she knew why Rafael Ramirez had not intended her to know who he was or at what cost he had avenged his brother’s death.

  “The truth,” she whispered. This was what he had planned to reveal today. This is why he had asked her to come. All I seem able to manage is to hate myself. Because she had told him that, he had finally decided to tell her the truth.

  And now it was up to her, she realized suddenly. Whatever hope she’d had that Rafe might stop Grajales was lost in this reality. Any action taken toward getting them out of this would have to be her call and her responsibility.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Rae. I would never willingly do that, my heart,” Rafe said. “I did try to warn you. A long time ago. So you’d know—this is not a rescue, querida.”

  It was the same message he had sent through Diego. To warn her about Kyle.

  Even as she was making that connection, Rafe swung upward the metal crutch he held in his right hand, a blur of motion, to impact under the wrist of the man with the gun, the man who still had his entire attention concentrated on Rae, discounting entirely whatever danger Rafael Ramirez might be to his plans, because, of course, he had never seen Rafe as a threat.

  The weapon discharged, the sound too loud in the stillness of the room, the bullet whining into the wall behind Rae’s head. The force of Rafe’s unexpected blow had dislodged the gun, which flew out of Grajales’s hand. Without pause, Rafe swung the stick sideways, like a scythe, to catch him full in the face.

  By that time Rae was moving. She launched herself, her shoulder aimed at Grajales’s midsection. She could hear the breath leave his lungs when she hit. They went down together, landing hard, her body slightly cushioned by his.

  She recovered first, raising her torso to drive an elbow into his face, not particular about where it landed because she could feel him already beginning to stir beneath her. His cheekbone, she thought, judging from the surprisingly satisfying sensation of cracking bone. The next driving blow, with all the force of her body behind it, was more accurately landed on his nose, and he slumped back to the floor, eyes closed, his body no longer moving.

  Far easier to handle than Diego had ever been, she thought.

  Rae crawled off Grajales, panting a little. She rested a moment, still on her hands and knees, watching his face for any signs of returning consciousness, infinitely grateful that there didn’t seem to be any.

  She was still congratulating herself when the unmistakable clatter of an automatic weapon erupted from the open door. Instinctively, she dropped flat, pushing her body against the floor beside Grajales as shards of stone from the fireplace flickered over her, stinging hard where they struck.

  Rafe, she thought. Where the hell was Rafe?

  Just as that thought formed, she heard the deep-throated answer of the .357 from behind her. Somehow, Rafe had gotten to Grajales’s gun.

  There was another barrage from the doorway, spewing death across the room. She heard glass break and more debris rained down, a drift of white-plaster snow from the walls or the ceiling. She put her hands over the back of her head as a primitive shield. Again the single cough of the heavy revolver echoed through the room. An answer.

  And then nothing. In the sudden, shocking silence, Rae waited—as long as she could force her heart to wait. The entire exchange of gunfire had probably lasted twenty seconds. She waited at least twice that long before she carefully raised her head enough to check the entrance to the room. She could see bodies sprawled in the open doorway, but no one standing.

  She glanced toward the fireplace, which had taken the brunt of the damage. Rafe was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the stone facing, the .357 he’d knocked out of Grajales’s hand still trained competently on the doorway. She could see above his head the sweeping pattern of damage from the automatic weapons. No blood, she thought. He was down, but she didn’t see any blood. His eyes were open and trained, also waiting, on the door.

  Finally, because she couldn’t make herself delay any longer, she began to crawl across the debris-littered rug that stretched between the two couches. She stayed low, out of the immediate line of fire of anyone entering the room. When she was near enough, she touched Rafe’s left hand, and the long fingers closed tightly around hers, steadying ones that were still shaking with reaction.

  “I think that’s all of them,” Rafe said, “but you’d better call Hardesty.”

  She glanced across the room. From this vantage she could clearly see that there were t
wo bodies before the open door. Grajales’s henchmen had apparently reacted to the discharge of the revolver by rushing into the room, prepared to launch a rescue or to help in whatever assault their boss had undertaken.

  She turned back to Rafe.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, her concern for him instinctive.

  Rafe met her gaze and held it for a long moment. He allowed the gun to lower until it lay flat against the worn denim that covered his thigh.

  “Nice shooting,” he said.

  “What?” she asked blankly.

  “I think that’s what you would have said to anyone else.”

  “Nice shooting?” she echoed. What the hell was he talking about?

  The black eyes were cold. She realized suddenly that he was angry. Because she hadn’t complimented his marksmanship? What the hell kind of reaction was that?

  “Call Hardesty,” he ordered again. His gaze had shifted to the open doorway, but the gun didn’t lift.

  Knowing he was right, she got up to find a phone.

  She couldn’t just leave him here, she thought, sitting on the damn floor.

  “Let me help you up,” she suggested, and watched the cold black eyes meet hers again.

  “Call Hardesty, Rae. There’s a phone on the desk.”

  “Are you sure that I can’t—”

  “I’m very sure. Thank you.”

  HARDESTY SENT the cops, and they arrived first. Rae was relieved when Paul himself appeared minutes after their arrival. She hadn’t brought any ID, and she could tell by their attitudes that the uniforms weren’t thrilled about being called out on Christmas Day to handle a shooting at the Colombian Embassy.

  On his way into the library Hardesty bent to check the bodies that still blocked the doorway.

  “Nice shooting,” he said, looking up to smile at her. “Your daddy taught you good, Rae.”

  “It wasn’t me. It was Mr. Ramirez.”