by Maggie Ryan
Anson
The Black Stallion Trilogy - Book Three
Maggie Ryan
Alta Hensley
Blushing Books
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Maggie Ryan
Alta Hensley
EBook Offer
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Maggie Ryan and Alta Hensley
Anson
EBook ISBN: 978-1-61258-211-5
Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design
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Chapter 1
Eyes the color of the ocean locked onto ones far darker and far more dangerous. The only thing stirring was the flicking tongue of the pit viper whose movement had caught Anson’s attention, freezing him in place. While most snakes would prefer to slither away from human contact, this particular species was known for its aggressiveness, striking with very little provocation. Judging the distance, Anson wished he’d caught sight of the danger before he’d crawled those last few inches. Though extremely swift, the reptile’s striking range was considerably shorter than that of other snakes. Unfortunately, if Anson’s calculations were correct, he was very close to being within the ten inches, which should be the outside limit of the snake’s ability to lunge.
Everything he’d ever learned about venomous reptiles filed through his head and the information wasn’t heartening. If he were bitten, he’d have an extremely slim chance of getting help before he collapsed. Anson could practically see his brother, Stryder, shaking his head and hear him saying, “And you thought freezing your ass off in Russia was bad. Bro, I hate to break it to you, but chilly balls are better than the burning agony of a snake bite.”
I’m not about to die in some fucking jungle in the middle of Argentina. Now shut the hell up. I’m trying to think here. Sometimes Anson wished he didn’t have a mind that tended to retain every trivial fact he’d ever read. Ignorance had to be bliss because he knew that the actual bite was the least of his worries. It would only hurt for a short time before he’d begin to experience difficulty breathing. Massive tissue destruction would follow, and his gut would begin to fill as he bled internally. Look, buddy, I don’t have any beef with you. I’m just passing through. How about we live and let live?
His eyes never left the elliptical ones of the fer-de-lance and despite the suggestion he’d just offered, the moment he knew his offer would be ignored, he jerked his arm to cover his face, feeling the impact of the snake before he saw the body wrapping around his forearm.
Using his other hand, Anson grabbed the snake behind its triangular shaped head. “Fuck, you’re a determined little bastard aren’t you?” He could actually see the reptile’s jaws working to pump venom into its prey. Fortunately, that victim was the leather scabbard strapped to Anson’s forearm, the thickness keeping the fangs from penetrating any vital part of his anatomy. Applying pressure, Anson forced the snake’s jaws to open wider and pulled him off his arm. The greenish-gold body, striped with narrow bands of lighter yellow continued to whip around as Anson carried him back in the direction he’d come. Stooping, he held the snake up.
“Unlike you, I’m willing to extend a friendly hand. However, you do so much as take even a single glance back, and I promise, just like Lot’s wife, you’ll die. Comprende?” Not willing to see if the snake understood his reference to the Bible story where, despite God’s instructions not to look back as she and her husband fled Sodom, Lot’s wife did and turned into a pillar of salt, Anson threw the snake several yards into the jungle. Wiping his hands on his pants, he shook his head. Glistening drops of some of the deadliest poison in the world dripped down his arm. Remov
ing the scabbard, he swiped it against the ground, wiping the venom off into the undergrowth before rising.
He didn’t bother to drop to his stomach. What he’d thought might be the shuffle of boots through the brush, causing him to drop from his standing position, had obviously been the snake slithering through the undergrowth. He was still at least a mile from the compound. If walking in normal conditions, he’d have easily covered the distance in under twelve minutes. But nothing about his present course was normal. It would take him closer to an hour to arrive at his destination.
Setting off, his eyes sweeping back and forth as well as up and down, as snakes were known to drop from trees onto unsuspecting hikers, he chuckled. He remembered warning Stryder not to go “Rambo” on their last mission and yet here he was, practically a body double for the man… well, if you discounted the blond hair and blue eyes. Despite the heat, he wore camo fatigues, the cotton and polyester blend necessary to survive shoving through dense foliage but not allowing very much ventilation. Combat boots he hadn’t worn since he’d been in the Air Force were laced up his shins. What part of his skin that wasn’t concealed by his clothing, was covered in paint that helped him blend in with his surroundings. He had walked for a half hour before he reached over his shoulder and pulled the straw connected to the CamelBak into his mouth, sucking hard, grimacing a bit. No matter how thoroughly he cleaned the pack after each use, there was always an unpleasant taste of plastic to the liquid. Still, the three liters it held guaranteed that he’d stay hydrated and not have to rely on finding any source of water for at least a few hours.
As he moved through the thick tangle of vegetation, he occupied his mind by recalling the details of the compound he’d managed to obtain. Though Juan Montez was one of the richest men in South America and could live wherever he wanted, his very choice of occupation required he live in a fucking fortress. And, evidently, the drug czar had decided to make it the most impenetrable compound of all. Anson couldn’t really fault him for that, since he was sure the bastard had witnessed or been told of many competitors who hadn’t taken such steps with their safety… men who no longer existed, taken out by their enemies. Hell, Montez was probably responsible for the deaths of at least a few.
Unlike the law that had finally seen some justice with the cartels that had held Colombia hostage, any government presence was a total joke this far south. That was only one small part of why Anson was on his own. A solo target was a lot harder to track than many. Even though he knew the rest of the Black Stallion team—his father and two brothers—wouldn’t hesitate to call in every marker they had in order to execute a full-on assault of the complex, he wasn’t about to take the chance that Natalia would be hurt or killed in the crossfire. This had been his mission from the moment he’d laid eyes on Natalia. So, for now, he’d do his reconnaissance, gather the data that he needed and then melt back into the jungle. It killed him to wait but he knew doing so gave the woman the best chance of leaving Argentina alive.
The sun had dipped below the treetops by the time he stopped. After checking the surrounding area very carefully, he dropped to once again lie on his stomach. Reaching behind him, he pulled a pair of goggles from the compartment beneath the water pouch. With the sun’s disappearance, he didn’t have to worry about any rays catching the lens of his goggles, causing a flash of light which would announce his presence as surely as if he stood in a spotlight. He scanned the compound, mentally counting guards, noticing exits, buildings, vehicles. The place was literally crawling with men, though they didn’t look particularly attentive. Several were smoking as they leisurely patrolled the grounds, while he could see a few men talking in a group. Still, it wouldn’t take but a moment to draw the rifles that hung from their shoulders into position if danger was sensed.
Anson was practically motionless, the only thing moving was his head as he slowly swiveled it, his eyes pressed to the eyepieces of the goggles. With the last of the sun gone, he flipped a switch to activate the night vision capabilities. The landscape instantly bloomed into various hues of green. Nightfall did not cause any additional vigilance. Perhaps Montez’s health was failing faster than Anson had been informed. A dying czar didn’t draw the fierce loyalty or attention of his men. However, once the son of a bitch took up residence in hell, where he belonged, Anson had no doubt that every man in view would be hyper alert and fighting for their place in whatever new hierarchy would swoop in to take over Montez’s enterprises. His view was partially blocked so he stowed the goggles and slowly moved to change positions. Looking up, he shook his head.
Why couldn’t he be dressed in a designer tux, stepping out of some insanely equipped car before a swanky casino? He could easily see himself sauntering up to the bar to order his medium dry martini with a slice of lemon peel and, of course, it would be shaken, not stirred. He’d catch the eye of some gorgeous woman who would have a ridiculous name dripping with sexual innuendo. Nope, not him. He wasn’t about to wrap his arms around the waist of some blonde named Ivanna Screw. Instead, he was working his way up some fucking tree, hand over hand, until he could settle on a branch. Forget Rambo, he’d left him behind and was now playing Tarzan.
Movement caught his eye and refocused his attention. A door opened and he forgot all about Bond’s women as he caught sight of the woman who had haunted him for the past several months. Natalia Alvarez filled the lenses of the glasses. Anson was incredibly grateful to see her alive and well, and yet in an instant, felt a surge of hatred fill him as another person followed her out the door.
What the fuck was he doing outside? For a man on his deathbed, he hadn’t lost a single ounce. There was no mistaking the man. His obesity dwarfed Natalia’s smaller frame and when his hand clamped on her arm, tugging her towards one of the lounge chairs that sat around the pool, it was all Anson could do to not snarl for Montez to get his fucking paws off her. When the man collapsed into the chair, Anson could see it bend and practically hear it groaning in protest. But when thick fingers reached to tug the sash around Natalia’s waist, hands pulling the loosened fabric of her robe open to reveal that she wore nothing more than a tiny bikini beneath, it was all Anson could do to remain motionless. Every cell in his body urged him to leap from the tree, scale the wall and pound the man into oblivion. As a hand that dealt in drugs, causing the death of so many, reached out to slap Natalia’s ass, Anson saw red instead of green.
He watched as Natalia walked to the end of the pool. She hadn’t cried out, hadn’t pushed Montez’s hand away and yet Anson had seen the slump of her shoulders before she’d lifted her arms above her head to execute a perfect dive into the water. He followed every stroke of her arms, impressed that she never lifted her head to breathe as she swam the entire length of the pool. She flipped over, took a breath and retraced her path. Again and again, lap after lap, she swam while Montez watched. Well, he watched until he was joined by another man, the two now sitting on adjoining lounges, discussing God knew what. A servant brought out a tray of drinks, which the men enjoyed after snipping the ends off cigars that were soon brighter spots of green in Anson’s goggles as the men smoked. Unable to hear what they were saying, just seeing they were totally relaxed, told Anson something vital. They didn’t appear the least bit worried that any danger threatened. That was good as far as Anson was concerned. He’d much prefer the man be blindsided when he found his life turned upside down.
He watched Natalia swim until she finally stopped, her arms folded on the edge of the pool as she caught her breath. When her head lifted and turned towards the wall, Anson’s breath caught in his throat. Did she see him or was she just envisioning the freedom that had been denied her? When she turned away, Anson moved his goggles to see that Montez was beckoning for her to come. Anson gritted his teeth and watched as the young woman used her hands to push herself up until she could climb from the pool. Raking his gaze down her frame, Anson tried to ascertain whether she showed any type of injury, though he knew short of a broken bone or abnormal swell
ing, the goggles precluded any real inspection. Still, she was walking steadily, though slowly, towards the man who had purchased her at the slave auction in Russia a few months earlier.
Hatred ran through Anson Steele and he could swear his blood was boiling as he watched Montez run his hands over Natalia’s sleek body. He palmed her breasts and then her ass, as if making sure his companion knew that this beautiful woman belonged to him. After Montez gave a final slap to her butt that caused Natalia to stumble, Anson watched as she picked up her robe and slipped it on before disappearing back inside the house.
“Hold on, I swear I’m coming for you. Just stay strong a little bit longer,” Anson encouraged Natalia silently. He watched the compound until Montez and his guest retreated inside. Only then did he climb from the tree and begin the long hike back towards the river. He didn’t care about the distance, knowing it would give him time to shove down the emotions threatening to consume him. By the time he reached the river, he’d be ready to call home and give his account to his father, who had been doing some research of his own.
The moon was out, though it provided very little illumination as he finally reached the spot where he’d camp for the evening. Camp was a generous term, as there were no large domed tents like the ones he and his brothers would raise when they’d go up into the Chisos Mountains for a weekend of camping, fishing, and hiking. There was no large circle of stones containing a roaring bonfire. No camp chairs offered a weary man a place to sit and not a single pan was in view, its contents ready to fill a hungry man’s belly. In fact, there was nothing at all.
Shrugging off his pack, he opened the compartment and pulled out his poncho. After checking the area, he chose a low hanging set of branches and improvised a small shelter that would at least give him a bit of protection. The only source of light was the beam from the small flashlight Anson aimed at the interior of his pack. Within a few minutes, he had his dinner cooking. Tonight’s entrée, found in the MRE—or Meal Ready to Eat—he’d opened, promised him a taste of Texas. Anson wasn’t gullible enough to believe that the barbequed pork patty would taste like anything he’d enjoyed at The Flying Pig back in his country, even though he did have a packet of BBQ sauce to pour over the meat when it finished steaming in its handy dandy disposable oven. As he waited the recommended fifteen minutes to allow the chemically activated heating pouch to cook his meal, he munched on crackers he’d spread with peanut butter. Each MRE contained several packets of food as well as a spoon, gum, some sort of powdered drink, a condiment or two, and a small packet of tissues that soldiers had learned was better kept to be used to wipe your ass than to waste on wiping your fingers. Toilet paper that didn’t feel like sandpaper was something that men far from home quickly found to be a luxury.
