“You don’t look well. Our jungle atmosphere must be too much for you. Perhaps you should stick closer to the house.”
Emily nodded. “I think you’re right.”
“This is a little far off the beaten path for you to just get lost.” His words were casual, but his stance was stiff and wary.
“I was just taking a little walk,” she said, trying to explain herself and remove the suspicion from his face. “But I walked into this giant spiderweb and just about died when I saw what was sitting in it and, well…I’m afraid I got spooked and I ran, but I must have gone in the wrong direction because suddenly I’m standing here about to become this cat’s breakfast.”
He didn’t laugh, didn’t even crack a smile. Instead, he said, “Don’t worry about Akisha. She’s already eaten.”
Emily looked back at the cat. Eaten or not, she was sure it would have taken immense pleasure in batting her around a bit and perhaps pulling off an arm or two. “I wish I could say I find that comforting.”
“Esteban!” Baltasar called, turning behind him.
Esteban stepped out of the bushes.” “Sí, señor?”
Emily stiffened at the sight of the small guard. How was it he always seemed to appear out of nowhere? Had he been following her? Had he seen her with Peter?
“Please see the doctor makes it back to the house.” He placed a guiding hand on her shoulder, forcing her toward the guard. “I’m sure Marcos will be waking soon and will want to go on that walk through the gardens. I’ll meet you back there in an hour.”
She nodded, and couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t order Esteban to get her back to the house safely. Perhaps Peter was right, perhaps her time was running out.
Peter stood far back in the bushes and watched the exchange. He held his breath, wondering what Baltasar would do next. Would he feed her to his favorite pet? His insides burned as the cruel smile came over his nemesis’s face. Baltasar was on to her; it was only a matter of time before he’d turn on her.
Why couldn’t he have convinced her to leave? Never had he met a more frustrating, impulsive and headstrong woman. How had he ever let her work her way into his heart? She’d caused him nothing but grief, nothing but trouble. He stiffened as Esteban took her by the arm and led her away.
He knew how the guard felt about her, but he also knew he wouldn’t act on those feelings yet. Not until Baltasar’s use for her was over. Peter waited for Baltasar to leave before moving out of his hiding place. Emily might have just given him the opportunity he’d been waiting for. While she and Baltasar were on their walk in the gardens, he would be in Baltasar’s office, downloading his computer files and trying to find out any information he could on who this mysterious contact was in Colorado Springs.
He walked back to his bungalow, grabbed a bite and took a quick shower to wash off the jungle muck. As he stood under the hot spray, hazel eyes and long wheat-colored hair flashed through his mind. He had been in the jungle too long, he realized. He’d been so tempted to give in to her, to pull her into his arms and take her back. To believe that they really could make it work together. But he would have been fooling himself, and he might be a lot of things, but a fool wasn’t one of them.
Exactly one hour later, he made his way back to the estate house and watched until he spotted Emily and Baltasar come out of the hospital wing with Marcos. Emily looked tired and flushed as she pushed the boy’s wheelchair. The climate must be getting to her. He watched her for a moment, wondering how he was going to keep her safe in spite of herself, then headed for Baltasar’s office. He needed to get as much information as he could, before the deal went down in Chicago. If anything went wrong, he wouldn’t get another chance. He glanced at his watch. He had exactly three hours until Baltasar received his report back from Chicago.
He stood outside the French doors leading into Baltasar’s empty office. He opened the door and slipped inside. As quickly as he could, he pulled out a disk drive and USB cable and plugged it in to Baltasar’s computer. He scanned the files and, one by one, started downloading the folders onto the disk drive.
While the files were copying, he searched the desk, looking for anything that would help them nail El Patrón. In the third drawer, he hit pay dirt. For the last couple of years, Baltasar had been building an extensive network of mules to distribute his product worldwide. What Peter found especially interesting were the names: Anita, Rosa, Maria, Anna, Melinda. The mules were all women.
He took out a small camera used specifically by operatives for photographing documents and took several pictures of the pages in the file—the drop points and the photographs of the women. He had almost finished when he heard a door slam down the hallway.
He stiffened, and with his pulse racing he quickly restored order to the desk and returned the file. He disconnected the cable and disk drive and placed them with the camera in a small fanny pack as he slipped out the French doors. He had just hidden the pack in the bushes when Snake entered the room.
Crouching down, Peter watched Snake slowly peruse the office. His fingers lightly touched the desk, straightening the blotter before he crossed the room to the doors and peered out the glass. Peter dropped back farther into the bushes and held his breath as Snake stood motionless. After a minute, he reached down and turned the lock, then left the room.
Peter’s breathing returned to normal. He waited a full minute before standing and walking casually out of the bushes. He would come back after nightfall and retrieve the fanny pack.
“Hey, you! What are you doing over there?”
Peter froze at the sound of the harsh voice. He took a deep breath then turned. One of Baltasar’s guards had his weapon pointed at Peter’s chest.
“Amigo,” Peter said, raising his hands in the air. “No need to overreact.” He smiled, though he recognized the guard as the man who was upset with Emily. Esteban—the little man with the huge ego.
“What you doing outside the boss’s office?” he demanded in halting English.
“Waiting for Mr. Escalante,” Peter said casually. He started to walk forward, to move as far away from the fanny pack as he could.
Esteban waved his gun, stopping him. “In the bushes?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Let’s go.” He gestured Peter toward the path.
“Where?” Peter asked, and hardened his jaw to keep his cool as Esteban shoved the gun’s muzzle into his back.
“You want to see the boss, now you gonna.”
The heat was getting to Emily. Either that or she was getting sick, but she couldn’t shake the lethargy that was overcoming her, nor the headache the blinding sun beating down on her head was producing. Please don’t let me get sick now, but even as she said the silent prayer, her throat hurt as she swallowed.
She took a deep gulp off her water bottle and pulled her hat down over her head. She’d have to be extra careful around Marcos, whose limited immune system wouldn’t be able to handle exposure to a virus right now.
She glanced down at the boy. His spirits were running high. He was chatting incessantly and wore a huge smile on his face. She attributed the change in his demeanor to the presence of his father more than anything else. The boy idolized Baltasar. It was sweet to see, but she wished the man was more deserving.
The two talked, completely unmoved by the overwhelming heat—nor did they seem to notice the constant presence of bugs circling around them. How could they casually stroll along as if there wasn’t the danger of deadly snakes or hungry jaguars roaming on the other side of the mowed grass, just through the trees? She glanced at the thick foliage now, fully expecting something to jump out and attack them. Her head swam and she swayed on her feet.
“Dr. Señorita?”
Emily turned her attention back to Marcos. “I’m sorry, Marcos. What did you say?”
“You still don’t look well, Dr. Armstrong,” Baltasar said. “I hope you’re not coming down with something.”
“No, not at all,” Emily denied, and stifled an urg
e to run her hand across her forehead. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her and didn’t think he would take very well to his son’s doctor being sick, too. “It’s the heat,” she said. “I’m not used to this type of climate.”
Before he could respond, they heard footsteps and turned to see Peter approaching with Esteban at his back. “Take Marcos back inside,” Baltasar ordered softly.
Emily couldn’t move. Something was wrong. Did that creep have a gun on Peter? Because Peter was letting him in.
“Now,” Baltasar demanded.
She turned from Peter’s stoic face and looked at Baltasar. The anger in his voice matched the cold fury in his eyes. “Yes, sir,” she said, and quickly turned Marcos’s chair away from the men.
“What is it?” Marcos said. “Why do we have to go in?”
“I don’t know,” Emily admitted, and didn’t appreciate being put in the position to have to explain to the boy. Baltasar should have said something to his son, should have made up an excuse for cutting their walk short so Marcos wouldn’t go back to his room worried and anxious.
“I guess he had unexpected business that couldn’t wait.” Emily glanced back over her shoulder, but all she could see were the three men standing close together talking. She couldn’t see anything that would lead her to believe that Peter was in serious trouble. She supposed it was just the look on his face that had her stomach twisted into knots.
“Your papa’s a very important man, and sometimes business can’t be helped,” she said, hoping to appease him.
Marcos nodded, but she could see the hurt in his eyes and it bothered her. Once she got him settled in his bed, she quickly and covertly took her temperature—100.9. She cringed as she read the number, took some Tylenol and went in search of Robert. He would have to spend more time with the boy as she would need to keep her distance from Marcos, and she’d have to do so without Baltasar discovering why.
What if he found out? Worse yet, what if he decided he didn’t need her anymore?
Peter played it cool and casual, explaining to Baltasar that he was just looking for him, making his way around the grounds, then hinted very subtly that perhaps his guard was a little too ambitious, a little too whacked. Baltasar wasn’t buying it, though his gaze did sit on Esteban a little longer than was comfortable for the shifty guard.
“Let’s go back to my office and wait for the news from Chicago,” Baltasar said, and walked toward the house.
As Peter followed close behind, he prayed the CIA would come through for him and the drop in Chicago would go down as planned. He had hoped to get confirmation from his dad before he’d had to face Baltasar. A little advance warning in case the deal in Chicago went bad and he’d be able to grab Emily and disappear. But all bets were off now. It didn’t appear as if Baltasar was going to let him out of his sight.
“Now that everything is settled, why don’t I meet you back at your office?” Peter suggested. “I have a few phone calls I need to make, a little business I must take care of.”
“I don’t think so,” Baltasar said casually.
“If I’m going to have Chicago ready for a major shipment on the thirteenth, I need to get people in place, payoffs have to be made.”
“I understand that, Pietro, but I don’t think you understand me. I want you to wait with me in my office for the news from Chicago.”
“Why the hardball all of a sudden? We have time and I need to make sure everything is set up to go off without a hitch. If we’re going to work together, then you’re going to have to trust me, unless you don’t want a piece of Chicago after all?”
Baltasar’s gaze turned glacial. “You better hope everything goes off without a hitch, Mr. Presti.” He opened the door and walked into his office, then sat behind his desk.
Peter followed him into the room and quickly scanned for any telltale signs that would betray his presence there earlier. Everything looked in order.
“Have a seat,” Baltasar said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.
Not seeing any way around it, Peter sat down.
“I understand you paid a visit to Dr. Armstrong’s room last night.”
Peter’s gut tightened. He stared at the man, trying to decide which way to spin what happened. “The woman’s muy bonita, eh?” he said and gave Baltasar a wide toothy grin.
“She’s my son’s doctor,” Baltasar said coldly.
“She’s also an American,” Peter explained. “And it’s been a long time since I’ve talked to someone from home.” The words came out more sincerely than he could have hoped, because to him Emily was home. His home. “I meant no disrespect.”
“I understand there was a lot more than talking going on,” Baltasar said, refusing to let it drop.
“She didn’t seem to mind the attention. Why should you?” Peter questioned, hoping to put Baltasar on the defensive.
“I find it hard to believe Dr. Armstrong would let a total stranger kiss her.”
She wouldn’t. Peter shrugged. “I have that effect on women.”
Baltasar scoffed and turned away. He took a cigar out of the humidor and, this time, didn’t offer Peter one.
Things weren’t boding well.
Baltasar rose, opened the door, murmured to Esteban then sat back down. Peter stared at the clock on his desk—ninety more minutes before he’d discover how the deal went down in Chicago, ninety more minutes before he’d find out if he’d live or die.
The silence in the room grew thick as the minutes ticked by. Peter took in every minute detail in the office, right down to the fibers on the carpet and the buzzing of a bee outside the window.
This wasn’t going well.
A minute later, the door opened and Esteban walked into the room carrying a paper sack and looking at him with a small note of twisted triumph.
Anxiousness turned Peter’s stomach.
“I asked Esteban to go through your bungalow and bring me back anything interesting.”
Peter stiffened. “I hardly think that’s an appropriate way to start off our working relationship.”
“Neither is skulking about, spying, trespassing where you don’t belong and seducing my son’s doctor,” Baltasar retorted. He dumped the bag out on the desk. Peter’s wallet, phone, infrared goggles, knives and gun tumbled like a child’s playthings across the wooden surface.
“This is an interesting collection,” Baltasar said as he thumbed through the wallet, “but nothing unexpected.”
The tension in Peter’s back loosened a bit. There wasn’t anything there that would incriminate him. Esteban hadn’t found the global positioning system or the bugging devices he had stashed in the bungalow. His invasion could even have been a stroke of luck, he thought as he stared at his phone—if Baltasar let him answer it when the call came through. Of course, that didn’t mean he’d be able to escape, if the news was bad. But at least he’d have forewarning on his side.
Baltasar handed Peter the wallet, then swept the knives, gun and goggles into one of his desk drawers.
“Mind telling me why you’re keeping those?” Peter asked.
“Because where you’re going, you won’t be needing them.”
Peter’s hope that he’d be able to salvage this situation took a nosedive. “I thought we had a mutual exclusive business arrangement.”
“We do,” Baltasar said. “And as long as you play by the rules—my rules—we will get along just fine. But you need to understand that snooping around in my business is not acceptable.”
“Fine. But keep in mind that you’re not the only one taking risks here. I, too, have a lot at stake and don’t plan on losing.”
Baltasar stood, picked up Peter’s phone, dropped it on the ground, and then stomped on it, pulverizing the plastic.
Peter stared at his lifeline in horrified shock.
“What did you do that for?”
“Because right now we’re going to play things my way. Esteban is going to escort you to my private airstrip, Mr.
Presti, where you will board my private plane that will take you to Caracas. In Caracas, you will book yourself on the next available plane to Chicago. If my little test goes down today as it should, then I will contact you and we will do business. If it doesn’t, well I’m sure you’re going to wish you never heard the name Baltasar Escalante. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”
“Very clear. Everything will go down exactly the way it should. I have faith in my people.”
“For both our sakes, I hope it does, too.” He nodded to Esteban, and before Peter could make another sound, the little minion pulled him out of his chair and pushed him out the door. “If you’re right and our little deal goes well, be ready for another shipment in twenty-four hours. I plan on taking Chicago by storm.”
Twenty-four hours? Peter nodded and let several armed guards lead him to the airstrip, realizing that he would have to leave the fanny pack behind and hope no one would find it. He also accepted, with growing trepidation, that Emily was on her own. There was nothing he could do for her now.
Chapter Seven
Peter didn’t make a sound as Esteban and another of Baltasar’s guards escorted him off Baltasar’s plane and into the main terminal at Caracas Bolivar International Airport. They had a five-hour wait for the next available flight to Chicago. Peter cringed. Five hours wasted sitting here with these goons, trying to formulate a plan that would get Emily out of Venezuela, yet not jeopardize his mission. This was one feat he didn’t know how he’d be able to pull off, but he couldn’t leave Emily to the mercy of a madman like Baltasar.
As he leaned back in his chair, he scanned the terminal, mentally targeting every exit and every potential threat. He spotted at least three of Baltasar’s men scattered throughout the large room who were a little too interested in him. At one o’clock, Esteban’s cell phone rang. Peter watched Esteban’s face and prepared to bolt if the news was bad. To his surprise, Esteban handed him the phone. “Sí,” he said into the receiver.
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