So maybe she was that too-stupid-to-live leading lady after all.
He caught her by the arms and clamped a hand over her mouth before a squeak of sound left her lips. Eight more men in raid gear made their way across the field—definitely not guerillas; they were too well dressed and equipped. Two of the men dragged an unconscious body from the poppy field behind them.
Gabe.
Blood poured down the side of his face. Bruises darkened his jaw and cheekbone, his lip split open. Whoever they were, they’d beaten the holy hell out of him. He lay motionless where they dropped him, so very still that she couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not. Pain exploded in her chest. It hurt so bad she thought for sure she had to be bleeding internally.
No, he couldn’t be dead. He was too…stubborn.
She flailed against the arms holding her, biting down hard on the palm clamped over her mouth and simultaneously thrusting the tree branch into his stomach. Somehow, her weapon got turned around and it wasn’t the sharp end that hit his abs, but it was enough to knock him back a step. He released her with a loud curse and she ducked through the line of stunned men to get to Gabe’s side.
Breathing. Oh, thank God. And his heart beat strongly behind his ribs when she laid her head on his chest. Still, he looked like hell and his bad foot had swelled up, again turning an ugly shade of purple. Was that weakness how they’d managed to take him down?
A shadow fell over her as she hugged Gabe. She glared up at Brown Boots. “Who are you?”
Surprise flicked over his dark features that she spoke Spanish, but he recovered fast and answered a question with a question. “Are you with the EPC?”
“No. They took us hostage.” She looked at Gabe. Anger heated her blood and she felt the flush of it creep up her neck into her cheeks. “Why did you beat him?”
“He killed one of my men,” the leader said without remorse.
“Only because your man tried to kill us. We’re just trying to stay alive and find my brother and get out of this damn country!”
“Your brother?” He sounded extremely interested and Audrey squeezed her eyes shut.
Dammit. Gabe said she shouldn’t have told Cocodrilo about Bryson in the first place, and now she’d gone and made the same mistake with this new group. Someday she’d learn to keep her mouth shut. If it didn’t get her killed first.
“Are you American, then?” he asked with a pronounced English accent. When she said nothing, he added, “Related to the American businessman, Bryson Van Amee?”
Figuring that for a rhetorical question, she stayed silent. So he already knew about Bryson. Wasn’t that just lovely. Maybe the EPC hadn’t taken Bryson at all, and these guys were responsible. Better trained and equipped for it, she had no doubt they had taken hostages before. Had no doubt they’d killed hostages before.
Oh God.
The leader moved away and spoke in low tones to his men. She didn’t hear much of the conversation, except for “the boss will want to see her,” and that sounded ominous so she tuned them out. Turning her attention to Gabe, she found all the blood came from a small cut at his hairline above his right eyebrow. Thank goodness it wasn’t bad. Might not even need stitches, but hopefully he had a hard head, because she really needed him to wake up concussion-free.
The group came to a consensus, and the two men that had been carrying Gabe returned to his side, picked him up by the arms and legs, and carted him away.
“Hey!” she said.
The leader held out a hand to her. “You are coming with us.”
“No.” She shook her head and held her ground. “I’m not going anywhere without…” What should she call Gabe? “Bodyguard” would probably get him shot, and “friend” wasn’t a strong enough relationship to warrant her refusal. She hitched her chin and met the leader’s eyes with a challenge in her own. “Without my husband.”
His brows lifted, disappearing under the fringe of his dark hair. “Indeed. I hate to inform you, I don’t need your consent.”
“It’d make your life easier. If you leave him, I’ll fight you every step.”
“I could coldcock you.”
“Yes, but I won’t stay unconscious forever, and I’ll wake up swinging. Unless”—she put a lot of stress on the word—“Gabe stays with me.”
“Gabe?” he echoed and his entire posture changed, jaw hardened, eyes flashed with hatred so hot she’d have been unsurprised to find Gabe’s unconscious body singed from it.
“Bloody fucking hell.” He whistled to his men, who were about to dump Gabe unceremoniously into the jungle and probably kill him.
“Forget it. He’s coming, too,” he told them in Spanish. “But cuff his hands behind his back in case he wakes and do not take your weapons off him for even an instant.” Then, he held out his hand to Audrey again. “Now, Mrs. Bristow, will you come with us?”
Like she had any other choice. Even though he’d framed it as a question, it was a command at heart.
Audrey ignored his offered hand and stood by herself, fearing she’d jumped out of the pot and into the fire. “You know my…husband?”
Brown Boots gave a clipped nod and looked toward the sky as a helicopter flew overhead.
Help? Audrey wondered and followed his gaze. She couldn’t tell, but friend or foe, there was no way for the people in that chopper to see them through the dense treetops.
Brown Boots motioned his men to get moving then turned back to her. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but that’ll just bugger things up when I make you a widow.” He gave her a shove forward. “So shut up and walk.”
…
“Looks like we’re too late,” Jean-Luc muttered and used the toe of his boot to nudge the still-warm body of a kid who’d had his throat slit ear-to-ear. He gazed up at Quinn, looking a little green, much like he had after Gabe fetched him, hungover, from the bayou. “Looks like someone not so nice got here first.”
Quinn’s chest tightened as he ducked inside the hut Gabe’s phone had led them to, half expecting to see his best friend in a similar state as the kid out front. God, he didn’t know how he’d react if—
The hut was empty.
Quinn covered his eyes with one shaking hand and felt the warm weight of Jean-Luc’s palm come down on his shoulder. “It’s okay, mon ami. This is a good thing.”
Right. A good thing that Gabe wasn’t dead on the dirt floor of this hut. Right.
Feeling ridiculous, Quinn shook off Jean-Luc’s hand and cleared his throat. “Contact Harvard and see if the phone’s moved.”
Jean-Luc stepped out of the hut for better reception, which gave Quinn some much-needed privacy. He bent over and placed his hands on his knees, sucking in three long breaths.
Gabe was okay. Gabe. Was. Okay. He wasn’t dead. Quinn hadn’t lost another loved one. Not yet. Not yet.
Jean-Luc came back inside and cleared his throat softly.
Quinn straightened so fast all the blood rushed from his head, making him dizzy as fuck. “Well?”
“Harvard says the phone hasn’t moved. He says, from your phone’s signal, it looks like you’re standing right on top of it.”
They both looked around. A feedbag lay in the middle of the floor, cut apart, its oats scattered. There were also the remnants of a boot nearby.
Quinn squatted down and, using his knife, picked up the boot. Someone had unlaced it then sliced each side open.
“Gabe’s?” Jean-Luc asked.
“Yeah. Man, his foot’s probably all kinds of fucked up right now.”
Dropping the boot, Quinn balanced his elbows on his knees and stared at the pile of feedbags. If the boot hadn’t been moved from the spot it landed, that meant Gabe must have been lying back on those bags when Audrey—he assumed it was Audrey—had cut it off. So it was entirely possible the phone slipped out of his pocket, especially if this is where he’d slept last night. Quinn stood and ran his hand through every crack and crevasse between the bags.
&n
bsp; Bingo. Gabe’s phone. He flipped it open, saw the battery icon blinking red in warning, and powered it down. A second later, Harvard came over the radio.
“Achilles, Harvard. Over.”
Quinn held out a hand for the radio. “Harvard, Achilles. Send your traffic.” They’d decided en route that they’d use their nicknames for all radio contact in case someone was listening.
“Be advised, I lost Stonewall’s signal,” Harvard said. “Repeat, I lost Stonewall’s signal. How copy?”
Quinn looked at the dead phone in his hand and sighed. “That’s a good copy. Out.” He started to hand the radio back to Jean-Luc, but instead hit the talk button again to find out Ian and Jesse’s location. “Boomer, Achilles. What’s your twenty? Over.”
“Headed your way,” Ian’s voice said a second later. “With a present. Out.”
Quinn and Jean-Luc shared a worried look.
“Is it just me,” Jean-Luc said, “or did Ian sound waaay too happy?”
Yeah, he’d had a peculiar ring of…glee in his voice. Christ, what had that psycho done now? Quinn had thought that by pairing Jesse with Ian, the mostly sensible medic would dilute the EOD expert’s particular brand of sociopathy.
Apparently not.
Shaking his head, Quinn strode to the door, more than a little afraid of what he might find waiting outside. Ian was dragging a bound, naked, and mutilated Colombian man across the camp like a recalcitrant puppy while Jesse walked behind, tight-lipped.
Disapproval and concern for the injured man rolled off the medic in pulses. “Okay, Dr. Lector, you can stop torturing him anytime now.”
Quinn felt the same way. He was not so noble that he wouldn’t use whatever means necessary to get what he wanted, but there was a line he wouldn’t cross. From the looks of things, Ian had crossed it and then some.
“Ian,” he said very softly, putting an edge of steel in his voice. “Let him go.”
Ian didn’t listen. Big surprise. He knocked the man to his knees, gripped his dark hair, and yanked his head back. Only then did the battered face covered in blood and snot ring a familiar bell.
“Recognize him?” Ian asked. When nobody answered, he scowled. “Did none of you read Harvard’s reports?” He jerked on the guy’s hair hard enough to make him cry out. “Meet Cocodrilo, the EPC’s general of the Amazon region. And he’s been quite talkative. In English, even. Told me some very interesting things you guys just might want to hear.”
Ian let Cocodrilo drop to a sobbing heap on the ground and brushed his hands together. He arched a brow at Jesse. “You can apologize for that Hannibal Lector crack anytime now.”
“No way.” Jesse shook his head. “I don’t care who he is. He’s a human being and you still went way too far, Lector.” He stressed the nickname with venom.
Ian snorted. “Why don’t you go spout that righteous shit to the families of all the people this asshole’s tortured and murdered, huh? Let me know how well that works out for you.”
“Shut up!” Quinn stepped between them and wondered how the hell Gabe dealt with shit like this without losing his mind. He could tell Jesse was itching to tend to the injured man and motioned him forward. “Jesse, go ahead and take care of him. And you—”
Ian’s shoulders stiffened and Quinn had a sudden flashback to his youth. When Big Ben finished beating his mother and turned on him with a belt in hand, that look in his liquor-glazed eyes, and slurred, And you, you little bastard…
Well, shit. When that happened, he used to tighten up exactly like Ian did just now. Had someone once also used the contemptuous Ian Reinhardt as a punching bag? It seemed unbelievable—and yet the proof was there in his dark, wary eyes and defensive stance.
Imagine that. Quinn had something in common with the psycho.
“Good job, Ian.” He said the words he’d so wanted to hear from his own father before he was old enough to realize they’d never come, and nodded in a show of approval. Abused kid to abused kid.
Ian looked so taken aback the expression on his face was almost comical. Blinking, he dropped the bad boy act and sounded apologetic when he muttered, “Uh, thanks.”
Quinn waited a beat, letting Ian have a moment to compose himself. When his ever-present sneer returned, Quinn nodded and got back to business. “So, what did you find out?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Coming back to consciousness was almost always as painful as getting KO’d in the first place, because it happened with a killer headache, churning nausea, and, in Gabe’s case, a foot that ached like a son of a bitch. Even so, his first thought before he opened his eyes was of Audrey. Was she safe? Was she still hiding somewhere in the jungle, or had she been abducted by the men who jumped him?
Goddamn, they shouldn’t have gotten the drop on him like that. He’d been too focused on the threat of Cocodrilo, too afraid for Audrey’s safety, that he didn’t see them until it was too late. And they weren’t stupid like the guerillas—the moment they noticed his bad foot, they attacked the weakness, taking his legs out from under him. Once he hit the ground, he’d known it was game over. Oh, he still fought with every skill he possessed—it wasn’t in him to do anything else—but it’d been with the certain knowledge that it was a hopeless fight. He was actually surprised he still drew breath, albeit painfully.
No matter. He had to get up, move out, and find Audrey.
Gabe pried open his eyes—and there she was, his lovely Audrey, kneeling beside him, haloed in sunshine. Freshly washed, her wet hair hung in a loose braid over one shoulder, and a filmy white dress hugged her slim body. Almost afraid she was a hallucination, he reached out a dirty hand and touched her cheek.
Warm. Soft. Real.
The crisp scent of citrus and clean woman drifted over to him as her hand covered his, and damn if his eyes didn’t burn.
“You’re okay.” His voice sounded like a bullfrog’s croak.
“So are you,” she said softly, lacing together their fingers. “A little beat up, but the doctor said you’ll be fine.”
Doctor?
With his fear for her safety assuaged, their surroundings started to sink in. A hotel? Had to be. He lay on a plush, very large bed with translucent bronze drapes billowing from the canopy. A mural covered one whole wall of the wide-open room, giving the illusion you were staring out over a city in Greece. Directly across the room was a wall of windows that opened to a balcony and gave a breathtaking view of the sea, but it sure wasn’t the Mediterranean. More like the Caribbean, since he was fairly certain they were still in Colombia, despite the room’s decor. But how did they end up on the coast when they’d been in the heart of the jungle? And how long had he been out? And…
“What doctor?” He sat up, ignoring Audrey when she started making noises about him lying still. “Where are we? What happened?”
“Gabe, please, take it easy.”
Not a chance. The more he saw of this room, the less he liked the situation. This was no hotel, but someone’s private home. An extremely wealthy someone’s private home. He rubbed his hands over his face and bumped a butterfly bandage stuck to his forehead. He ripped it off, tossed it aside.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll explain everything, but…” She bit her lower lip and motioned a pressing gesture, urging him to calm down. “Don’t freak out.”
Oh yeah, he really wasn’t going to like this. He shoved aside the blankets covering him only to discover he was naked underneath, except for a crisp white ace bandage wrapped around his bad foot. Well, fuck it. He’d planned for Audrey to see him naked sooner or later after this mess was over, when involvement with her wouldn’t be considered unprofessional. Might as well be sooner, though this wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined it going down. There was supposed to be kissing involved. Some licking. And groping. Lots of groping on both their parts.
And now would be a good time to put a kibosh on that kind of thinking or he’d only add insult to injury with a raging boner.
Audrey’s eyes widened, but she didn’t look away as he half-expected. He stood and put weight on his bad foot. Pain blazed up his calf, but the foot held, and he refused the crutches Audrey scrambled to retrieve.
“Where are my clothes?”
She sighed and returned the crutches to their spot in the corner of the room. “After Dr. Manello cut them off, I figured they were unsalvageable. But there are jeans and a T-shirt in the dresser for you.”
Gabe stalked over to the bronze-finished wood dresser. Those cargo pants had been his favorite pair, well-traveled and comfortably worn, and some doctor… Cut. Them. Off.
The fucker.
Scowling, fuming, he found clothes in the top drawer and yanked on stiff, brand new jeans in too dark a wash for his taste, forgoing both underwear and the soft red T-shirt.
“Uh, Gabe, maybe you should shower before—”
He sent a snarling, lethal glare over his shoulder that had quelled many a budding SEAL. But not Audrey. Her chin just hitched up in challenge.
“Well, sorry, but you look and smell like a caveman.” Planting a fist on one jutted hip, she glared right back at him. “But that doesn’t mean you get to act like one, too.”
“Don’t care. Now explain.” He faced Audrey, crossed his arms over his bare chest, and waited. She mimicked his pose except she tapped her foot and sunlight glinted off the jewels decorating her sandals.
She met him stare-to-stare. “Not until you stop acting like an ass.”
For some reason, instead of getting pissed at her defiance, Gabe found himself fighting back a smile. The woman had a backbone of pure steel. He really did love that about her.
Whoa. He backpedaled his thoughts, erasing that particular L word and replacing it with another. Like. Lust. He hadn’t meant to think L-O-V-E.
“I thought you said I was acting like a caveman,” he said.
“You are. A caveman’s ass.”
He snorted and rubbed his palm over his jaw to hide the laugh. Shit, he did look like a caveman.
SEAL of Honor Page 13
