Gideon

by Cherry Adair

  “That was a month ago, my friend.”

  “A month. A week.” Sin had other things on his mind. “What does it matter?”

  “It matters very much to your pollo, I think. We will visit the ladies tomorrow. Then you’ll remember what that tail is for.”

  Rain came intermittently, often in hard brief downpours they were used to. Sin ignored the water sluicing his skin and the wet cling of his shirt and pants. They’d dry soon enough in this heat. He kept slicing his way through the dense understory of vegetation, the vines as thick as his thigh, and as hard to sever as a steel cable. What they couldn’t cut through, they circumvented.

  The harsh drumbeat of water pounding the foliage made further conversation impossible. Just the way Sin liked it. His lack of recall bothered him more than he let on. In five months he hadn’t regained any memory of his life before Maza himself had gunned him down in a battle Sin didn’t remember.

  It was annoying. What’s more, it was dangerous as hell not to recall his own fucking life. Having his family and friends tell him who, what, and when, made him appear weak. Vulnerable. He needed those damned memories for himself. After almost half a year, Sin doubted that he’d regain more than the fragments he had now. Thirty-six years wiped out. Gone. It was disconcerting to know that everyone in the fucking camp knew more about him than he did himself.

  The harsh stink of kerosene became more powerful the higher they climbed. Most of the animals, afraid of the humans and lights, kept their distance, but a bold monkey chattered from high in a giant mahogany tree, then swung off to join his tribe, yelling all the way. Flying insects stuck to Sin’s damp skin, or swarmed in front of his face. Even the vegetation was dangerous. Lashed by sharp leaves and snaking vines, and tripped up by roots and thick foliage, their progress was slow. Cuts and scratches on his arms, some deep and long, burned and itched, but were ignored.

  Keeping conversation to a minimum, and alert to any sounds of other humans on their ass, he and his men hacked and chopped. Everything in the jungle grew so rapidly that in days their path would once again be overgrown, hiding that they’d ever been there.

  The rain stopped when they reached the smoldering wreck by midafternoon. Pockets of fire still burned orange, leaping into the air to cast dancing coppery reflections on the surrounding wet foliage.

  Twists of blackened metal protruded from the trees, and a shredded seat, caught by a heavy branch, hung twenty feet above his head.

  Sin surveyed the scene through watering eyes. Thick kerosene-oxide-scented smoke wove through the foliage and tree trunks like a noxious, ghostly, dark gray veil. “Tomás and Cesar keep watch,” he said over the crackling of flames that fed on materials from the downed helicopter. The vegetation was too green and wet to burn, but leaves curled and turned black in retreat from the dozens of small and large fires.

  “Just because Maza’s people aren’t on top of us now, doesn’t mean they aren’t on their way. Eduardo, Vincente, see if you can find anything useful.”

  The men went to do as instructed.

  Andrés wandered into the clearing for a closer look at some of the smoldering debris, then returned to Sin. “You were right.” His satisfied smile held a glint of gold in the flickering glow as he surveyed what they had wrought, using their enemy’s own weapon against them.

  Poetic justice, Sin thought, pleased. They lived in a feral dog-eat-savage-dog world. The ANLF and the Sangre Y Puño were constantly at odds. One group advancing, then falling back as the other got the upper hand. It was fucking exhausting. Frustrating. Sometimes Sin thought he’d just leave the jungle. Would it make a difference? He could go to a big city where he could lose himself. The bloodstains on his hands were harder to wash off these days, though. Killing and extortion were becoming a fucking drag, his newly awakened conscience, even more so. Had he always been this conflicted, or were his shooting and weeks-long coma, and mind-numbing recuperation, responsible? Hell if he knew. Hell if he could remember.

  Where the fuck could he go and what would he do? The jungles of Cosio had been his home his entire life. And while he didn’t remember most of his past, his mother and best friend did, and they, in their own warped, sick way, he supposed, cared about him. Yet something didn’t seem right about the attention they gave him. Something was… off. Son of a bitch. His mind was playing games with him. He was becoming more paranoid by the day.

  “That SAM has come in handy.” Andrés, who’d secured it from the SYP, was proud of his grab. “Now we should be lucky enough to find Maza fried to a crisp, and our job will be done.”

  “From the flight path, they weren’t heading directly into Santa de Porres,” Sin pointed out, eyes scanning the shadowy area and the orange sparks dancing in the air like fireflies. “It looks like they were going farther into the higher elevations.”

  Sin had long suspected Maza had a camp up there. This could be the confirmation needed. If they could figure out the final destination of the flight, he and his men could do a night raid and take out the entire camp. That wouldn’t defeat Maza, God only knew, but it might put a crimp in whatever he was planning next.

  “With something of value being delivered, I hope.” Andrés took out a bandana and swiped at his streaming eyes. “His loss is our gain.”

  They’d taken the surface-to-air missile from one of Maza’s groups three months earlier. The son of a bitch had pockets of men training in hidden camps in the jungle. Sin‘s jungle. Other than that night, when Maza had shot Sin, the two men hadn’t met again. Sin had absolutely no recollection of that meeting. Just third-hand accounts and the scars to prove it had ever happened.

  “What the hell is he up to?” It was a rhetorical question. They had no idea. The son of a bitch had shown up out of the blue right before Sin had been found, and had created mayhem while he’d been in a fucking coma. Well, he was awake now. Maza was determined to cut into ANLF’s thriving business. Hell, he wanted all of it. Unacceptable. Sin and his ANLF soldiers pushed back. Maza and his soldiers retaliated.

  By the sudden flurry of communications, and the influx of more and more weapons, they knew that whatever Maza was up to, it was big and it was coming soon.

  Sin’s eyes strafed the area as he peered into the darker pockets for movement or anything untoward. He motioned with his MP7A1 to keep walking.

  “With any luck he was bringing in more weapons and ammo. We can use whatever we fin—” Sin raised the compact, lightweight submachine gun and stopped as a shadowed form emerged from the trees. He relaxed when he saw Tomás Saldana, but didn’t lower the weapon. He was always ready to shoot something. “Find anything of value?”

  “Ortiz and Vidal. Dead and partially burned, but Vincente recognized them. Found a third guy, probably the pilot. Another two guys we don’t recognize. New recruits possibly. We hit the jackpot tonight. Several crates of submachine guns broke open. They’re scattered all over hell and gone.”

  “Ammo?” Sin asked. Guns were only of use if there was ammunition to go with them.

  Tomás grinned, showed his missing lateral incisors, making him look a little like a feral rabbit. “Sí. 9×19mm Parabellum cartridges. Looks like five, six crates. Also, 120mm mortar shells and MPT-9′s.”

  The cartridges were business as usual, just in greater number than before, but the mortar shells indicated serious firepower, as did the Tondar submachine guns, Iran’s answer to H&K’s MP5s. Maza was gearing up for war. This had been in the air for months by the time Sin figured out that Maza was done with small skirmishes and was planning to take out the ANLF in its entirety. He had something bigger up his sleeve.

  What, Sin had no idea.

  He mentally cursed that he’d been incapacitated for so long, and now had to play catch up. “Radio Mama our coordinates, tell her to send up more men. Have them bring tools and those wood pallets behind the mess hall. They can make crates when they get here. Tell them que se apuren. Maza’s people might not give a shit his top men are dead, but they will come for
these weapons. We’ll take what we can, come back later. Go get the others.

  “We need to go into town, see if we can find out what he has planned,” Sin said quietly, spotting something in the undergrowth a few yards away as they walked. Another broken crate of guns would be good. The howl of a puma reminded him they weren’t alone, and predatory eyes watched their every move, just waiting for an opportunity to attack.

  “What do we hear from Loza? Is he still feeding us intel?” Loza, a mole for the ANLF, and low on Maza’s totem pole, was a mine of useful information. If and when they could contact him.

  “For a hefty fee? Sí. I’ll see if I can get hold of him; he’s a slippery asshole. I’ll leave a message with his sister.”

  Since Loza refused to deal with anyone other than Andrés, Sin merely said, “Good,” as he used his machete to brush aside a dense clump of ferns growing amidst a tangle of leafy vines to see what had caught his eye. “Set it u— “

  A pale, slender arm protruded from beneath the crushed branches. He pushed aside the concealing fronds to reveal the body of a young woman. “What the fuck?” Sprawled on her back, nestled on a bed of broken foliage, she gave the appearance of a sleeping woodland creature.

  What a fucking waste that she was dead like the others.

  As he straightened, he caught the flutter of her long eyelashes. Impossible. A trick of the light— No. There it was again. Her eyes didn’t open, but her lids twitched as though she was dreaming.

  Pretty sure it was his imagination he crouched beside her to feel for a pulse as Andrés said, “The animals will feed well tonight.”

  “She’s alive.” Impossible, but Sin felt a faint pulse throbbing beneath her ear.

  “No, amigo. It is wishful thinking.” His friend reached down to peer at the woman’s face. Other than smudges of black dirt, and leaves in her hair, she seemed blissfully asleep. “Too bad. She’s a fox.” Andrés laid his hand on Sin’s shoulder. “Come, we need to make haste before Maza’s men get here.”

  Was he mistaken? Sin repositioned his fingers to make sure it was her pulse he felt, and not the throb of his own heartbeat in his fingertips… No. A faint, but unmistakable pulse beat beneath her damp skin. “She’s alive. Give me a minute to see what’s broken. We’ll take her back to camp. If she lives, she might have wealthy friends who’ll pay ransom. Christ, wouldn’t it be sweet if Maza pays the ransom?”

  Andrés stood there shifting impatiently as Sin felt for broken bones. “Mama has good medical skills, but even she won’t be able to knit every bone in this woman’s body.” Everyone in the ANLF referred to Sin’s mother as Mama. From his tone, Andrés was clearly not happy about the new turn of events, no doubt thinking through the logistics of how they were going to get the woman down to camp. “Besides, she’ll die on the way back, and you will have exerted yourself for nothing. Let Maza find his dead puta for himself.”

  Stunned to find anyone alive in the debris, Sin barely listened to Andrés as he ran his hands over her from head to booted feet. To survive such a fall meant she had extraordinary luck. And the ability to bounce, since she was the only passenger alive. She didn’t react to his touch.

  “Don’t appear to be any bones broken, but God only knows what kind of internal injuries she’s suffered. Here, hold this for a minute.” Sin handed over his gun, then carefully lifted the woman in his arms. Her head flopped against his chest, and the long skein of a dark braid fell over his arm. She was light but solid in his arms, and smelled faintly of apricots and sweet mint.

  “Eres un idiota.“ Andrés shook his head. “How will you carry your—”

  Sin maneuvered her limp body over his left shoulder in a fireman’s lift, then held out his hand for his weapon.

  “Sí, that will work.” Andrés grinned as he handed back the submachine gun. “Ah, it looks like you got two birthday presents when the helicóptero was shot down.”

  “Well, don’t light my birthday candles just yet. She might be dead before we get back to camp.”

  Sin’s birthday gift was all fucking kinds of inappropriate. Mama, not known for either her benevolence or generosity, had tended the woman’s wounds, then returned her to him as a regalo de cumpleaños.

  An unwrapped birthday gift.

  As in naked.

  And tied to his bed.

  He entered his small cabin, eyes riveted to the offering Mama had provided. The sight shouldn’t bother him, but considering that it was his mother making the offering, it sure as shit did. His cock paid attention, nonetheless, and he adjusted his fatigue pants to accommodate the restriction. He wasn’t dead, after all.

  Mama was the only other female in camp. Once there, he’d left the woman to be tended by her. She, in turn, had given him carte blanche to do with the woman as he wanted when she was done.

  Sin wanted.

  His dick twitched with anticipation, and his mouth watered at the thought of taking one of those tight little pale brown nipples between his lips to roll on his tongue. Sin allowed himself the luxury of letting his gaze play down the streamlined length of her, from shoulders to slender ankles, pausing now and then to admire the landscape. Bruises, small cuts, and that long scratch on her thigh. A miracle, really.

  The patch of hair between her legs was as black and silky as the loose strands of wavy, dark hair hanging wildly around her face and shoulders. Thick and glossy—freed from the long braid down her back—strands clung to her damp skin, concealing absolutely nothing.

  Yeah. He wanted. But he doubted there’d be enough time between now and when she was interrogated to fully enjoy her and he didn’t want to be on top of her when Mama walked back in. Whoever she was, the woman would soon wish she’d been killed in the crash. Mama wouldn’t give her up to the Sangre Y Puño until she knew her value to the last bolo.

  The SYP had nothing on his mother’s interrogation techniques. She would extract, without mercy and with sadistic alacrity, anything the woman knew, at first light.

  Sin almost felt sorry for his enemy’s toy. Almost.

  He dragged a straight-backed chair up beside the bed. Three questions needed to be answered: “Who are you?” he murmured. “What were you doing on Maza’s chopper?” And, most importantly, how can I use you against him?

  Because if she had anything to do with Escobar Maza, no matter how tangential the association, Sin would use her. He could hold her for ransom, either to Maza or her family. Someone would pay dearly for this one, he knew. Women this clean and pretty were valued for all kinds of reasons. Hell. He could use her as a puta until she bored him. Or he could just kill her and not be bothered.

  With her wrists manacled to the rusted headboard, she lay stretched out in invitation like some fantasy pagan goddess. Sin could think of all kinds of ways to partake in her bounty.

  Fascinated by the possibilities of his gift, he stacked his hands beneath his head, tilting the chair back on two legs. She had the body of an athlete. Long, taut lines, sleek toned legs, and small, high breasts, tip-tilted by her raised arms. Her nipples, soft and a pale pinkish-brown, drew his gaze before he dragged it back to her face.

  Golden light from a simple oil lantern draped over her sweat-dampened, pale olive-colored skin like a glistening diaphanous blanket. Despite how and where she’d been found, and subsequent time spent on a bed of ferns, she smelled damn good. Flowers? Mint? His sex-starved imagination?

  Christ. Andrés was right. It had been too long since he’d had a good fuck. Ascencion’s whorehouse was only a few miles away in the village of San Mateo…

  Except there was some serious crap brewing. He couldn’t leave now. Which was just an excuse, no matter how valid. It showed him how unimportant sex had been to him lately. His gaze drifted for a moment to her wide mouth, the lower lip plump and the same color as her nipples. What had been unimportant was suddenly a paramount need. He liked the pillowy look of her mouth, liked that it matched her nipples. He thought of the things she could do with that wide, lush mouth and his cock
stirred eagerly at the mental foreplay.

  Forgetting sex was no easy task, considering what filled his vision, yet his head with a brain in it demanded that he think about something other than satisfying the smaller head that was yearning for release. If this woman was on that chopper because Escobar Maza had sent for her, then she was of value beyond just a satisfying fuck. Who was she to Maza, and why had she been sent for? He’d find out. One way or another. His enemy’s loss was Sin’s gain.

  If Maza got wind she was still alive, was she important enough for him to try to retrieve her? A girlfriend? No, this was too odd a time to bring in a woman just for sex. A colleague? A specialist? Specializing in what, exactly?

  Dropping the chair to all four legs, he traced the length of her legs, up, to her mound. What was this woman’s skill? Unlike many of the men who lived in the jungle, he wasn’t so much of a chauvinist to think that a good-looking woman couldn’t be skilled in something other than pleasing a man. Not all females with power looked like his mother.

  He’d seen the red cross through his sights in the instant before he fired the SAM. Still, he hadn’t hesitated. He’d recognized Maza’s chopper and knew the man wasn’t flying in relief workers. Aid wasn’t Maza’s style. She and Maza’s crew were as far away from international aid workers as he was from priesthood. Given what he’d been told of his life, that was pretty goddamn far.

  An image of himself running through the jungle transposed itself over what he’d just been thinking about. It was him, but not. People yelling, shots fired, he was afraid—but not for himself… A blond woman? Jesus. He didn’t know any blondes. A memory? But not? The flashing images felt like a long-forgotten movie with unfamiliar actors. Pain hazed the edges of his vision.

  That was a memory, right? That was good. His memories were returning, but in a disjointed jumble of images that were hard to unscramble because of the pain. His mind required defragging. He wanted something better than a notebook and pen to keep track of these fleeting thoughts. What he needed was a high-powered computer, with Internet access.