She stared up at him, her eyes half open, her hair wild and still damp, forming a halo around her head. An instant later she was withdrawing from him, both physically and emotionally. The Mary Beth Williams of the high-fashioned, expensive dresses and cool, polite manners stood before him dressed in a cotton T-shirt and dark jeans. The only thing to give away the fact that she'd been touched was a tiny shiver he felt just before she stepped completely away from him.
"I didn't mean for that—"
"There's no need to explain," she interrupted.
"I—"
"Please." She looked down at the floor.
He put his index finger under her chin and gently raised it. He could see a turmoil of emotions in her clear brown eyes. "I was going to say, I didn't mean for that to get so out of hand so quickly. There's nothing for you to be ashamed of. If anyone lost it, it was me. I apologize." And desperately hope this whole mess is resolved before I hurt you the way Martens did.
"I didn't mean to burst in here like that."
He shook his head, smiling, knowing when she'd realized he was only barely dressed. "It's okay."
"I'll go to bed now." She was all frantic energy, eager to get away.
"We'll go to the bank—"
The telephone broke in, sharp and shrill, ringing from the nightstand next to the bed. Reluctant to let her go, he grabbed her hand just as she made the move to turn away. With his other hand he reached for the receiver.
Laura's voice, so late at night, alarmed him momentarily. Then she explained why she was calling and put Alex on the phone. The little boy's nightmare poured out in jumbled sentences as Nick listened. He did his best to soothe the momentary fears.
"Papi, when will you come to Miami?" The small voice, the loving term for Father, so easily spoken after a night of so much emotion, weighed heavily on Nick's heart.
"Very soon, Alex. As soon as possible. But you must let your mother go to sleep. Okay?"
"Okay. I love you."
"I love you, too," he replied. Then he spoke with Laura, telling her everything was fine, and hung up.
"Is he okay?" Mary Beth asked.
"He had a bad dream."
She nodded. "You're a very patient father." But he could sense she wanted to say more.
She'd probably heard about the hurried marriage. He had always been able to count on his cousins to talk too much. "I love him."
She looked at him, really looked, as if she was trying to figure something out. He wanted to explain, but there was no way to do that. He was still trying to come up with what to say, when she spoke.
"You don't parade him before the media," she said with a bit of surprise in her tone.
"I would never do that—"
"But you're there for him. He was six months old when—" She stopped herself, turned her head just slightly, then continued. "You named him after your cousin."
Where was she going with this? Had he given something away? "Laura and I agreed—"
"Because he's not yours, is he? He's Daniel's son."
No one had ever guessed. No one had questioned. Well, no one but his mother. Why had Mary Beth? It was as if she'd seen something no one else had. She'd surprised him so much, he couldn't think of what he would do. What he would say to prevent the looming disaster.
"Yes, he's Daniel's." He'd never intended to say it aloud.
She nodded, apparently satisfied, and quietly asked, "This is their house, isn't it."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He understood what she was asking. It was so simple, yet so complicated. And the real answer could not be spoken. "No child should be without a name. Laura and I wanted him to have at least part of Daniel's heritage. Daniel's maternal last name was Romero, so his son's will be Romero." He'd said way too much. "No matter what happens, Alex is the one important thing in my life."
"You're lucky to have him, then."
Her words didn't disappoint him. Any other woman would have mouthed an insincere platitude.
"As I'm sure you realize after hearing my cousins gossip to you, no one knows. Laura and I want it kept that way."
"Why did you admit it to me?"
He paused, trying to answer honestly, even though he really didn't understand why. "Because I trust you to never hurt a child by revealing the truth." But it was more than that, and he knew it.
She freed her hand from his grasp. She had more questions, he could sense them. In the muted light of the bedroom, he could see the ripeness of her figure beneath the bulky shirt. He'd made a terrible mistake, much worse than using her to get Antonio Vargas.
He'd confided in her. He'd tasted something he couldn't have. Something that would haunt him forever. He had to stop this. Stop before he hurt her. And himself.
"We 11 go to the bank in the morning," he said.
Her expression said she expected more, but understood he would say nothing else. "When do they open?"
"Nine o'clock," he replied.
"I'll be ready," she said, then walked to the open door. "And Nick—" She stood in the hallway, looking back at him. "Thank you for being honest about Alex."
She couldn't guess how he felt when she said that. Because by the time it hit him, she'd turned away. He stood in somber silence, knowing he hadn't been honest. Honesty about some things was a luxury he could not afford.
Ever.
Chapter 6
« ^ »
The bank didn't match Mary Beth's expectations. She'd envisioned one of the old banks she'd seen in San Mateo—high ceilings, marble floors, bars on the teller windows. Instead, it boasted yellow brick, glass doors—though security bars were visible—and beige carpet. A little disappointed that it looked so American, except for the guard armed with a machine gun, she followed Nick as he approached a receptionist positioned in the lobby.
She had not slept well. The idea that Mark could have done anything wrong, that American agents thought she had something to do with gunrunning, of all things, colored everything, especially her response to Nick. His honesty about Alex had touched her, made her more susceptible to him. Still, there was too much unknown about him, too much she couldn't trust.
Hoping to find some measure of peace of mind in the contents of Mark's safety deposit box, she followed Nick as they were led through a side door and into the room where a huge steel gate barred the entrance to the boxes. A guard opened the gate-like door, stepped in and returned with the small metal drawer. Moments later, he excused himself, leaving Nick and her alone, the box on a table in front of them.
With shaky fingers, Mary Beth took her key and opened the box. The hinged top swung open. Inside were stacks of papers in stiff letter-sized folders marked to indicate they contained Mark's life insurance policy and will.
Mary Beth opened the folder that held the will and found a single one-hundred-dollar bill. "I wonder why he kept this in here?"
"Maybe it's the first money he ever made." Nick took the bill from Mary Beth and put it on the table as she investigated the will.
"Mark's not a sentimentalist. He wouldn't do that." She scanned the brief document and almost sobbed in frustration. Mark hadn't left her any sort of message. This was nothing more than the disposition of his belongings, what few there were. She would be using Mark's money, part of their grandmother's bequeath, to help pay the ransom. She turned the page. "There are numbers penned into the margins. See?"
"They're dates. Do these mean anything to you?" Nick turned the page so he could read it.
"No," she replied, and took back the will. "I don't understand why there's not more in here. Something that would explain what's going on."
"Don't be disappointed. This is probably a good sign," Nick said, restacking the papers into the folder.
"I was sure—" She stopped, her hand reaching into the box again. A small manila envelope, no more than two inches square, lay on the bottom.
"What is it?" Nick asked.
When she lifted the tiny envelope, something metall
ic jingled inside. She ripped it open and poured out the contents.
A chain fell into her palm. A chain with a metal tag about one inch long, three-quarters of an inch wide.
Nick's quickly inhaled breath made Mary Beth look up at him in confusion. He reached for the chain and held it up, letting the tag hang from his fingers. There hung what appeared to be a military dog tag. Nick's fingers trembled slightly as he held it steady.
She didn't understand until he passed it back to her.
Embossed in square businesslike type were a date and a number, followed by a name: Daniel Vargas Romero, Capitán.
Nick drove away from the bank in silence. Finding Daniel's dog tag in Mark Williams's safety deposit box had been startling. It had not been on his body when Nick found him after the general's assault on the terrorists' compound. Had Daniel given it to Williams? Or had Williams taken it? Did it mean that Williams was with the Primero de Mayo when Daniel was killed? Or did it mean that Daniel had been running guns with him? Or both?
If Williams was suspected of being involved with the terrorists, the CIA might be involved. But what about the Secret Service? Daniel had worked with both the American CIA and DEA on a number of cases. Nick couldn't recall mention of the Secret Service. Maybe, as with every other bit of confusing information having to do with Williams, Carlos's contacts had simply added another American agency.
But there was a connection between Daniel and Williams. The general had to have known what it was. The request to burn the house had a purpose. He must believe it contained something incriminating. The question remained: Did it incriminate the general? Or Daniel?
The key was Mark Williams.
"Was your brother ever in the military?" Nick asked Mary Beth.
"No, he finished college and immediately got the job he holds now."
"Does the company he works for contract with the military?"
"I wouldn't know that." She looked at him curiously. "What are you thinking?"
Carlos could find out more about the company. There was a connection between his brother and hers. Some connection…
They pulled up in front of the house, both deep in thought. Nick checked the perimeter, aware that by now anyone following them could have guessed they'd be "here. But he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
"Mark hasn't done anything wrong," Mary Beth said. "I know that. There has to be an explanation for this insane accusation, for his involvement with your cousin."
The phone began ringing in the house. Nick ignored it, choosing instead to follow through on his thoughts. "What if we find out it's true?"
She shook her head vigorously. "It's not."
So she'd lost whatever doubts had haunted her. Mark Williams was the type of man who inspired loyalty. Nick hoped it was well deserved. And wished desperately that the general had not shaken his faith in Daniel.
He got out of the car and came around for her, the phone still ringing. As he opened the front door, it quit, only to begin again immediately.
The house, dark because of the closed shades, felt odd.
Pushing Mary Beth behind him, he turned on the lights.
The house had been ransacked, the couch cushions overturned, every drawer in the dining room and living room upended.
Keeping her behind him, he eased down the hall. The phone quit ringing. The room she'd used looked much the same as her hotel room had looked the day before. Clothing tossed everywhere, drawers open, the contents torn apart.
"What do they want?" she whispered.
The phone started ringing again. Nick dragged her with him toward the room he'd used, alert to any noise in case someone was still in the house. This room looked the same as hers. He grabbed the phone.
"Sí," he said, his gaze on Mary Beth.
"Nicholas!"
He recognized the voice despite the panicky quality of it.
"Mario?"
"Nicholas, you must leave. Quickly."
"What are you talking about?"
"Rangers will take you. You must leave the country. Quickly!"
Even over the phone, Nick could hear the man's uneven breathing.
"Many hands are involved. Leave, Nicholas. I am doing you a favor. Believe me. Your family name cannot save you."
"Save me from what?"
"The woman. La americana. Los gringos, our Rangers, they are in competition to get her. If they find you, they will take you also."
"What—"
"¡Escucha, Nicholas! I am warning you because I owe the Romeros. You. There is a fabricated story of a ransom demand by Primero de Mayo. I can say no more. You must leave," he repeated.
"Mario—"
But Mario had hung up.
"What's happening?" Mary Beth stood staring at him.
"I don't know." He wasn't yet convinced that the ransom demand was a hoax, but someone still thought she had something of value. If Mario was right, having her things ransacked was nothing. If both Americans and Rangers were trying to arrest her, the game had changed. Nick preferred to believe that the Americans would treat her fairly, despite what Carlos had said. He had no doubt what the Rangers would do. Especially as led by Vargas.
Nick reached up into the closet and pulled out a box. From it, he took two handguns, a Glock and a .357, along with several boxes of ammunition.
"Guns?" Mary Beth asked, her voice catching.
He met her gaze steadily. "Do you know how to shoot?"
She glanced at the guns, then at him. "Sort of."
"Can you hit anything?"
"I could ten years ago," she said, "if the can held still."
He smiled. Grabbing the guns and boxes, he put them into a small duffle bag. Next, he pulled two sweaters and two raincoats from the closet and handed them to her. "Take these. We're going on and may not have shelter from the rain and the cold. Pack only what you'll need for two to three days."
Two hours of riding in the lurching Rover over a nonexistent road gave Mary Beth plenty of time to think. She'd exhausted herself with possible explanations for Mark's predicament and had turned her attention to Nick.
The peacemaker wasn't necessarily a peaceful man. He knew how to use a gun. Well, that wasn't so odd. Diplomatic security took care of American diplomats overseas. Surely all diplomats were trained in self-defense. Nick had been sent all over the world, not only by San Mateo but by the UN. It stood to reason he should know how to take care of himself.
But it didn't explain that sense she'd gotten when they first arrived at his mountain home. Daniel's home. She'd sensed … well, a predator.
Now that was fanciful.
"Here we are."
Ahead, cast against the brilliant blue of a sunny sky and the barren Andean plateau, stood a single-story wooden house, smoke pouring from its chimney. A ramshackle old barn was off to the left.
Nick pulled up to the barn, got out to open the huge sliding door, then drove the Rover in. Hay stacked to the ceiling left little room for the car. Two stalls held what appeared to be milk cows.
"Why are we stopping?"
"I want to ask a question or two."
"Do you know the owners?"
"Of course. I wouldn't come in here if I didn't." He stepped out of the car. "I'm going to walk over to the house and tell César we're here."
She didn't want to be left alone. The barn, with the door shut and its tiny window covered with dust, was dim and cold despite the midday sun. She climbed back in the car, shivering.
Minutes later, the grinding sound of the barn door startled her, as did Nick's voice. "Mary Beth? Come give me a hand."
When she got out, she saw a short heavy man holding a bundle, standing next to Nick, who held another, smaller bundle.
"Blankets, señorita," the man said in Spanish. "And food."
Nick made the introductions in the same language. "This is César Gonzalez."
"Gracias," she said, taking the blankets from César and putting them inside the Rover.
"I will leave you, señ
or."
"César," Nick said, stopping him as he reached the open barn door. "When was the last time you saw Capitán Daniel?"
"Oh, señor. Let me see." César scratched his head. "It was a week or two before he was taken. Sí, that is when it was. He came with the man he met here."
"What man?"
"Tall. He spoke like a city man."
"San Matean?"
"I do not think so. Many here called him el rubio because of the color of his hair."
"A blonde?"
Mary Beth stepped closer, her attention fixed on what César was saying.
"Like la señorita, maybe. Hair the color of straw."
Mark. It had to be Mark.
"How often did he meet this man?"
"Maybe once, twice a month." César paused. "Sí, almost every two weeks. Chabuca, my niece, she spent time with el rubio. She claimed he was a carpenter, from la montaña. She said he worked for Padre Franco at the mission."
"Is your niece here?"
"Yes, she stays with us because she teaches here."
"May we talk to her?"
"I will go for her. She cannot come until after her school. Eat, rest. I will bring her."
After César left, Mary Beth voiced her question. "It's Mark, isn't it? Mark meeting your cousin."
"It's possible."
"But Mark's not a carpenter."
"Would you rather believe he's a gunrunner?"
She had no reply.
"Do you have a picture of Mark with you?"
"It's small," she hedged.
"We'll see if she recognizes him."
A few minutes later, after they'd eaten the bread and ham César had brought them, Nick spread a blanket on the hay. He wanted to ask Mary Beth what she would do when she found answers that destroyed her faith in her brother. As he might find answers that would destroy Daniel's professional reputation—the one thing Daniel had left that he could claim with pride as his own. Nick had taken everything else.
Mary Beth wrapped herself in the other blanket Carlos had supplied, and huddled, shivering next to a bale of hay. She arranged and rearranged the cover around her shoulders until he couldn't watch anymore.
To the Limit Page 8
