To the Limit

by Virginia Kelly

  "Thank you, Padre."

  In the cool morning air, the priest put his hand on Mary Beth's shoulder. "He is strong of body. He is not a man to give up. Jean will make him well." He squeezed her shoulder gently. "You must save his life."

  An hour later her hands ached from clutching the wheel. She'd driven relentlessly, careful only of the larger dips as she maneuvered the Rover over the rough terrain. Nick lay sprawled in the back seat, his legs bent to fit. She spared another glance at her watch. She should be able to see the ruins now. To her left, the lake reflected the rising sun. To her right, the low rolling hills of the Andean plateau were broken only by boulders and scrub plants.

  Then she saw the looming outline of the ruins. Stark and square, the stones spoke of a culture long dead. She slowed to be sure she didn't miss the road, then stopped to make the turn.

  Nick still hadn't moved. Mary Beth strained to see his chest. Her heart seemed to stop for a single instant, panic making her throw the car into neutral and pull up the emergency brake.

  He wasn't breathing.

  She nearly jerked the door off its hinges when she swung it open. Sunlight streamed in and hit Nick's face. His lids moved, then his eyes opened and connected with hers.

  "Stop him. Have to stop him." His eyes closed again.

  He was dreaming, having nightmares. Mary Beth touched his face. He felt fevered now, but even wrapped in two blankets, he shivered. She pulled the blankets open just enough to reach in and feel the heavy towel she'd put on his abdominal wound. It felt sticky, but no wetter than earlier.

  He flinched and grabbed at her hand. "I'm sorry, Laura," he said in a hoarse whisper. "He's dead."

  She didn't try to understand. She had to get him to the doctor. Wrapping the blankets back around him, she closed the door and set off down the uneven road.

  A few minutes later she came to the first small town the priest had mentioned. The early morning sun cast long angled shadows across the barren landscape. The few dusty adobe buildings of the town lay in somber stillness. Slowing a bit, Mary Beth drove straight through, her heart hammering in her chest when she could finally see the town in the rearview mirror.

  Her attention focused on the road, she threw uneasy glances into the back seat. Nick mumbled a few words and went still again.

  A half hour later, Mary Beth had found the place—and she wanted to scream. What the priest had called a clinic was nothing. She fought a sob of desperation. How could Nick get help in this isolated place?

  She pounded on the rough wooden door, and began panicking when no one came. She banged louder, and heard movement from inside.

  "¿Qué pasa?" came a man's voice.

  "¡Doctor!" she shouted back. Beyond the door, she could hear the sound of shuffling feet.

  The door swung open and a short, gray-haired man with a ruddy complexion stood before her. Hastily thrown-on clothes drooped on his body.

  "I need the doctor," she said.

  "I am the doctor. What is wrong?"

  "Padre Franco sent us. It's Nick Romero. He's hurt."

  Without another word, the middle-aged man stepped outside, opened the back door of the Rover and bent down. "Good God, Nick! What happened?"

  "He's bleeding. Stabbed, I think."

  Even as she answered, the doctor was opening the blankets, hastily lifting the bloody towel. "How long ago?"

  "Sometime last night. I don't know exactly when."

  "Let's get him inside."

  With some help from Nick, who seemed to understand what they were doing, they managed. Halfway through the struggle, she realized she and the doctor were speaking English, but there was no time to wonder about it.

  The inside of the clinic made Mary Beth feel better. It wasn't as well-equipped as a city hospital, but it was clean and there seemed to be all sorts of supplies stored in the cabinets around the room. They put Nick on an examining table.

  "Jean," he said once, then closed his eyes.

  The doctor cut Nick's shirt off, peeling it away from his body. He worked the jeans down low on his hips, then turned the light from an examining lamp onto his abdomen.

  The sight made Mary Beth sick with dread. The floor moved beneath her.

  The doctor turned on her. "Get out of here. You'll do him no good if you faint." His words brooked no argument. "There's a bathroom beyond that door," he said, signaling with his eyes. "Sit down and put your head between your knees. Then splash cold water on your face. Don't come in here until you can be of help."

  Mary Beth stumbled through the door. She found the bathroom and, taking big steady breaths, did as she was told. After the woozy feeling passed, she stood and looked at herself in the small mirror. Blood smeared her cheeks. With jerky movements, she turned on the cold water and scrubbed her face.

  Finally, with her head clear, she stepped through the examining room door and stood watching the doctor work on Nick, his movements sure and practical.

  Nick looked like a mannequin. Angular features, dark hair, ashen skin. Perfect body but for the dark Stitches marring the beauty of his abdomen.

  "Don't come in here if you're going to faint."

  "I won't faint."

  "Good." He put aside something he held in his hand and turned toward her. "I'm Jean Rousseau. You're…"

  "Mary Beth Williams."

  "Mary Beth, we have to turn him over. Help me."

  Somehow she did. Maybe it was the knowledge that Dr. Rousseau was in charge, that she was no longer solely responsible for Nick's life. She even watched as the doctor cleaned and stitched the straight cut on his lower back.

  "How did this happen?" Jean Rousseau asked when he'd finished.

  "I don't know." Mary Beth helped turn Nick back over again. He was so still. She gently brushed his hair away from his forehead, wishing she could do more.

  "Through some miracle, nothing vital was cut. I had to clean the wounds, which caused him a lot of pain. I gave him something for it, so he's going to sleep." The doctor lifted the bandage on the abdominal wound, looked closely, then pressed it down again. "I wish I'd had more local anesthetic, but the injection I gave him seemed to help. I don't have any way of giving him a transfusion, but infection is the biggest threat now."

  "Will he be all right?"

  "He'll wake up a little groggy from the narcotic. The antibiotic injection I've given him should keep any infection away. Like I said, he should sleep for a good while. Rest is what he needs."

  "No one must know he's here."

  The doctor's gaze shot to hers.

  It took only a second for Mary Beth to decide whether to tell Jean Rousseau all of it. If Padre Franco and Nick trusted the man, she would, too. "San Matean Rangers and an

  American army contingent are after us. It has to do with my brother."

  The whole story bubbled out of Mary Beth as the doctor finished with Nick. They moved him into the doctor's living quarters. Nick was of no help, but Dr. Rousseau shifted him over onto a cot.

  "So you believe Daniel knew your brother?"

  "That's what it looks like."

  "Nick will help you save your brother."

  Mary Beth knelt down next to Nick, who'd slept through the entire transfer, and took his hand. "He was dreaming about his cousin's death earlier."

  "You mean Daniel."

  "Yes."

  "Then it was a nightmare," the doctor said.

  "I've heard bits and pieces of what happened. Can you fill in the blanks?" Mary Beth asked.

  Jean Rousseau looked up and seemed to assess her before pointing to a nearby cot. "Sit."

  He stood next to Nick and checked his pupils, then moved away, leaning against the doorjamb. "Nick was in New York when the news broke that Daniel had been taken hostage. He rushed back, determined to negotiate as he had so often, not just here, but all over the world. The generals, unbeknownst to Nick, pushed for a military option—a raid to rescue the men. They didn't want a two-month standoff like the one at the Italian embassy. Nic
k met with the terrorists and came out. While he was preparing for a second meeting, the generals went ahead with the raid. It was a horrible mistake."

  Mary Beth shivered and hugged herself. The doctor took a blanket from a nearby shelf and handed it to her.

  "Nick couldn't stop General Vargas, Daniel's father, from ordering the assault. He personally led the raid. It was a purely political move. There were others much more capable."

  "That's why Nick blames him."

  "He's right. Daniel and those men should be alive." Jean

  Rousseau shook his head. "As it was, Nick and Franco found Daniel's body inside the compound after the failed raid. He'd been executed, as had the other captives. The general let the terrorists get away. He didn't save the men. The whole thing was a disaster. But as in everything that man does, he salvaged something. Politically, he sold many people on the idea that he was tough on terrorists."

  "Daniel?" Nick's voice sounded strained.

  Mary Beth knelt down next him, her hand reaching for his.

  "You're safe, Nick."

  "I'm sorry." He sighed and slipped into unconsciousness.

  Mary Beth's eyes flew open.

  Nick!

  He was shifting, mumbling, his voice rough. She jumped from the cot next to him and bent over him, holding his shoulder down to keep him from sitting up. He'd uncovered himself, so she pulled the sheet up over his bare bandaged abdomen.

  Strong fingers grabbed her hand. "No," he whispered, his blue eyes glazed. "No."

  "It's okay, Nick. You're safe. At Dr. Rousseau's."

  "No." He held her hand with increased pressure. "It's in the blood." He took a deep breath. "Angela!"

  "It's me, Nick. Mary Beth."

  "It's in the blood…" His words trailed off, his hold on her loosened, and he slept again.

  She heard the door open, and turned.

  Jean stepped into the room. "Is he awake?"

  "He was, I think. But he's restless and he's not making sense."

  "What did he say?"

  "Something about blood."

  Jean nodded and checked the bandages.

  "Who's Angela?"

  He straightened and looked at her. "His real mother. She was an American. Died shortly after childbirth. He mentioned her?"

  "Yes."

  Once again, he bent over Nick, this time to check his pupils. "Let me know if he says anything else odd or if he becomes restless. I'm making a list of supplies. Wish I'd had more local anesthetic. He's not reacting well to what I gave him for pain."

  Three women looked at him. All casualties of a Vargas.

  Angela Crosby. Beautiful, forever young. Forever lost. She'd had no life after giving birth to him.

  Elena, a survivor who deserved a life after giving up hers for the child he had been, the man he'd become.

  Laura, alone. A woman who needed a man. A woman without a man.

  He owed each of them.

  "Nick?" Mary Beth's voice intruded on his vision. "I'm here."

  But she wouldn't be when she found out who he was.

  A noise from the front of the clinic pierced the fog of Mary Beth's dreams. She was glad for it. Her dreams had been nightmares awash in Nick's bright red blood.

  "You're awake." Jean Rousseau's friendly face smiled down at her.

  "Yes." She sat up, instantly looking toward Nick. "He's been very restless. Sometimes reaching for things that aren't there."

  "I saw. He's reacting to the narcotic. If only I'd had— Well, doesn't make any difference now. It'll wear off. He's sleeping now, so I'm not going to disturb him. I'll have to change the bandages later, but first, you need to eat."

  The thought nearly made Mary Beth gag. "I don't think I can."

  "You'll have to if you want to be of any help to him."

  A few minutes later, while she washed in the small bathroom, she understood what the doctor had done. He would make her take care of herself for Nick. Somehow he'd seen her infatuation.

  The small kitchen smelled of coffee and hot bread. Despite her earlier reaction to the thought of food, Mary Beth's stomach rumbled. Jean heard and smiled.

  "I guess I am hungry." She glanced at the time. Nearly 6:00 p.m., about twelve hours since they'd left the mission.

  "Eat and we'll try to get Nick to take something."

  Nick didn't protest when Jean woke him changing the bandages. He said a single word before letting himself be propped up enough to take a few swallows of orange juice. "Gracias." Then he fell asleep again.

  Jean took his pulse, then looked at Mary Beth. "The drug is wearing off. I have to go check on some patients. Try to give him some juice every hour or so. Sweet tea would be good, too."

  Patiently, Mary Beth spent hours feeding Nick spoonfuls of liquid. He didn't protest. He didn't open his eyes. He said nothing.

  The slamming of the door woke Mary Beth. She'd fallen asleep again slumped in a chair next to Nick's cot, even though she'd dozed all day long and most of the evening. The tea had gotten cold.

  "I brought steaks and bananas." Jean smiled. "We have to build his strength back up, so I asked for my payment to be beef. The bananas will restore his potassium levels."

  Mary Beth stood, stretching. "I'll cook if you'll tell me where things are."

  "Be my guest." He led Mary Beth into the kitchen. "Has he been awake at all?"

  "No, not really. He's still talking nonsense, but he hasn't tried to get up again."

  "Good, good," he said. "That's a good sign. I'll give him another injection of antibiotics and look at the wounds." He walked to the door. "Oh, Mary Beth, I hid the Rover."

  Mary Beth half listened to Jean's explanation of where the Rover was hidden, until she realized that in her concern over Nick she'd pushed Mark aside. She couldn't afford to do that.

  Four more days and the terrorists would kill him. Nick was in no shape to go anywhere.

  She would have to go on alone.

  "Well, my fine young friend," Jean said, smiling from the foot of Nick's cot. "You're going to live."

  He swallowed, his mouth dry. "I feel like hell."

  "You look it, too."

  "Have I thanked you?"

  "Yes. But it's Mary Beth you should thank. She got you here before you lost too much blood."

  He didn't want to owe her. "I'm sure I thanked her." But the words came out too harshly and he knew Jean would pick up on his discomfort.

  "I certainly hope you don't use that tone with her."

  Nick didn't have the energy to argue.

  "Unfortunately, I didn't help you very much. I ran out of local anesthetic as I cleaned your wounds. Do you remember?"

  "There was a lot of pain, that much I remember."

  "I had to give you a narcotic painkiller. You didn't react well. You'll have to remember in the future. You don't want to hallucinate again."

  "I hallucinated?"

  "Had your pretty nurse very worried about you."

  Nick didn't like the thought of being out of control. What had he said?

  "About her brother?" Jean said. "Are you helping her for her sake or for Daniel?"

  Jean Rousseau knew him too well. "I just hope we find him alive," Nick replied.

  "What happened to you?"

  "I got a tip that the Rangers had him." He tried to breathe slowly, to avoid moving, afraid the pain would intensify. "So I went to the Ranger stockade. Williams wasn't there, but there were weapons. Grenade launchers. Guns. Ammunition." He shut his eyes against the burning at his stomach. "Lots of them." He took another careful breath. "And a guard with a knife."

  "And you think they've got Mary Beth's brother?"

  "They had him, but I don't know what they did with him." He tried to shift but thought better of it. "Took him and an old man named Demetrio Vazquez."

  "Oh, you mean the counterfeiter."

  Surprised, Nick rolled to one side, ignoring the discomfort, and looked at Jean. "Counterfeiter?"

  "Got out of jail a few months ag
o. He was one of the best counterfeiters of American dollars around. Daniel was involved with that arrest, I think. 'So was the American Secret Service."

  He had to think, but the heaviness of exhaustion made it impossible.

  "Rest a while," Jean said.

  Nick closed his eyes, unaware of the line between wakefulness and sleep.

  Mary Beth stood over Nick. The aroma of steak drifted up from the plate she held in her hand. She hated to wake him.

  "Nick?"

  He shifted a little but didn't open his eyes.

  "Nick?" She put the plate down on the small table next to the cot and leaned over him. "Jean says you have to drink and try to eat."

  He opened his eyes and looked straight at her.

  "It's counterfeiting."

  "What?"

  "Whatever is going on," he mumbled. "It's counterfeiting."

  She brushed her hand across his forehead. He was still reacting to the drug. "I'll get Jean."

  He took her hand, pulled it to his chest and spoke firmly. "The numbers on the scrap of paper. The hundred-dollar bill. It has to do with counterfeiting," he insisted.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Is that steak?" He tried to lift his head.

  "Yes, it is."

  He shifted, attempted to sit up, and winced.

  She bent down, putting her left arm under his shoulder as he clutched the bandage on his stomach. Finally, leaning his weight back against the wall, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  "What happened? Where did you go?"

  He opened his eyes briefly, then shut them. "I found a boy at the market who told me his grandfather and Mark were taken by the Rangers."

  "If the Rangers took Mark, how did the terrorists get him?"

  He ignored her question and told her what had happened.

  As she listened, Mary Beth's thoughts raced. "Currency serial numbers."

  "American dollars." His words were more of a breath than a sound.

  "Don't talk. You need to eat."

  She helped him eat as much of the steak as he wanted, in the end feeding him herself when he rolled onto his good side. Then he slept.

  Mary Beth sat back in the chair and stared at him. And worried. The one-hundred-dollar bill in Mark's safety deposit box. It was a counterfeit. It had to be.