Frank raised his brow and reached over to crank up the country crap he’d been listening to. “I know. The last thing she needs is me sticking my nose into her business. That doesn’t make it any easier.”
Orphaned at a young age, Adam had nothing to compare with his buddy’s familial worries. His parents had died in a car crash, leaving him a ward of the state. He’d quickly learned to control his feelings; they weren’t welcome in the homes he stayed in.
He’d joined the Navy on a dare, but never regretted the move. The men he’d been stationed with—Frank included—they were his family. He’d do anything for them.
Including peace-keeping missions.
He turned the radio down, ignoring Frank’s glare. “Listen, maybe I could chat with your mom’s lover—” he smirked as Frank’s big hands fisted on the wheel, “—make sure his intentions are honorable.”
“First, he’s not Ma’s lover. And even if he is, I sure as hell don’t want to know about it.” Frank punched the button to lower the windows, letting the hot Texas air whip through the cab. “I’ll handle Spencer. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He hesitated. “It’s just good to have someone to talk to, you know?” He glanced at Adam, then focused on the long stretch of highway in front of them. “You look beat. Rest. I’ll wake you when we get there.”
Adam nodded and dropped his head against the backrest, letting the breeze blow his thoughts this way and that. He was more grateful than he could say Frank accepted him back into the fold. He wasn’t sure the rest of the team did. Time would tell.
Maggie. What was she doing now? Was she hurt? God, he hoped not. The girl, María, hadn’t known as much as he’d hoped. Only that a bunch of gringas were being held in the desert, awaiting transportation out of the country. She didn’t know where—or when. Frank had questioned her certainty in identifying Maggie, but she’d been adamant. Her brother had bragged about seeing the missing agent whose picture hung on the wall of the post office. He’d taken food to the camp and the women had been outside, lined up for the men who came there to buy them.
Adam’s stomach clenched. If they relocated her again, he might never find her. This was his chance. He had to move fast. He’d talk to the trucker first, try to coerce him into giving up his boss. If that failed, his next bet was María.
He fell asleep to the crooning voice of Marty Robbins singing The Streets of Laredo.
Maggie had to force her eyes to stay open. Blood loss and the hot, humid day were combining to put her to sleep. Something they couldn’t afford right now.
She glanced at the gas gauge and swore under her breath. They would be out of fuel long before they encountered the shade of the hills lining the horizon. The hopelessness of the situation grabbed her by the throat and squeezed tears from her eyes. She was weak and tired and scared. Her noble plan to rid the earth of the scum-sucking leeches ruining so many young girls lives seemed doomed to failure. She couldn’t even save herself.
A bubble of despairing laughter burst from her lips, startling Olga.
“What’s wrong? Why do you cry?”
The worry apparent in her Swedish voice bathed Maggie in a healing blanket of care. She sniffled and pointed at the instrument panel. “We’re almost out of gas. I don’t know what to do next.” Frustration boiled over. “Why can’t we catch a break?”
Her friend patted the dry, cracked skin of her hand resting on the torn leather seat. “We make our own luck. Don’t give up, my vän. We have come this far; the rest will work out.”
Would it? Maggie wasn’t so sure.
A truck crested a rise on the road in front of them. Dust sprayed from the churning rear wheels. There were two men in the box, hanging onto the headache rack, and another two, that she could see, in the cab.
The men waved rifles in the air, shouting something incomprehensible. The truck skidded sideways, dust blooming from their tires and came to a stop, blocking the road.
Olga slammed on her brakes, throwing them forward as the girls in the back screamed. Maggie kept her weapon trained on the driver of the other vehicle, feet braced on the floor for stability.
“Quiet,” she commanded, and they fell silent. She glanced at Olga, astounded to see her friend calmly palming a hand grenade. “I hope you know what you’re doing with that.”
Olga grinned, an evil light entering her pretty blue eyes. “Our turn to show them who’s boss, no?”
Oh, hell, yeah.
Maggie matched her smile, her friend’s strong will feeding her own flagging spirit. “Okay, then.”
She leaned out the window far enough to yell, “What do you want? Move out of our way, rápido.”
As expected, the men ignored her. The passenger in the truck leaned out and shouted back, “We have been looking for you, Señorita. You make the Señor very angry. He’s placed a bounty on your heads. A very big bounty.” The men laughed and clicked their fingers together. “You come with us now. Put down that gun before someone gets hurt.”
“Like you,” was left unsaid, but obviously implied as they lifted their weapons and took aim on the Humvee.
Maggie looked at Olga. “I guess negotiations are out of the question.”
“You’re crazy. We can’t fight them,” the redhead, Kim, cried from the backseat. “We’ll be killed.”
Olga turned on her. “We will be killed if we don’t,” she growled. “If you trust them, get out. We won’t stop you.”
Kim’s frightened gaze touched each of them, but there was no support. They all knew the consequences if they were recaptured—even death was preferable.
She shut up and sank back into her seat.
A volley of warning shots pinged off the bullet-proof metal of the Humvee.
Maggie let out a war-whoop. “It’s on like Donkey Kong,” she shouted.
And with that, they opened fire.
10
Adam leaned back and patted his pleasantly full stomach. “That was the best steak I’ve had in ages. Thank you for the fine dinner, Mrs. O’Connor.” He smiled at the still pretty middle-aged woman beaming at him across the rustic oak table.
“Emily, please. Any friend of my son’s is a friend of mine. Our Charolais are grain and grass fed—no hormones or steroids— and provide some of the most tender meat in these parts. Frank has won numerous awards.” She winked as she stood and he could see why the foreman was smitten. “Now, there’s fresh-made apple pie for dessert. Can I tempt you to a slice?”
Even as his taste buds cried, bring it on, Adam shook his head. “Thank you, ma’am, but no. Our yearly physical is coming on soon and I’m not getting any younger. It’s hard keeping up with the newbies; I’ve started a five mile a day run back home.”
“Oh, goodness,” she exclaimed. “I don’t know how anyone can run that far. Those marathon people always amaze me.”
He could have told her that was nothing compared to the grueling BUD/S training he and Frank had gone through to gain their SEAL trident. He shared a glance with the Chief and knew he was thinking the same thing.
“It’s not so bad,” he said. “You get to see a lot you wouldn’t notice normally. The trails around home are breathtaking. I’ll have to send you some pictures.”
“Well, bless your heart.” She patted his shoulder as she slid past with mile-high slices of pie for Frank and Spencer. “Our Texas summers are plenty warm, but Arizona is worse. I’m not a fan of the desert sun. I can’t imagine what those poor refugees found in that truck in Houston went through. They should horsewhip the person behind it. Imagine, trafficking human beings. What’s this world coming to?”
Frank stilled, a forkful of apple and pastry hovering near his mouth. He slowly set his fork down and leaned back in his chair. “What do you know about the migrants, Ma?”
She stared at him, nonplussed. “Only what they’ve been telling us on the news, son. It’s been running all day on almost every station.”
Adam wiped his mouth with a napkin and threw it onto his plate. He pu
shed back from the table, startling Emily and Spencer. “Damn it—pardon the language, ma’am—my SAC promised she’d keep this under wraps until we had time to question the victims.”
He stood and turned away, cell phone in hand. “Excuse me, I have to make a call.”
He avoided Frank’s troubled gaze. It was the same sentiment he was feeling. Advertising to the traffickers the loss of their shipment could only escalate an already precarious situation.
He strode down the hallway, his shoes squeaking on the well-worn hardwood, and slapped the screen door open onto the front deck overlooking the ranch outbuildings. At another time, he would have admired the sun setting over the freshly painted red barn with its white trim. Or the slowly meandering creek cutting a silver ribbon through the field at the base of the hill the ranch house sat upon like a jeweled crown. At the moment though, his focus was on the continuous ring tone coming from his phone. Where was she? Amanda couldn’t avoid him forever.
He was about to hang up and dial again, when the call was picked up.
“Hello?” Her voice was low, breathless. His gut clenched.
He frowned at the unwelcome reaction and paced to the far end of the deck where a quaint old-fashioned swing hung from the rafters.
“What the hell is going on, Rhinehold?”
There was a momentary lull as though she’d gone through a dead zone, then she came back loud and strong. “That’s SAC Rhinehold, Special Agent O’Connor. Please remember your place within this organization.”
Adam’s grip tightened on the case surrounding his phone until he feared there would be dents. “My apologies, ma’am,” he said, his tone rife with sarcasm. “Maybe you would be so kind as to explain how the lid got blown off this case almost before my airplane’s tires hit the ground.”
She sighed. “It wasn’t my idea, Adam. I’m sorry you had to find out like this. I did try leaving you a message, but your mailbox was full. The decision to go public was made against my wishes. I realize this isn’t optimal, but we have to make it work for us. Do you have a report for me?”
“No, nothing yet.” He should tell her about his visit with María, but he wasn’t feeling particularly generous at the moment. He heard the faint sounds of traffic and then a muted roar as though a jet…
“Where are you, Amanda?” And this time he used her name deliberately.
She hesitated, thanked someone—probably the cabbie—then returned to the conversation. “I’m on the way to Houston. And before you get on your high horse, please remember we’re on the same team.” There were more sounds of a busy airport, announcements and babies crying. “Look, I have orders to follow the same as you. They want me there to help with the investigation, so that’s where I’ll go. I’ve already booked a room near the airport. Meet me at O-eight hundred and we’ll go over the case before heading to the hospital.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I’m helping my friend on his ranch.” And besides, he’d already been to the hospital, not that he was telling her that.
She muttered something unintelligible, then let out a gust of air. “That’s an order, O’Connor.”
Well, shit.
The last thing he needed was to play nursemaid to a city girl. There was a good chance he’d be heading into Mexico within the next couple of days and it would be dangerous.
Too dangerous for a woman who looked like Rhinehold.
Damn it all to hell.
11
Maggie wiped the sweat dripping into her eyes and scowled at the still-too-damn-hot sun taking its sweet time to dip behind the hills. She looked at the other women hunkered under the Humvee to grab what shade they could, and sighed. They were bruised and bloody, but alive. That’s all she could ask for right now.
Well, that and a tank of gas would be nice.
And a cool shower.
A steak dinner.
Her own bed.
Maybe she was hallucinating.
She laid the rifle across her thighs and leaned against the massive tire of the truck, one of the only spots she could touch without getting burnt. Someone with a sense of humor must have a plan for her, otherwise how could she have escaped a Mexican prison after months of captivity, get shot and survive it, then outgun a truckload of banditos and still be able to sit here boiling to death?
“You should join us,” Olga called, her voice raspy. “It’s safer under here. You don’t look so good, my friend.”
Maggie tried to make her smile reassuring, though the pain in her side was getting progressively worse. She’d glanced at it a few minutes ago and been dismayed by the redness surrounding the wound. “Soon. I need to do a reconnaissance of our friends over there first. I’m just getting up the energy.”
She hated how weak and dizzy she felt. They had neither the time for her to fight through an infection—and unless one of the ladies knew some desert secret—nor antibiotics to help the healing process.
Thank goodness, the men had not been trained troops. It took only moments for the firefight to end, with no injuries to the women. Maggie hated to kill them, but there was no choice. It was them or her. The grenade blast had done a good job of creating chaos among the men. They’d jumped from the truck, fearing another blast, and then it was a simple matter to pick them off from there.
She used the butt of the rifle to climb awkwardly to her feet and trudged through the sand toward the carnage, stiffening at the sound of steps behind her. She turned and frowned. The women trailed her, Olga in the lead brandishing a piece of lead piping that had been lying on the floor of the Humvee.
“Go back,” Maggie cried. “It’s too dangerous. At least until I make sure they’re…”
Olga reached her side and clasped a hand around her waist, careful to avoid the wound. “You can barely stand,” she whispered, for Maggie’s ears alone. “Do not be so brave, you’re stupid. We need you to get out of here. I need you,” she added.
Maggie gulped tears of gratitude. They may be in the middle of a war, but she’d made a friend for life.
She nodded. “Okay, let’s do this.”
Chenglei poured his tea and ignored the foot soldier sweating in his doorway. The child he’d been training lay sobbing quietly on the floor at his feet. Her leg was red and angry-looking where the hot liquid had spilled. She’d been warned on the proper etiquette; he never repeated himself.
It was a sign of weakness.
And Chenglei refused to fail.
“Tell me, how is it your militia cannot manage to capture five scrawny women? This is beyond my understanding.” He glared at the soldier. “Did I not make myself clear? I want them returned to me—dead or alive. Why could your fools not accomplish this one small matter?”
The man wiped a shaky hand over his brow, then resumed Parade Rest position. “I am sorry, Señor. I lost good soldiers today. The woman, she has training. My men were not expecting a firefight. They did their best under the circumstances.”
Under the…
Chenglei sipped his tea and tried to calm his nerves. The girl’s sniveling wasn’t helping matters. He gave her a shove with his toe. “Go to your room. I do not wish to see you again this night.”
She hiccupped and lifted her head, eyes red, cheeks flushed. She would be a beauty one day; if he didn’t kill her first.
“Go,” he snarled, some of the fury churning within escaping despite his control. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Once.
Twice.
There, see. The monster who beat at the doors of his mind did not rule him, he was its master. Just as he was the ruler of his fate. And one stupid American woman was not going to change that fact. He waited until the child slipped out of the room before addressing the captain.
“You are right. The woman—the one with dark hair—she is a spy.” The soldier stiffened. Chenglei hid his satisfaction. “She is here to destroy the cartel. We must do whatever is necessary to stop her. Do you understand?”
The man gave a sharp n
od, the light of retribution shining out of his dark eyes. “Sí. I will round up another team, and this time, she will not get away.”
“Bueno,” Chenglei murmured. “Bring her back alive, if you can. I do not care about the rest; your men may do as they wish with them. But Señorita Holt and I have business to finish; I want her returned to me.”
The captain bowed and backed out of the room, closing the heavy brass-plated door behind him. Chenglei had a love of beauty and was careful to surround himself with only the very best of everything. The wall-hangings dated from the sixteenth century, as did the Aubusson rug he sat upon, legs crossed. The rich greens and golds pleased his eye and the silkiness of his robes gratified his skin.
Success.
He’d made something of his life; he wasn’t about to let some gringa federal agent take that away from him.
12
Adam made the long trek back to Houston the next morning with the sun in his eyes and resentment burning a hole in his gut. He felt like a schoolboy going before the principal over some perceived misdeed. He’d been doing this job—hell, this case—for more years than Rhinehold had held her position. He didn’t need a babysitter.
When he’d asked to borrow the truck, Frank had cautioned him to think before he reacted—not exactly his strong point.
He and Amanda had clashed ever since she’d become their Special Agent in Charge. Maggie figured it was because he’d had his eye on the position, but that wasn’t true. Okay, maybe the job was part of it, but it was more that she rubbed him the wrong way. His hackles rose the moment she entered the room. He didn’t even need to see her to know she was near.
It weirded him out.
He’d counted on a sixth sense while in the Teams, they all did. It was necessary if they wanted to survive—there were no second chances against an IED or a suicide bomber. One of their teammates had died, and another was injured when an explosive detonated under their vehicle. It had taken Nick a long time to recover, and even longer to get over the worst of the PTSD he’d suffered. Reuniting with his military canine, Jake, and falling in love with a good woman had saved his mental health. Many weren’t that lucky.
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