by Cindy Dees
He looked startled. “Yes, actually. You are.”
“Then tell me where I can find the Army of Freedom and I’ll get out of here.”
The barkeep lurched. “What does a woman of the cloth want with people like that?”
“Church business,” she replied shortly.
The man frowned, but she didn’t elaborate. Valdiron Garza, Chief of Internal Security for the Colombian Army—better known as Chief of Terrorizing Anyone Who Tangled With Garza—had been arguably the most hated man in Colombia. He’d been an equal opportunity murderer, killing people on both sides of the armed conflict between the government and rebel insurgents. News that his children were nearby would spark a feeding frenzy of Garza’s victims out for revenge of their own against the kids. As much as she’d hated Garza, she couldn’t transfer that hate to a pair of innocent young children. In fact, her main emotion for them was fear for their safety. Not to mention she’d given Father Ambrose her word that she’d keep them safe.
The bartender left to fetch her soda and she risked a glance around the place. It was full of hard men with harder gazes. They didn’t like her being here and they weren’t afraid to let it show. Wimple or no wimple, it made her nervous. Very nervous. Missionaries got murdered and nuns got assaulted in places like this.
A bottle of grape soda slammed down onto the table before her and she jumped. “What do I owe you?” she asked.
“On the house if you’ll take it and leave now.”
She sensed a subtle warning in the man’s voice. If she stayed any longer, she would get into trouble. Panic leaped in her throat. This place, this whole cursed country, scared her to death. And frankly, she wasn’t the type to run around facing down her fears for fun. Every cell in her body screamed at her to get out of here and go home to nice, safe, New York City.
She slid out of the booth, grabbed the warm bottle and stepped out into the muggy afternoon. Today was overcast and relatively cool—only in the mid-eighties. She remembered all too well how this place felt on a hot day with the sun beating down. Saunalike. As it was, she felt as though she was swimming down the street.
Now what was she supposed to do? She had no further plan for locating the Army of Freedom beyond asking in the cantina. She headed for a little park she’d spotted from the bus on the way into town. As she walked, she sipped at the soda. Yuck. It tasted like cough syrup.
A cement park bench beckoned and, weak-kneed, she sank onto it, overcome by her terror. Squeals of laughter came from a small playground in the park, but even the joy of children couldn’t convince her this place was anything other than a hellhole promising death to her.
“Mind if I sit, Sister?”
She jerked sharply. Her gaze snapped up to the tall, dark silhouette belonging to the quiet baritone. “Uh, no.”
He sank to the bench beside her but still towered over her. “What brings you to Santa Lucia, ma’am?”
Her heart raced even harder. An urge to run screaming nearly overcame her. She choked out, “Who’s asking?”
The man’s eyebrows shot up. Whoops. That probably didn’t sound nunlike enough. She amended hastily, “I go where the Lord sends me.” There. Better.
“Gustavo said you were asking after the Army of Freedom.”
Wow. That was fast for word to have gotten to the Army that she was asking about them. She wasn’t sure if she was more dismayed or relieved that things hadn’t changed at all since the last time she’d been in this godforsaken corner of the world. “Who’s Gustavo?”
“Bartender.”
“Aah.” She waited for the man to continue, but he didn’t. It gave her a chance to study his chiseled features. His skin was walnut-stained brown and his short black hair neat and curly, speaking of an African heritage. But his eyes were a contrasting golden hazel that fairly glowed against his dark coloring. And those shoulders! Aye, caramba. Muscles bulged in all the right places. A fine specimen of a man, to be sure—she broke off the train of thought abruptly—she was supposed to be a nun, for crying out loud. Lest he spot the rich appreciation in her eyes, she looked down hastily.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Well what?”
Her companion huffed. “What do you want with the Army?”
Sensing no immediate threat from him, her pulse began to slow. She answered honestly, “I want to find them.”
“Why?”
She frowned. “Gustavo no doubt told you it’s church business, so why are you pressing me?”
“Because it’s not safe for a woman—a person—like you to have any dealings with them.”
Amusement quirked her mouth. Apparently, she didn’t qualify as an actual woman anymore. “How do you know it’s not safe?” she challenged.
“Are you really here alone?”
All questions and no answers, this guy was. “Why do you sound so surprised? It’s not like I have anything to fear. I’m a woman of the cloth.”
He snorted. “Cloth doesn’t provide a hell of a lot of protection from certain threats in this neck of the woods.”
No kidding. “Are you trying to warn me of something specific?”
“I’m telling you to go back where you came from and leave the Army of Freedom alone.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do that. I have business with them.”
He scowled but eventually shrugged. “It’s your neck.” And with that pronouncement, he stood up. As he strode away from her, she took a moment to enjoy his long legs, tight buns, and mile-wide shoulders. A fine specimen of a man, indeed.
Belatedly, it hit her. He had some connection to the Army of Freedom. Why else would he have gone out of his way to ask her what she wanted with that bunch? She waited until he was a block or so away and rose to follow him. He was a full foot taller than her and she had to hurry not to lose him as he strode with those long legs toward the edge of town. Dismayed, she watched him climb into a Jeep and start the engine. She mustn’t lose him. As sure as she was standing here, he was heading out into the jungle to warn the local Army of Freedom guys that some crazy nun was poking around asking questions about them. The last thing she needed was to spook the contact among that bunch whose family was currently hiding Garza’s children.
The Jeep pulled out of its parking spot. She was losing him! Looking around quickly, she spied a moped parked on the sidewalk. She shouldn’t. But her lead to the Army of Freedom was leaving. She would go to hell for sure if she stole something while wearing a nun’s habit. But the alternative was to fail two small children and a priest. It would be acceptable if she just borrowed it, right?
She raced over to the scooter, checking frantically for a key. Nada. She popped open the under-seat storage area and spied a flash of metal. Snatching the spare key, she jammed it in the ignition. It wasn’t theft if God’s work was being done, was it? And besides, theft wasn’t one of the seven deadly sins. She would return the moped as soon as she found out where Mr. Tall, Dark and Hunky was going.
The Jeep took a dirt road, which cut into the heavy jungle crowding the margins of the village. The ruts were incredible, some deep enough to nearly swallow her and the moped whole. But the horrible road slowed the vehicle ahead enough that she was able to keep the sound of the engine in range. It took concentration to guide her scooter around the worst of the craters.
The road, such as it was, deteriorated into little more than twin dirt paths. She had to duck hanging vines and was soaking wet from midthigh down with muddy water by the time the Jeep’s engine suddenly cut off. Alarmed, she cut her moped’s motor and listened hard. Nothing but the screeches and clicks of the jungle echoed around her.
She leaned the motor bike against a tree and proceeded forward cautiously on foot. Those shoes were becoming more sensible by the second as they held up to the rough hike. Her sexy little Louboutins would have been destroyed in a dozen steps.
She spied a lightening in the gloom ahead and slowed down. Were those voices she heard? And what was that growling noise? A p
ortable power generator, maybe? Her heart leaped into her throat. Every cell in her body shouted at her to turn and flee. If she had half a brain, she’d listen to those urges. But no. She’d made a promise. She was going to kill Father Ambrose when she got home. If she got home.
Something cold and hard touched the back of her neck, and an audible click made her freeze. She knew that sound. It was a pistol hammer cocking. Oh, God. Her panic turned into head-to-foot trembling.
“You don’t take no for an answer, do you, Sister?” A familiar, deep voice rumbled in her ear. Hunky Guy from the park.
“I’m not known for giving up, no,” she managed to answer without squeaking too badly.
“Next time you follow someone, steal a moped with a muffler,” he muttered. The gun nudged her neck. “Move.”
When did his voice start sounding so threatening, anyway? Gulping, she walked forward. Here went nothing.
Chapter 2
Ted swore under his breath. How on God’s green earth had this tiny little nun found her way out here into the middle of nowhere? Obviously, she’d followed him. But why? Didn’t she have any sense of self-preservation whatsoever? He was a hard man, used to seeing and doing hard things, but killing a nun was not on his top ten list of favorite recreational activities.
“Were you planning to just stroll into camp and say hello?” he demanded incredulously.
Her slender shoulders shrugged under a nasty, gray-green sweater. “Something like that.”
At least with his gun at her back she would make it into the camp alive. Had she just shown up, he had no doubt his comrades would’ve gunned her down long before they registered the wimple on her head. Unless someone got a good look at her exotic eyes and creamy latte skin and decided to have a little fun first. A wisp of silky mocha hair peeked out by her right ear and he tore his gaze away from the delicate flesh below her earlobe.
“Hola, Enrique!” he shouted. “It’s me.”
“Drago, my friend. What have you brought us?”
He made eye contact with Enrique, the leader of this particular cell of would-be revolutionaries. What they lacked in organization, they made up for in stubborn will. He could mold them. Use them for his own purposes. His gaze hardened. “I found this lady in the jungle. Apparently, she wants to save our souls.”
Stunned silence greeted his announcement as two dozen mercenaries and criminals took in the woman standing before him. A fine trembling passed from his captive to the weapon pressed against the back of her neck. Smart lady. She should be afraid of these men. She was perilously close to death. And there might not be anything he could do to stop her from dying.
He frowned. Not that he should care one way or the other if this lunatic wanted to traipse out here and get herself killed. It was her life. He shrugged and nudged her forward.
“Hello, gentlemen,” she said in a honey-sweet voice that shouldn’t belong to a nun.
“What is this?” Enrique demanded. “A nun?” he swore in a distinctly un-Christian fashion.
“I mean you no harm,” she intoned. “I come in peace.”
Ted snorted behind her. Right. Peace. In the middle of a bunch of paramilitary insurgents armed to the teeth. Or about to be armed to the teeth when he completed his weapons sale to them.
“Drago, introduce us to the good Sister.”
“Tell them your name,” he ordered her roughly.
“I’m Elise.” She corrected hastily, “Sister Mary Elise. And all of you are God’s creatures as much as I am.”
He thought he caught a note of wry…something…in her voice. Odd.
“Come sit with me, Sister,” Enrique invited with patently false courtesy. Ted’s hackles rose. Dammit, this woman’s safety was not his job! He had bigger fish to fry than a crazy nun in the jungle.
When she didn’t budge, he shoved her gently. “Do as he says or he’ll gun you down where you stand,” he muttered.
She threw him an alarmed look of entreaty over her shoulder. Aw, hell. Did her eyes have to be so big and wide and dark—all soft and helpless and innocent like a puppy? Since when were nuns so damned adorable? Irritated, he took her by the elbow and bodily moved her forward lest Enrique lose his notorious temper right here and now.
He pushed her down into a folding chair in front of a scarred wooden table. “Sister Mary Elise. Welcome to the Army of Freedom. Speak your piece and then get out of here. You can start by explaining what the hell you’re doing here.”
“I…um…travel to remote corners of this country in search of people who need my ministrations.”
Enrique growled, “What is a ministration? We don’t need no sermons from no ministers around here.”
“I’m a nurse. I deliver babies—” she broke off, glancing at the all-male party that had drawn around her in a menacing circle and which clearly was not in need of her midwifery services “—and, um, give vaccinations. I treat wounds, set sutures and can perform minor surgery in a pinch.”
Enrique’s shoulders inched down slightly.
“I cook, too.”
That got interested looks from everyone. Ted snorted mentally. He’d tasted this bunch’s swill, and it was nasty even by his rough standards. He didn’t want to know what critters found their way into the gamey and unpleasant stews he’d been forcing down.
“Oh, and I sew. I can mend clothes and do some basic tailoring.”
Now she was talking. A woman like her could be distinctly useful in a primitive camp like this.
“Do you offer any other…services?” Enrique asked suggestively.
Ted leaned forward. “Climb up out of the gutter onto the curb, man. She’s a nun for goodness’ sake. She’s offering to do jobs for your men that they could desperately use. That cut on Olivedo’s leg is as infected as hell, and all the men have various degrees of jungle rot. And I don’t know about you, but I could use a decent meal for a change.”
“If you have corn flour, I can make arepas for everyone,” she offered helpfully, sensing an ally.
Arepas were a local fried flatbread, and the mere thought of the fresh, puffy delicacy made his mouth water. He caught swallows and gulps all around him.
Grinning, Ted announced, “There you have it. Keep your paws off her, and she’ll make you arepas and heal your men. I’d say that’s a fair trade.”
Enrique, suggestible as always, nodded. Not the brightest bulb in the bin, that guy. But he was a hell of a fighter with fists or a knife, and he commanded his men’s fear and respect. “Get to work, woman.”
Ted sat back, amused, as she marched over to the sluggish fire like a tiny general and examined the haphazard pile of cooking utensils critically.
“I need a basin of clean water,” she announced. “These don’t look like they’ve been washed in months. It’s a wonder you’re not all dead of food poisoning.”
In short order, she was giving commands in that sultry-soft voice of hers, and hardened fighters were racing around gathering the supplies she’d need to make a proper meat filling for the puffy breads in the pan over the fire. It took a good chunk of the afternoon for the feast to come together, but finally, a plate was passed to him and he sunk his teeth into a meat pastry that melted in his mouth. Groans of delight broke out all around him. The nun had just bought herself another day or two of life. She was safe until the next time she crossed Enrique’s uncertain temper.
Darkness fell abruptly in the jungle and the night sounds grew loud around the isolated camp. A fire crackled pleasantly and everyone not posted to guard duty lounged around it, savoring a surprisingly tasty local beer that had been broken out as a treat to go with the nun’s delicious arepa feast.
“Tell me about that deal you did in Africa a few months back, Drago. I hear it changed the course of a war.”
Ted’s face froze. Crap. What deal? This was exactly what he’d feared would happen when he tried to impersonate the real Drago Cantori.
“Which one?” he asked casually. “Libya?”
T
he rebel leader frowned. “No. Tunisia.”
“Aah. That war,” Ted replied, hoping he didn’t sound as lame as he felt.
Enrique examined him far too closely for comfort. “You’ve turned the tide of more than one war, then?”
Ted shrugged. “I merely provide the tools. What men do with them is up to them.”
The nun sniffed in displeasure, but he ignored her, concentrating on reading Enrique’s body language. It was vital that the guy buy his line of bull.
“How big was the shipment you sent to Tunisia?” Enrique persisted. “How many guns did it take to tip the tide of the uprising into a victory? What kind of weapons did you sell them?”
Nothing in their file on Drago Cantori had indicated that he’d done business in that north-African nation. Ted cast back in his memory for surveillance images he’d seen from that conflict. The freedom fighters had carried mostly outdated, bolt action rifles and basic grenade launchers.
He answered cautiously, “They got mostly surplus weapons from eastern Europe. A few grenade launchers. Ammunition was what they were really desperate for.”
“But what about that surface-to-air missile? The one that shot down that Tunisian fighter jet that all the news agencies filmed going down in flames?”
Drago’d sold that thing to the rebels? His colleagues had speculated for months over where that had come from. Some people had believed it was a Tunisian Army missile either shot by accident at a friendly target, or perhaps by a turncoat within the Tunisian army.
“Where’d you get the missile?” Enrique insisted.
“Russia,” Ted answered shortly.
Enrique looked confused. “I thought you said it was French.”
Damn, damn, damn. This guy had communicated with the real Drago at some point in the past? Ted answered quickly, “The missile was French-made. But I got it in Russia.” He didn’t like that suspicious look in Enrique’s eyes one bit. This guy smelled deception and had enough experience to listen to his instinct.
The nun broke the tension of the moment by announcing, “Well, I can see I’ll have my work cut out for me if I start praying for your soul.”
