We’re in, crouched low. I sink a blade in the chest of the first man to see us and quickly pull him out of the way. Soon, three others join him.
Signaling two ghosts to take the upstairs, I twist the doorknob on the first door in the hallway and fling it open. A ghost speeds past me into the room and I’m right behind him, but turn and leave as he takes care of the man in the bed.
Down the hall, I listen outside the door of another bedroom. Still silent, our luck is holding well. I know better than even to think that way, because a few seconds later, gunshots ring from the back of the house.
I’m through the bedroom door, still counting on the element of surprise, but find myself in the sites of a rifle. I roll as it explodes and come up shooting, taking the perp down.
Back in the hallway, I’m at door number three. This lock is different, it’s keyed to only open on the outside. Bingo. Lifting a foot, I break it open to the burst of shots fired and go in low. Dad’s in a chair, a man behind him, a knife at his throat. I don’t hesitate, but center his forehead and fire. Moving fast, I lock onto his wrist before the man’s reflexes accidently slash Dad’s throat and pull the wicked blade from his hand.
“You okay?” I ask, taking a knee and starting on his bonds. Zip ties. These kidnappers are stupid.
He nods and pulls the gag from his mouth as soon as his hands are free. “Camille.” His voice is hoarse and the word comes out funny between his busted lips. He coughs as I free his feet and radio in that Duff One is attained. Gunfire slows within the building.
“Dad, where’s Camille?”
He’s shaking his head, as he coughs even harder, his hands clutching at his ribs. My stomach sinks. Does that mean he doesn’t know, or that she’s dead? The tears streaming down his face makes it hard to tell. I locate a bottle of water and hold it to his lips. He drinks, chokes, and drinks some more. He finally manages, “Gone.”
Gone?
I still don’t know what he means. I force a breath into my lungs.
Speaking into my mike, I ask for a status report on room breaches. “Upstairs clear,” I’m told. “Downstairs clear,” comes right after.
Shit.
“Any survivors?”
Seven voices come back with, “Negative.”
Fuck.
“Search again,” I tell them, and go back to my dad. I drop to my knee beside him. “Dad, what do you mean by gone?”
“She wasn’t here when I arrived.” His voice is a combination of gravel and dust, but he keeps going. “Everyone was … crazy, talking about how she escaped. Something about drugs, a devil something or other.”
“How badly are you hurt?”
His blue eyes meet mine. “Nothing that won’t heal. Lincoln, how did this happen? Last I heard she was on a photography shoot, and then I received a video of them…”
“I know, Dad. I saw the video, too.”
He breathed in deeply. “From what I was able to overhear, she escaped on a plane with a giant and the girl who set the kidnapping up. They said they shot at the plane during lift off and saw gasoline spilling out.”
“Are they searching for them, Dad? Did they go after them?”
He shakes his head and coughs again, wincing and holding his ribs. “Said they were dead meat because their tracker showed the plane had gone down. At that point, it became a rush to get money from me.”
“Tracker? Dad, what tracker?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Giving him another bottle of water, I touch the button to speak into the radio. “New mission, men. We have a tracking device to locate.”
Chapter Sixteen – Tate
The sun is past center and heading west by the time I’m ready to call it a day. I could walk for hours more, but Camille is beginning to seriously lag. We’ve been heading down stream all day, taking breaks every couple hours. The good thing about walking by the stream is the sun, but it’s the bad thing too. I turn to look at Camille and quickly run a hand over my stubbly jaw in a guise to cover my mouth. The parachute bonnet I made for her is hysterical.
“It’s not funny!” she says grumpily. “When it starts raining again, you’ll wish you had one.” She lifts her chin.
A camera. My bank account for a camera.
Under the ridiculous hat, her face is red and pouring with sweat. Her pace has slowed down considerably too. “I think we’ve gone far enough. Hungry?”
She says nothing. Just tosses a piece of parachute down and sprawls.
I walk back to her and lower my pack, digging through it. I find a bottle of the tea I brewed earlier and hand it to her. Or try to. She doesn’t move.
Bending down, I pick her up — fabric and all — and carry her over to the shade.
“Can I take a little nap?” she asks, as I take the bonnet off her head and smooth her hair back from her face. Her skin is hot and wet, but no surprise there. Everything is hot and wet. I look up at the sky, hoping to see another rain cloud. Blue and sunny as far as the eye can see.
Picking up her hand, I loosen the edge of the bandage. She pulls it away and curls into a ball. “Twenty minutes,” she begs. “Please.”
“Okay, but not on the ground. I’ll find a place for the hammock and…” I don’t finish, because she’s sound asleep.
Working quickly, I find two trees set apart the right distance and have the hammock up in just a few minutes. She doesn’t wake when I carry her to it. She doesn’t wake when I kiss her forehead. She’s still warm, but it’s hot as hell, even in the shade.
Taking a baby wipe, I dip it in cool water and wash her face, before draping it around her neck, hoping it will help. I start on the fire, gather wood and soon have a nice one going. Out comes the bamboo cookery and — sigh — ravioli begins to bubble. I snack on Oreos while I find a palm tree and begin hacking it down to harvest the heart of palm at the top. It’s actually pretty good and very nourishing.
I walk over to check on Camille again. Still asleep.
I touch her and she feels warmer than before — by a lot. Rolling her over, she doesn’t even moan when I unwrap her hand.
My heart stops. Just stops when I see it. Oozing. Red. Blistering. And most worrying, small sections of brown and almost black.
Gangrene. Wet gangrene. And based on her breathing pattern, she’s becoming septic.
It’s burning a killing trail of poison up her arm.
Lifting my face to the sky, I yell at the unfairness of it all. I scream at my stupidity and at the stupidity of the woman I love.
No, not her. It’s my fault.
I should have looked. I should have insisted I be the one to clean it. I should have forced it. Forced it. Forced it!
Turning, I sprint to the supplies, knowing the running is useless. It’s too late. I have nothing. No supplies. No medicine to combat the war taking place in her body.
I head down to the stream. Maybe I can race out of here, get medical help in time. I look upriver. Downriver.
No good. I’d be running for days and she’d die out here, alone.
I can do nothing, but watch. Wait.
The knowledge takes me to my knees.
I’ve failed her.
Failed Link.
Failed myself.
No!
Focus.
I won’t let this happen. I won’t let her die. Can’t let her die.
Then I remember.
Hope bursts through my chest. I charge into the water, plunging my arms into the shallow pool.
Be here. Please be here.
I count to one hundred and when I pull my arms out, I have half a dozen leeches. Good enough.
Pushing myself up, I go to her and peel the black parasites from my arms, lining them onto her skin. I’m not an expert at this, but I place them from the stub, all the way to her elbow, and urge the little suckers to suck.
When that’s done, I step back, watching them grow bigger. My helplessness grows bigger with them. It’s out of my hands now and in
to the little creatures’. And God’s.
I climb into the hammock with her, stroking her hair back from her face, holding her close.
“You know something, baby,” I say to her, “I don’t want to wait until our next lifetime to be with you. I want to be with you now. Forever. So I need you to fight. Fight this thing going on inside of you. Fight it hard. Because we have so much more living to do. We need to survive this jungle. Travel together.” My voice breaks. “Make babies together.”
Somewhere in the jungle, the jaguar screams and its roar lifts goosebumps on my arms. I reach for the gun hanging over my head and tuck it by my side.
“I know what you’re probably thinking,” I go on, “how can we be together when we live such separate lives?” I kiss her forehead and rest my fingers on her throat, willing the pulse that’s racing too fast to slow. “I’ve been thinking about that too. And one thing I remembered is that I’m the owner of my company. The owner. That means I could spend more time working on it, instead of working in it. Trust the men I hired. Let them implement the trainings I design. What do you think of that?”
Please answer.
She doesn’t.
“So, you fight this thing and we’ll make it work. It might take me a while to get used to not being in the thick of things, but your brother promises me it’s worth it. And you know what? I believe him.”
Please say anything.
“Maybe we’ll split time between Salt Lake and Tennessee, so you can be near Grace and the kids. I know they’re thinking about having another baby. Wouldn’t that be something if ours was at the same time? They could grow up together. Be tight.”
The jaguar growls, closer this time.
It doesn’t matter. Because everything I’m saying is a lie.
Just as the snap of a twig and the crunch of a leaf is the truth.
My name.
I hear my name.
I raise up, listen harder.
My name echoes through the forest again.
“Link!” I yell, and Camille moans beside me.
“Tate!”
This is real! He found us!
“Link!”
Spilling from the hammock and onto the ground, I’m up and racing toward the sound. I call his name over and over and listen for mine.
I drop to my knees when I see him. See them. Link and my team. They reach me and Link pulls me to my feet. “Damn good to see you, man.”
No time for greetings, I grab his arm, pull him beside me, yelling instructions, giving orders. “We need a hospital. Hyperbaric chamber. Antibiotics. Now!”
Soon, the sound of helicopter blades resonates around us and Camille is once again in my arms. We’re climbing on board and lift into the air.
“We’re going to make it, Cam,” I tell her, as the jungle fades away. “Hold on. Fight.”
As we turn north, I catch sight of the mother jaguar and the two cubs standing by her side.
I smile at her and wish her well.
“Not tonight,” I murmur, “Not tonight.”
Epilogue – Camille
One month later…
“Well, here goes nothing,” I say, and begin to pee. My face grows warm as Tate watches from the doorway. You’d think I wouldn’t be embarrassed about anything with him ever again, after all we’ve been through. Still, I can’t help but feel a little squeamish as he stares between my legs, watching urine douse the little white stick I’m holding.
Finally, I’m done and lay the stick on the counter, wipe, get up and wash my hands.
“Three minutes, right?” Tate asks as he fiddles with his watch. I catch his eyes in the mirror and nod. He pushes a button and his watch beeps. “Set.”
I turn and join him in the doorway and together, we step into the master bedroom of my Tennessee home. He picks me up and walks me to the bed, tossing me down.
“So, what are we going to do for three minutes?” he asks, and nuzzles my breast through the silk of my nightgown.
“Worry,” I say, as I arch into his mouth.
He lifts his head. “No way. No more worrying, ever again. I’ve had enough of that for six lifetimes. Have you noticed how many gray hairs you gave me?”
I run my hands through his dark hair and do notice a silver one or two. “I think it’s sexy.”
Lifting my left hand, I stare at something else that’s sexy. The most gorgeous diamond sitting on my ring finger. Beside it is an empty space where my pinky once was. Less sexy, perhaps. But a good reminder to live life by the moment. A good reminder that I’m stronger than I ever thought I was.
I slept through most of it, but from what I’ve been told, I nearly died after becoming septic. By some miracle, my father and brother found us just in time.
I still can’t believe it. My dad, the titan of the Duffy fortune, the man whose expectations I never lived up to, was willing to die for me. Trade himself for me.
After I was rushed into a hyperbaric chamber, followed by emergency surgery to remove the rest of the pinky, my mom dropped everything and flew down to South America to crawl into my bed, even creasing her Chanel suit.
My parents stayed the entire week I was hospitalized, hardly leaving my side. Of course, they had to elbow Tate out of the way for that prime position. He never left my side.
And when I say never, I mean never. He didn’t step out of my room the entire week.
My mom brought him Doritos and squealed like a girl when he spun her through the air. Of course, she’d reprimanded him, but I could tell she really didn’t mean it.
On the day I was discharged, I was still too weak to walk, so Tate carried me everywhere. Up the steps of the plane in Colombia. Down the steps of the plane in Tennessee. To the car. Into the house. Everywhere.
The next morning, he woke me before dawn and carried me out to the porch facing the mountains. When the sun peeked over the ridge, he dropped to his knee. “Be my hello every morning,” he said, “and let’s begin our next lifetime right now. Marry me, Camille.”
I said yes so fast I nearly broke my jaw and flung myself in his arms. He told me about his new business plan. How we could be together more. Be a couple, and someday be a family.
And now my period is late.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Oh my.
My heart increases its rhythm as Tate stands and pulls me up from the bed. “Ready?” he asks, and lifts my hand up to his lips.
I blow out a breath. “Ready.”
But I’m not, I realize, as we walk closer to that stick. I’m not ready to be a mother. I’ll forget the baby at the store. Strap it into the car seat wrong. I’ll screw it up. I just know it.
From the doorway, the little stick looks like a nuclear weapon.
White. Plastic. The holder of a woman’s deepest wish or greatest fear. As I step closer, I’m not sure which it is for me.
One line equals not pregnant.
Two line equals pregnant.
Who ever thought of anything so stupid?
It should be a smiley face for pregnant and a frowny face for not. Or should that be a frowny face for pregnant and a smiley face for not?
Okay, maybe the line thing isn’t so stupid after all.
As we step closer, I panic, thinking of everything that could go wrong. I nearly died. I was pumped with medicine. My legs still wobble if I stand too long. And shit! They found cocaine in my system. I’m still a little mad at Tate about that.
Closer.
Our eyes meet in the mirror and Tate gives me an encouraging smile.
I look down.
One line.
Disappointment spears through me. I feel like a balloon that’s lost its air.
Our eyes meet in the mirror again. He’s disappointed too.
“I’m sorry...” I begin and he shakes his head and turns me until I’m facing him.
“What did we learn in the jungle?” he asks, and lifts me until my legs wrap around his waist.
“That there’s nothing we can’t d
o together?”
He carries me to the bedroom. “Exactly.”
He pulls my gown over my head and his boxers hit the floor. He follows me to the bed, his weight pressing me into the mattress. In one swift thrust, he’s inside me, filling me up.
I moan against his mouth as his tongue curls with mine, my fingers digging into his back, pulling him closer.
He lifts his head and smiles down at me, tucking my bangs behind my ear. Then he begins to move, slow at first, then with deep, steady strokes that push me up the bed. I tilt my hips, seeking more. Demanding more. Begging for more.
There’s no need to beg. He gives. Gives me everything. His body. Heart. Soul.
“We learned another important lesson,” he says, his voice a low growl. He rolls his hips and his pubic bone finds my clit, sending me over the edge.
I’m reeling in this world in which only the two of us belong. When his teeth find my shoulder, I arch into the pain, and pleasure surges through every cell.
When I can finally speak, I ask, “What other lesson?”
He opens his eyes and plunges again, wild now, our bodies slick with the effort. He comes, spilling into me, searing me with his heat. With his very essence. And I understand.
“We never, ever give up.”
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Havana - The Ambassador’s Wife ( Book 1) Sneak Peek
Chapter 1—Sophie Robinson
I inhaled the exotic Havana night air only to realize that I’d been holding my breath the whole time I’d navigated the hallways of the Canadian ambassador’s house. All I wanted to do was escape all of the rigmarole—the constant watchful eyes of the guards; the inconstant eyes of my husband. There are times I swear if I hear the words “consulate” or “ambassador” one more time, I know I’ll scream so loudly all of Cuba will implode.
But this is the life I’ve chosen.
A red 1950’s Plymouth with a taxi light pulled up to the corner where I stood.
“A donde va?” came the question. Where are you going?
I stood stock still with the realization that I didn’t know the answer. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go, but I was certain of where I didn’t want to be.
Badass: Jungle Fever (Complete): A Billionaire Military Romance Page 24
