Two couples walking toward the restaurant strayed closer to the rolling waves before heading away. Mark held her gently. And even though the embrace was all for show, it made her feel secure. She hadn’t felt secure since Tony was taken.
“You think you can just wander the compound?
“My husband is dead. My father can’t help. That leaves me,” she replied.
“Have you lost your mind?” He tilted her face up, his fingers warm against her skin.
“Do you have children?”
“No, but it’s crazy to think—”
“Then you can’t understand what it’s like.” She met his gaze. “I have to find my child.”
He stepped back. “If they capture you—”
“They have no idea who I am. I told you, the picture they’re using of me isn’t what I look like now. The stories in the papers all refer to me as Isabel, my first name. If Ruiz hasn’t recognized me so far, he won’t when I’m just a servant in his house.”
Movement drew their attention to the restaurant. Diego Gonzalez, Ruiz’s man, looked at them as he left. Mark slipped his fingers to the back of her head, forcing her to face him.
“Don’t you understand? If anything goes wrong—anything—you’ll be arrested. You don’t want to go to prison in San Mateo. Nothing can save you from what will happen there.”
“No, you don’t understand.” She locked eyes with him, her hands on his shoulders. “This is my son’s only chance.”
***
Her son’s only chance.
Her husband hadn’t stood a chance. Mark clenched his jaw at the memory.
Four years ago, while still a Green Beret captain working undercover as Juan Marcos, a low-level gun trader, he learned that three San Matean Rangers had been captured by Primero de Mayo terrorists. His request to infiltrate the encampment on a reconnaissance mission had been refused. He disobeyed orders, made it into the compound undetected, and found a bloodbath. The three men, including José Antonio Iglesias who’d once saved his life, who told Mark he’d lived his life with purpose, died.
The job had become Mark’s purpose. A crusade, his sister claimed, and blamed their father, a career diplomat who’d taken him along on trips to war-torn countries. Mark saw how the weak were oppressed by the powerful, how all the talk in the world couldn’t stop the violence. Joining the army had been his solution. He’d done some good. But bottom line, those men didn’t survive.
He couldn’t shake off the way José Antonio Iglesias died. And his last words. They haunted him.
He’d gotten out of that encampment and expected to be hauled on his ass for insubordination and disobeying a direct order, but it hadn’t happened. Probably because Jonathan Ethridge, the CIA’s liaison with Special Forces who’d recruited him when he left the army, intervened. Ethridge wanted him to continue as Juan Marcos, gunrunner. He did, even after leaving the service.
As a CIA special ops officer, he’d gone in and out of San Mateo with more operational freedom until he was shot on the same day another general died, leaving a power vacuum in the San Matean military that Ernesto Ruiz filled, power he carried with him to his civilian life.
“Do you understand?” Laura repeated, dragging him back to the present.
Gonzalez kept his attention on them as he walked toward the restaurant parking lot. Mark held Laura closer. “Smile,” he said. “Mean it.”
“I see him,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“Is there any chance he’ll recognize you?”
“He hasn’t, or he would have alerted Ruiz. My name, the picture—”
“I know,” he replied. “First name listed, not Laura, old picture.”
“There’s no reason for Gonzalez to have anything to do with me,” she added.
But some reports said Diego Gonzalez picked the targets for Ruiz’s wrath. And for the methods. Ruiz went after the families of anyone who opposed him. He would continue with manipulation and intimidation unless someone stopped him. God only knew what he’d do to an innocent child.
“We’ll find your son,” Mark said.
The restaurant doors swung open and Ruiz and his wife stepped out. The retired general turned toward them, tipped his head and saluted. Mark responded, hugged Laura, and then pulled back marginally.
“You’ll do exactly what I tell you to do,” he said, his attention on Ruiz.
“Yes,” she whispered her face only inches from his, their pose one intended for Ruiz and his wife to see.
Mark felt scorched by her determination. By her.
She had no idea who he was or who he worked for. Top Secret was stamped on every part of his life. He’d always hated lying to civilians, using them to further what he had to do. But it was different with her. Because of his history with José Antonio Iglesias.
Now that man’s only son was at the mercy of this bastard.
And Mark couldn’t tell Laura any of it because it would mean divulging classified secrets. Besides, if Laura found out what happened in that blood-soaked encampment, would she trust him with her son’s safety?
Chapter Four
For Laura, a night of sleep blessedly absent of nightmares spent searching for Tony down dark hallways gave way to morning. Mark—she’d asked for a last name, but he’d avoided answering—tough and capable, if a little too quick to act, was going to help her. She woke to the sight of him folding the thin blanket she’d given him, then quietly leaving.
She let her eyes drift shut again just for a moment, savoring the knowledge that she wasn’t alone. He’d insisted on sleeping on the floor even though she offered to let him take the bed. She wasn’t comfortable with the courtesy, but only this morning realized why. The same reason she feigned sleep as he opened the room’s rickety door and closed it behind him.
She wanted to deny any attraction toward him. He was her father’s intelligence officer, her son was in danger. He could help. Simple.
But it wasn’t simple. Mark was a complicated man. A man who’d saved her from Ruiz, who’d seen a woman threatened by a powerful man and acted. The moments in this bed threatened to make it more—make it personal. She didn’t want personal, didn’t need personal.
He’d been gentleman enough to apologize.
Did she want him to be uncivilized? A barbarian?
He was a risk taker. He might want to help rescue her son, but that fit in with his job. Of course he’d want to save his boss’s grandson and earn points. Something to remember.
Still, nothing mattered except getting Tony back. Yes, she’d do as Mark asked. As long as he helped her.
She rolled to her side and tucked her hand beneath her pillow. Her sleepy thoughts drifted to what she’d pictured as she fell asleep last night.
His body...
“Good morning.” Mark’s voice rumbled over her senses. She hadn’t heard him open the door. “I brought café con leche, hot French rolls, cheese and fruit from the bodega.” He deposited the items on the small table by the door.
“Thank you.” She sat up, pushing her hair out of her face.
He took one of the steaming Styrofoam cups and one roll and stepped back outside.
Before he closed the door again, she asked, “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I’ll eat outside,” he said. “There’s no place for me to sit in here.”
“You can sit on the bed.”
He turned those enigmatic eyes on her and for a single instant, when he let down his guard, she knew. She hadn’t been wrong to respond to him last night. Her reaction had been a subconscious response to his interest. Male interest. Despite his apology about his physical reaction.
She was out of her element. What a joke! Of course she was out of her element. She was trying to find her son, hiding from the man who’d kidnapped him.
Coward. Don’t lie to yourself.
What had started out as pretense had become unintentionally real.
“I’ll sit on the step and eat while you dress.” With that, he
turned away.
“I’m dressed,” she said, throwing off the sheet that covered the shorts and T-shirt she’d slept in.
He faced her again, kept his gaze on her eyes, never looked down. But she felt heat rush from her breasts to her stomach.
“I’ll be outside,” he said, and left.
***
That was smooth. Good move. Mark ate the still-warm French roll and cheese because he knew to eat when he could, and leaned against the wooden exterior of the miserable barrio apartment building. He’d trespassed on good manners. More. Laura Iglesias was off limits. Any attraction he felt went beyond inappropriate to dead wrong for too many reasons. Duty. His oath.
Her husband.
Mark had slept on that damn hard floor, twisting and turning all night, listening to her soft breathing, trying to keep his imagination in check. He pretty much succeeded.
Problem was, she was aware of him, though not as aware of him as he was of her. Hell, that was impossible, or she would have known that the damn T-shirt she wore molded itself to her perfect breasts.
The whole thing last night, from the moment he’d pulled her over himself on the bed and felt the soft give of her body, to the last act on the beach for Ruiz, had been a test of his ability to do the necessary. Sometime in the middle of night he’d accepted the temptation she represented and had come to terms with it.
This was fate’s way of getting back at him, for the secrets he was sworn to keep, for what happened four years ago. Now he had a chance to honor his debt to her husband by saving her and her son.
Oh, he’d gather whatever intel he could about Ruiz because he wanted Primero de Mayo routed as badly as Langley did, maybe more, but if push came to shove, he would choose her and the boy over the mission, and handle whatever flack came his way. He was no stranger to taking flack for his actions.
She opened the wobbly door and stood there wearing pink rubber flip-flops, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt that bore the logo of the restaurant. She’d pulled her hair back in a ponytail, but none of it changed who she was. Classy, moneyed. A woman desperate to save her child from a dangerous man. He had to find the boy and get them away from here, back to their world. And he’d damn well succeed, even if he had to spend the next few days staring at some spot beyond her in order to concentrate.
“I changed,” she said, and went back inside, leaving the door open.
He took a deep breath and followed. She’d placed the blanket and pillow he’d used on her bed, now made.
“What do you know about the layout of Ruiz’s compound?” He tore his gaze away from her long legs and stared at the bed instead. Yeah, like the bed was going to work as a distraction.
She moved a tan backpack off the bed to the small dresser. “It’s big,” she said. “There’s the main house, a separate two-story garage and two small cottages. There’s a sort of...” She frowned, “bunk house? Like in the old Western shows. That’s where many of the men stay.”
“You’ve been inside?” His blood chilled at the deadly risk on her part.
“No, but I’ve spoken with workmen who have.” She sat on the bed. “The house itself has a large patio with a pool facing the ocean. The patio is accessible from the kitchen, living room and dining room. Ruiz’s office is on the first floor. There are stairs to the master bedroom and three or four other bedrooms.”
“Is the house walled in?” Typically, well-to-do homes in San Mateo were protected by six to eight foot stuccoed cement walls, both for privacy and security. Ruiz’s would likely be even more secure.
“Yes, on three sides, but not on the Pacific side.”
“Don Ernesto wants his view.” Mark sat on the floor beside the little table, back against the wall, knees bent.
“It’s a very expensive view. Not as expensive as beachfront property in the States, but for San Mateo, he’s living like a king.”
Because he had the power and resources of a king. More than likely thanks to a lucrative gun trade. He crumpled the empty bread wrapper and tossed it on the tiny table.
“Ruiz wants power,” she continued. “If he can stop those loyal to the democratically elected government, he can wield that power to do whatever he wants.”
“Your father’s in the way.” Mark stated the obvious, curious to see what she’d say. He took a sip of his coffee.
“Probably more than others because there’s a history between them, a struggle that has become a vendetta.” She stood to get the cup and roll he’d left for her on the small table. “Surely you know about my brother.”
“I’ve heard he was a San Matean Army lieutenant killed during one of Ruiz’s suicidal missions.” One truth told.
“Even before Manolo was killed, my father saw through Ruiz and did his best to thwart him. No matter what happens, my father will never forgive Ruiz for my brother’s death. It’s become an obsession that has robbed him of any peace.” She sat on the bed again, one leg beneath her, before continuing. “Even if he could let that go, my father is dedicated to the democratic process. Ruiz used his position in the military to push himself into national prominence for years. The strong soldier ready to take on the enemies of the country.”
“I know Ruiz threatens and intimidates government officials who’ve stood in his way.”
“And their families,” Laura said. “Surely you’ve heard. The wives of two men who opposed him were kidnapped. One retracted his opposition, and his wife was released. The other didn’t. His wife was found dead. Car accident was given as the cause. The family fled the country. Now, with the exception of a few others who are honorable and well regarded—and safely out of the country—everyone is afraid to talk. My father has continued. That’s why Tony has vanished and my father is hiding.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to involve the American embassy? There must be some sort of hostage rescue team available.” Special Forces were in-country, probably even Delta operators.
“No.” She shook her head. “No. If they would even consider helping me, they’d rush in…” She cleared her throat. “I can’t risk Tony that way.”
Of course she wouldn’t consider a move like that. She’d put her son in the same risky position her husband had been in.
“From what I’ve heard,” he said, “the Americans are supportive of President Valdivia’s government. They don’t want to see the border dispute between San Mateo and Monte Blanco turn into an armed conflict and believe the president can maintain the brokered peace.”
One elegant brow rose a fraction. “You know a great deal about the international aspects of the situation,” she said. “Have you worked here long?”
He snatched a banana from the table. “Long enough to understand current events.”
“My father is convinced Ruiz will force Valdivia out.”
Jonathan Ethridge would want to know how. The CIA man was laser focused on Ruiz. “Your father told you this?”
“I overheard him talking to a friend. My father doesn’t talk to me about his efforts. He knows it upsets me.”
“Why did Ruiz decide to produce this false evidence against your father now?”
“I think my father found something he could use against Ruiz, something that proves what he’s doing, or proves some of the things he’s done. Whatever it is frightened Ruiz into manufacturing these false charges of treason. My father would never betray his country.”
“Any idea what that something is?”
“No, I told you. He doesn’t talk to me about that. Besides, it would be top secret. The intelligence agency is under the ministry and is responsible for investigating threats against the state, either from inside or outside the country.” She raised her cup to drink but frowned at him. “But you know that.”
Because she thought he worked for her father in that agency. “I’m given orders, not background,” Mark said. “Sometimes family knows more of what’s going on.” A good comeback when he probably knew more than she did at this point. San Matean intelligence cooperated w
ith American counterparts and US military advisory units regarding common interests on a regular basis. Gun running and narcoterrorism were among those interests. As were threats to the stability of the democratic government. Laura’s father had to know the CIA was in-country.
Laura nodded, apparently accepting his explanation. “Ruiz openly opposed President Valdivia’s choice of my father for the position of Minister of the Interior, but he was unable to change the president’s mind. But now Valdivia can do nothing because Ruiz has manipulated situations and intimidated people.”
“Does Ruiz have direct access to Valdivia?”
“Not really.” She shook her head again and took a sip of the café con leche before continuing. “Carlos Montoya—”
“The Minister of Justice?” he asked, even though he’d met Montoya and served with Montoya’s son, an American who was now Delta.
“Yes,” she said. “Ruiz somehow compromised Carlos Montoya’s position at the ministry and Valdivia was forced to arrest him even though he’s part of one of the most powerful families in the country. By now, Valdivia must know that his presidency is under attack. I don’t think anything can be done to stop Ruiz.”
“There has to be a way.”
“Not if he imprisons or kills the opposition.” She stood, paced a couple of steps in one direction, then the other. “What I don’t understand is why Ruiz hasn’t used Tony to make my father turn himself in.”
Damned if he knew. Was Ruiz waiting for something? For the perfect moment?
The child might be his last resort. But for what?
Or was it even remotely possible that Ruiz had not taken Tony? That the kidnapping was totally unrelated?
Or the unthinkable—that he’d killed the boy?
***
Laura was surprised at how methodical Mark was as they prepared to go to Ruiz’s to work given how quickly he reacted to situations. But everything he did made sense. From telling her to pack her things, that they wouldn’t be back to her room, to his request that she draw a floor plan of the compound. He left for a few minutes and came back with a black duffle bag he said he’d stored at the bus station. Laura handed him a crudely drawn plan on the back of a flyer announcing a band scheduled to play on the beach.
Whatever it Takes (Shadow Heroes Book 4) Page 5
