by Pamela Clare
“No, please!” The woman tried to sidestep the hostess, then raised her voice. “Leftovers for my child? Anything? Please! He’s hungry.”
Voices stilled, heads turning.
Sister María’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth, a stricken look on her face. She set her fork down. “Madre de Dios.”
Dylan realized what she was about to do and caught her wrist before she could stand. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Wait. You should finish your supper. You need to eat, too, build up your strength. You’ve been through an ordeal.”
Her gaze met his, distress in her eyes. “I couldn’t possibly eat more. The rest of the arepas—we’ll get a box for them, too.”
Dylan knew there was no changing her mind. He took the last swig of his beer, ate his last bite of steak, and motioned for the server. “Can we get a couple of boxes and the check, please?”
“Sí, señor.”
He paid in cash, called up the location of the hotel he’d booked on his phone, and they walked out together, Dylan’s gaze moving surreptitiously over the other patrons to see if anyone was watching them.
Out on the street, Sister María craned her head, looking for the mother. “There.”
The woman sat against a wall fifty meters ahead of them, her child in her lap.
Sister María walked over to her, knelt beside her. “I’ve got some pasticho here and some arepas for you and your little boy.”
“¡Gracias!” The woman took the boxes, sniffed, smiled. She began to eat, feeding small bites to her child. “God bless you.”
Down the street, a group of five young men had taken notice, either of Sister María or the food, and started walking their way.
Dylan sensed their aggression, their desire to fight. He took Sister María’s hand. “We need to go—now.”
She spotted them. “Sí, claro.” Yes, of course.
Dylan led her across the street. “Don’t hurry, and don’t look back over your shoulder. When the fighting starts, you do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Footsteps.
They reached the other side of the street.
“South.” Dylan turned left, heading toward their hotel, footsteps telling him the men were almost on top of them.
To their right was the recessed entrance to an apartment building.
Dylan saw his chance. Without warning, he pushed Sister María into the recess. “Stay here, back to the wall.”
Then he turned to face their pursuers, doing his best to remember his Venezuelan slang. “¿Que hay, mis panas?” What’s up, friends?
10
Gabriela counted five assailants—all fighting-age males, two holding knives. “Mierda.” Shit.
“We’re not your buddies,” said one in a black Caracas Football Club T-shirt. “What’s in the backpack, guevón? Hand it over.”
Oh, man, these guys were stupid. Dylan had served with DEVGRU. He was among the best of the best. Couldn’t they see that he was an experienced fighter? She thought about warning them but knew she couldn’t afford to distract Dylan. Besides, sometimes people needed to learn the hard way.
“Want it?” Dylan’s weight shifted, his knees bending slightly, a subtle change in posture that told Gabriela he wasn’t going to cooperate. “Come and get it.”
Her pulse spiked, her body responding on instinct, muscle memory resurrecting her training.
He doesn’t need your help. Besides, religious sisters don’t fight.
The men moved in on Dylan, the grins on their faces telling Gabriela that they were confident they’d come out on top.
Idiotas.
The Caracas FC fan lunged, somehow slamming his face into Dylan’s boot, his knife clattering to the ground along with the rest of him.
“Stop before you regret it,” Dylan warned the others.
“¡Mamagüevo!” A second man ran at Dylan and ended up gasping and cradling his balls on the concrete.
Enraged, the others moved in all at once, fury on their faces.
Dylan made it look easy. He grabbed one attacker, slammed the guy’s face into his knee, then threw him aside in time to punch another in the jaw.
That guy staggered but didn’t fall. He came back for more, swiping at Dylan with a knife while the third tried to kick Dylan’s legs out from under him.
Dylan sidestepped the blade, caught the kicker’s leg, and flipped him onto his back. That left only the man with the knife standing.
Rage and fear on his face, he swiped at Dylan once again.
Dylan stepped easily out of the way, then caught the bastard’s wrist, wrenched the knife from his grip, and in a single, smooth move, had one arm around the man’s throat, blade pressed against his carotid. “Stop fucking around and go home before someone gets hurt. You hear me?”
Gabriela couldn’t see the man’s face, but she could hear the fear in his voice.
“Sí. Sí.”
Then she saw it as if it were happening in slow motion—the man in the Caracas FC T-shirt lifting his head, his fingers curling around the handle of his knife, his body lunging upright as he drove the blade toward the back of Dylan’s knee.
Gabriela reacted on instinct, knocking him flat with a scissor kick to the chin.
Still holding a knife at the other guy’s throat, Dylan gaped at her, astonishment on his face. “What the…?”
That’s when the adrenaline hit.
He’d seen.
Shit.
How was she going to explain what she’d done?
Dylan gave the man he was restraining a hard shove. “I don’t want to see your face again.”
The man stumbled, looked at his injured buddies, and ran off, leaving them to bleed on the sidewalk and make their way home.
But now a crowd had begun to gather, people staring in silence.
Dylan took hold of Gabriela’s arm. “We need to get out of here—now.”
Stepping over the prostrate bodies of the men whose asses Dylan had just kicked, they headed down the street, people making way for them, giving them a wide berth.
They’d gone maybe two blocks when the National Police rushed by them, sirens blaring, probably headed toward the scene of the fight. On their tail was a pickup truck full of armed Guachimanes.
Gabriela walked faster. “How far away is our hotel? If witnesses share our description or tell the police which way we went…”
“It’s a mile and a half away. We take a right up here.”
Gabriela stopped, looked at the map app on his phone. “We’ll go faster this way.”
She led Dylan through an alley and then into a heavily wooded park, only too aware that they weren’t safe here either. Gangs, drug dealers, prostitutes—they kept to these shadows, guarding their territories, suspicious of strangers.
Four women stood beneath a tree smoking. A group of three young men stopped kicking a ball to watch as they passed. An old man swayed on his feet on the path ahead of them, half-empty bottle in hand.
“I’m not sure this shortcut was such a great idea,” Dylan said for her ears alone.
“Just walk like you belong here. Let all that operator testosterone show.”
“Operator testosterone?”
“See that bridge?”
“The one with the armed guys blocking it?”
“We need to get across it.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“Just follow my lead.”
“Sure, Sister.”
Dylan was onto her. But what else could she have done? She couldn’t let them hamstring him.
As they drew closer to the bridge, she slipped her arm around Dylan’s waist, felt him tense at her touch. “Put your arm around me. You’re my lover.”
The contact was electric. But she didn’t have time to think about that.
She started talking about the imaginary time her mother had caught the two of them stealing cigarettes a
s teenagers, willing herself to relax and laugh. “I thought my mother was going to turn us over to the police herself.”
Dylan chuckled convincingly. “It’s a good thing you’re such a clever liar.”
Yeah, he was onto her.
She shifted her attention to the men on the bridge, who watched them approach. She’d spent endless months in the role of a religious sister, suppressing her sexuality. It felt strange—and exhilarating—to flip the switch in the opposite direction. She hit them with everything she had, looking from man to man, giving them a sexy smile, speaking in a purr. “Caballeros.”
Gentlemen.
Like the idiots they were, they returned her greeting, looked her up and down, smiled—and moved aside.
Dylan watched Gabriela work, saw the effect she had on the men—an effect to which he was not immune even though he knew it was an act. Was she DEA? CIA?
¡Puñeta! Fuck.
Why had it taken that scissor kick for him to see the truth? Why hadn’t he realized she was an operative? How many nuns could deliver actionable intel? Or steal a key from kidnappers? Or stare down the barrel of Dylan’s rifle without fear?
Pull the trigger.
She must think he was a fucking idiot.
Hey, man, the truth hurts.
Oh, she was good, everything about her screaming sex. It rolled off her like a drug, like a spell, the men forgetting they were guarding the bridge, their gazes moving over her, lust on their stupid faces.
“Hola, mamacita.” Hello, sexy mama.
“Oye, jeva.” Hey, girlfriend.
The bridge wasn’t wide, forcing Dylan to take his arm from around her shoulder so they could walk single file. If these bastards decided to fight him, he’d have no choice but to draw his pistol and open fire. Thankfully, they seemed to have forgotten everything but Gabriela and her lethal curves.
Had her hips moved like that under her habit?
Quit looking at her ass.
A muscle-bound idiot with an AK stepped into her path, smiled down at her, gestured to Dylan. “If you get tired of that one, you know where to find me.”
Dylan glared at the bastard.
She smiled, lowered her voice as if sharing a secret. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He gets fucking angry when he’s jealous.”
So, now she was even using Dylan’s responses to flesh out her little performance.
The man stepped aside, giving Dylan space.
Gabriela took Dylan’s hand as they reached the other side, awareness once again zinging through him at her touch. She looked back over her shoulder, giving the men on the bridge one last brilliant smile. “Buenas noches.” Good night.
They left the wooded area, emerging onto a major thoroughfare hedged by tall buildings, no sign of the police anywhere.
“The hotel is there.”
“I see it.” He drew his hand away, fighting to quash his irritation with himself—and with her.
She must have had a reason for keeping up the nun ruse and not telling him the truth. She had her mission parameters just like he did. It wasn’t personal.
You’re just pissed off that she played you.
He didn’t like being deceived.
Dylan had only met one person with her skillset, and that was Holly Andris, a former Agency officer who now worked for Cobra, often alongside her husband, Nick Andris. Holly had used her physical beauty and brains to get close to men—and sometimes women—who were deemed a threat to the homeland to set them up for surveillance. If Gabriela was as good as Holly, she would know every thought in his head and every damned emotion he felt.
At least now you know what you’re dealing with, cabrón.
In a way, it was a relief.
Sister María of the Innocent Eyes was defenseless.
Gabriela? Not so much.
They crossed the street, Dylan keeping an eye out for police, Guachimanes, or anyone who might have followed them from the park.
Hotel Euro was twenty-one stories tall with security at the door. They checked in, Dylan giving the woman at the front desk the same story about their bags being lost on a flight back from Paris, while Gabriela stood close beside him like any happy newlywed, playing her part, the floral scent of her hair teasing him.
“We should call your mamá and let her know we made it.”
Dylan nodded. “Don’t let me forget. She’ll worry.”
“Here are your key cards, Mr. and Mrs. Rojas.” A woman in heavy makeup handed them to Dylan. “Your WiFi password is written on the back. I’ll let you know when your bags arrive. Enjoy your stay.”
They walked to the elevator, stepped inside, neither of them speaking because of the likelihood of surveillance.
Their room was on the ninth floor on the corner and overlooking the street. It gave them quick access to the stairwell as well as a view of what was happening below. The only downside was the single king-sized bed.
Dylan let the weight of the backpack slide from his shoulders to the floor. “You can have the bed. I’ll take the floor. I’m going to lay in some supplies.”
He went down to the concierge desk and bought some basics at ridiculous prices—toothbrushes, toothpaste, a brush for her hair. Back in the room, he found Gabriela checking for listening devices.
She put the cushions back on the chairs. “I think we’re clear.”
He dropped the small bag of supplies on the bed. “Okay, Sister María Cuss-A-Lot—or is it Our Lady of Krav Maga? Or maybe Saint María of the Tinder Date? Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in Venezuela?”
Gabriela hadn’t expected anger from Dylan and was surprised to find that it stung. She did her best not to react. “Our Lady of Krav Maga—I like that.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw set. “Answer the question.”
“I’m Gabriela Marquez. That is truly my name. I’m here on an undercover assignment for the Agency. I can’t tell you more than that.”
“Okay, Gabriela. Why didn’t you drop the act and tell me the truth last night?”
Gabriela couldn’t understand this reaction. “Why does it matter? You thought you were rescuing a helpless religious sister, and you just found out that I’m not so helpless after all. I just saved your leg—and maybe your life.”
The glare in his eyes softened slightly. “I’m grateful for that, but I don’t like being deceived.”
“That wasn’t my decision.” She sat on the bed, exhaustion getting hold of her. “When you introduced yourself, it was clear you didn’t know I was an undercover officer. I took that to mean that I had to maintain my cover. I figured they were scrambling to protect assets and my family here in Venezuela. I certainly didn’t do it to trick you. Like you, I have to follow orders.”
The hard line of his jaw relaxed, and he uncrossed his arms. “So, you were just keeping to your mission parameters.”
She nodded. “As it is, I might catch hell when I get back for giving myself away. I couldn’t let that malparido stab you in the back of the knee.”
“Not if you wanted to get out of here. Nice scissor kick, by the way. Yes, I saw it. I looked just in time to see.”
“Thanks. I’m out of practice. I haven’t been able to work out.”
“No, I suppose not.” He drew out his smartphone. “I need to check in, see if I can reach Cobra.”
He disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving Gabriela to surf news channels looking for anything about the hostage rescue or the fight.
God, what a mess.
If that bastard Pitón hadn’t dragged her away, she’d have been on that helicopter, and she and Dylan would be eating bad food on a US Navy ship somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean. Instead, she was stuck in a hotel room in San Antonio de Los Altos with a surly former SEAL a risky day’s journey from the Colombian border, her mission unfinished.
And then on the screen, she saw herself.
Damn.
“The National Police tonight are asking for t
he public’s help in locating a nun who was abducted from a Catholic mission in El Vigía early this week. Police believe she was abducted by a foreign national, possibly an agent of the United States. The suspect is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous. Anyone who has seen the young Sister is asked to call the National Police immediately.”
Gabriela was glad that they still believed she was a religious sister. She was also grateful that they didn’t have a photo or a description of Dylan. Unless they connected the Cobra operatives with the guys selling black market goods—and they might eventually—they would also have no idea that he spoke fluent Spanish or that he could fake a solid Cuban accent. They probably thought they were looking for a white guy.
She and Dylan could use that to their advantage.
As for Gabriela, sooner or later someone would recognize her. She needed sunglasses, a baseball cap, maybe some hair color. If she bleached her hair blond, she might be unrecognizable. Make-up, too, would help—anything to make her look less like the woman beneath that veil.
From the bathroom came the sound of Dylan’s voice.
She wished she could speak to her superiors, explain what had happened. She supposed she’d have plenty of time for that during the debriefing once she got back to Langley. In the meantime, her objectives were clear.
Work with Dylan to stay alive—and get out of Venezuela.
He stepped out of the bathroom, a troubled frown on his face. “I spoke with my boss. Venezuela closed its borders, even the maritime borders.”
“That’s not good.”
“Oh, and you can relax. The Agency shared the basics about you with Cobra. You were at the Mission to gather intel about Luis Sánchez and his ties to the Andes Cartel.”
She was surprised the Agency had shared that much. Dylan must have top-secret clearance after all. It was a relief. “Yeah, well, being abducted put a premature end to that operation. What’s the plan?”
“There is no plan—yet.” He lifted the backpack, set it down on the table, and opened it. “It’s a sensitive situation. We’ve been ordered to stay put for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours while things cool down, and Cobra and the Pentagon pull something together.”
