by KT Bryan
The morning after Caldwell had so brazenly walked from the cantina, he’d shown up in Rafael’s home. His home. For the second time without Raphael’s knowledge.
Rafael had come downstairs, still groggy from sleep, smelling bacon and coffee. And there stood Caldwell laughing with Dreena and feeding her pancakes. Adoña sat at their kitchen table, sipping coffee, reserved, yet almost amused. They’d all looked like…family.
His movement caught Adoña’s eye and she gave him a strained, cautious smile. “Darling, you’re up. Good.”
“Just in time for pancakes, Papa.” Dreena took a petite bite, using her best manners, obviously trying hard to impress their unexpected guest.
“Yes. I see. How…nice.”
Adoña’s eyes were questioning when she said, “You should have told me Dario was coming. I am not properly dressed.”
Dario? The man had never given his name, and Sanchez knew as sure as he knew his own, this man’s name was not Dario. For now, he let it pass.
Dreena giggled. “You don’t have to dress for family, Mama. Right, Uncle D?”
Uncle?
Dear Jesus. Who was this man who dared enter his home, who dared call himself uncle? Who dared draw a smile from his precious daughter?
Adoña raised an eyebrow, knowing this man was no uncle, waiting for Rafe to say something, but he had nothing yet to say. He could not say this man was a stranger, perhaps more dangerous than himself, and send his family into panic. No, first he would watch. He would school his words. Then later, perhaps, when his family was busy, he would take this man to his vast garage and shoot him in the head.
After a long drink of milk, Dreena asked, “How come this is your first visit? All my other uncles come over a lot.”
“My work takes me many places. But I promise, mi pequeña princesa, to be around much, much more.”
“Yes, Uncle Dario is going to help Papa in his business. He’s going to make sure everyone here is always very safe.” He ruffled his child’s hair. “Is that not so, Dario?”
“Very safe. With tummies full of pancakes.” Dario set Dreena’s locket on the table beside her plate. “And look what I found.”
Adoña gasped, real fear in her eyes. Dreena did not notice, she had scooped the locket into her tiny hand and jumped from her chair to hug this man around his knees. “You found it! I thought it was gone forever. Papa and I would have been very sad.”
“Indeed,” Rafe said. “And where did you find such a treasure?”
“In the yard where Dreena plays. It must have fallen from her neck.”
Rafe poured himself a cup of coffee and asked, “The clasp? Is it broken?”
“No. Odd, isn’t it?” Dario asked, giving Sanchez an even stare.
Not odd at all. This man had slipped into his home and taken the locket from Dreena’s neck as she’d slept. As the entire family had slept. And no one, not him, nor one of his many men, had seen it happen.
Yes. This man was dangerous.
Even more so because he had so quickly won Dreena’s affection and loyalty. Something rarely given, and certainly never to someone she’d only just met.
Dario settled Dreena back in her chair with a kiss on her forehead, then fastened the locket around her neck. “There. Back where it belongs. Safe and sound.”
Those words ricocheted in Rafe’s mind. Safe and sound had not lasted.
And neither would it last for Caldwell.
<><><>
Sara recognized Dillon’s voice even before she’d opened her eyes, even before she was fully conscious. She started to look at him, wanted to see him again after so long, but self-discipline said no.
Survival first. Get away, get to Craig, get Ellie.
And never, ever, show fear.
Do the unexpected.
She giggled, hiccupped. Dillon’s Spanish was better than hers, so she went for drunken French, hoping the medic would shrug her off and let her go. “Je semble avoir perdu mon mari.”
“Vous n'êtes pas américain'?”
Well, crap. Of all the medics in the world she had to get one who not only spoke French, but spoke it better than she did. “Pas.” No, she lied, she was not an American. And she needed to get back to her hotel. “Je dois retourner à mon Hotel Del Coronado.” She let her head sag forward and hiccupped again.
The medic turned to Dillon. “She’s married. Looking for her husband. Sorry, man. She must’ve been pretty hammered to pass out that close to the shoreline. Lucky she didn’t drown.” He gave Dillon a look that said what he thought of stupid tourists. “She wants to go back to the Del.”
“I see,” Dillon said. Then added, “As for her husband--” He turned toward her and said, “Peut-être si vous recherchez, vous verrez votre mari bien ici.” Perhaps if you look up, you will see your husband right here.
Sara’s shoulders slumped. Of course Dillon spoke French. She knew that. He spoke several languages.
The paramedic gave them both strange looks. Like maybe he was watching some new reality show and no one had told him the rules. “Vous devez aller à l'hôpital.”
“No.” She sighed, gave up the drunken French bit. “I don’t need to go to the hospital.” Hospitals weren’t safe. Hospitals meant names and records and long, endless questions. And being trapped in one place. Just the thought of being held overnight filled her belly with ice.
She had to leave. Sanchez would be after her. If he found her again--
Or worse, found Dillon--
Get to Craig. Wait for Matt to bring Ellie.
She was cold, numb, her body heavy, but the thought of getting out of there, now, gave her strength. She pushed herself up. “I have to go.” Holding the blanket securely around her, she scooted out of the back of the ambulance and stood on legs made weak from fear more than exhaustion.
“I really think you should see a doctor, Ma’am.” The medic finally figured the game and spoke to her in English.
She huffed out a worried breath. “And if I don’t?”
“As a precaution, better safe than--”
“Sorry. Right. Got it.” Never show fear. Go. Move. Leave now. She gestured at the blanket, her lack of clothes. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some shopping to do.” She waved a hand, no cares in the world. “Midnight madness sales and all that.”
“It’s not even close to midnight and you’re in no condition--”
It took all she had not to give in and snap. “Guess I’ll start early then.”
The medic shook his head at all the weirdness. “Okay, but if you start feeling worse later--”
“Hospital. Right.” She was starting to vibrate with impatience now. “My bag?”
After having her sign a release form, where all she put was a nice big X, he reached inside the ambulance and handed her the blue waterproof bag.
“Thank you.” Avoiding Dillon’s puzzled gaze, she took the bag, clutched it to her chest along with the blanket, and felt the hated fear stealing back over her.
It was all she could do not to run.
<><><>
Dillon saw desperation and a sudden flicker of panic in Sara’s eyes he’d never seen before and it floored him. Sara didn’t spook. Instead of making her fragile, her childhood, what she’d endured from her father, had made her strong. Sturdy. She barreled through life, tough and fearless, gathering facts, reporting the news. And hell to those who got in her way.
Parentless by the age of eight, she’d been raised in an all girl prep school that believed in Latin, sterling decorum, and reaching one’s ‘full human potential’. The learned social graces made her a clever and congenial reporter. The streets made her wise and accomplished. Marriage made her vibrant, sometimes whimsical. But nothing had ever scared her. Not like this. This look, what he’d just now seen in her eyes looked unnerved. Hunted.
As soon as she had the bag and blanket secure, she started off down the beach. Driven. Determined. And nowhere near ready for a hike. She zigged one way and zagged the next. Dil
lon stared after her, then turned to the paramedic. “You figure she’s going to be all right?”
The medic shrugged. “Should be. Her vitals are stable. You’ll still want to watch her. And put some ice on that shiner.” He handed Dillon a plastic bag containing what appeared to be wet clothes. “She may want these.”
Dillon took the bag and started off after her, tossing a “Thanks” over his shoulder.
He caught up with her in four long strides. “Sara?” When she stumbled sideways, he caught her. The bag of clothes landed in the sand, and as Dillon turned her to face him, his heart stopped. It just completely stopped.
His wife was alive.
Alive and home and in his arms.
So where in God’s name had she been?
<><><>
Other than Matt, no one had called her Sara in twelve months. Not Craig. No one. Her own name sounded foreign to her, but at the same time so very familiar coming from Dillon.
Her gaze traveled over her husband’s face. He was still too handsome, with dark, almost black hair, a chiseled face, and eyes bluer than a sunlit ocean, but he looked different now. Sure, he still had laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. His chin still wore a slight cleft. And yes, he still had the rough, lined face of a man who’d seen too much, worried and cared too much about the world around him. Which was, of course, what had made her fall in love with him in the first place. She’d never met anyone quite like Dillon and a large part of her mourned what he’d done, what he’d missed, and what might be.
His face was clean shaven now, tanned from the sun, and his long hair was gone. Even with the GQ looks, he looked grittier than he had a year ago. Harder somehow.
Strong arms eased her against a muscled chest, held her gently. He nuzzled her hair. “Sara,” he whispered. “You’re really alive. What happened? Where have you been?”
Her first reaction was to push him away. To fight off any hands that touched her. But after the day she’d had, her defenses were dull and his words so choked with feeling, that for a moment she surrendered and just let him hold her. Her emotions skidded and whirled in a chaotic blend of the known and purposely forgotten.
He's not like the others. He's kind and gentle. He's not those men. He’s not Sanchez.
He’s not your father.
Dillon won't hurt you.
But he had hurt her.
And because of that hurt, she shoved him off. Regret, anger, and fear collided.
Together, you make the perfect target.
“I can’t stay here.” She sidestepped around him, trying once again to escape.
He caught her arm and said, “Sure you can.” Voice soft. Eyes firm. Both bewildered.
Dammit. She didn’t want this. Couldn’t afford it.
Except… She had no money, no ID, no clothes, not even shoes. The only thing she did have would likely get her killed.
Your fault Dillon. Yours, yours, yours.
She pulled her arm away. As she did, she stopped, looked hard at her left hand.
Her ring. She didn’t even have her ring. Not that her wedding ring should mean much at this point, but the fact that it was no doubt at the bottom of the Pacific by now, well, hurt. It hurt a lot.
The raw fatigue that had been shadowing finally slammed into her. She felt herself sway.
“Oh hell,” he whispered, “you always did know how to make an entrance.” And before she could decide what to do, where to go, Dillon matter-of-factly swung her up into his arms and carried her over the sand, over the blacktop, into a quiet, cool building.
“I suppose,” she said, and let her head rest against his shoulder. She just needed a minute to rest. Just a minute and then she’d be back on her feet and out of his life.
He didn’t stop until he reached the inner sanctum of his office. After setting her gently in a chair, he closed the door, then in one fluid motion he was kneeling next to her, touching her face, her hair, her arms. “You’re really here.”
The nightmare bled in. Faces shimmered, danced, merged. She pushed him away.
Dillon stood and folded his arms across his chest. Leaned a hip against his desk. “No touching. Okay. You’re hurt and I can see that. But what I can’t seem to figure out is why you seem so bent on dodging me. You going to help me out?”
She inhaled and let her breath out slowly.
Tall and broad shouldered, Dillon wore a green Special Forces T-shirt stretched tightly over thick muscles. His windblown hair, the darkness of it, in contrast with the blue of his eyes, was striking. He looked strong and powerful.
And vulnerable.
But dammit, everything she’d gone through--all those months of hell--the pain, the fear, the isolation and loneliness, the worry for her child, Sanchez…everything…his fault.
Dillon had done the unforgivable, the inexcusable. He had broken a sacred vow. He may have broken them all.
To love, honor, cherish, he’d said. To protect he’d promised.
Liar. Liar, liar, liar.
She sat in fear and anguish and confusion, sat and fumed in disdain and resentment, and thought that maybe she hated him....or if not him exactly, then what he’d let happen to her, what he’d done with another woman, and she realized as she sat there, debating an umbrageous departure, that she couldn’t leave because she not only didn’t have clothes, she had no direction.
Her anger lost momentum as a dull ache started behind her eyes and the bravery she'd held on to started to crumble. Find Craig. Get Ellie. Then, she wondered, would she still have to hide? Would the contents in the nylon bag end this nightmare?
“Sara?”
“Wait. Please. I need to think.”
He pushed away from the desk and paced. Scrubbed a hand over his face. “Think? About what? What the hell’s going on? I thought you were dead. I saw it happen with my own eyes. Why haven’t you contacted me? Why didn’t you let me know you were alive?”
Dillon wanted answers she couldn’t give. Not yet. Better to keep him at arm’s length until she knew more. Until they were both safe. “I have to go,” she said, tightening the blanket. “Please. I can’t be here. I need to leave. I’m sorry.”
He rocked backward. “Go? Where is it you think you’re going?”
She ignored him as frightening images came and went. Outlines, blurs, sharp, solid images...and the fear. The fear was real. And locked up so tight inside her she felt crazy with it.
Dillon walked over to his desk. Slowly turned a picture toward her. “Don’t you think this means I deserve some answers?” The photo, in a pewter frame, showed a young couple in a church on their wedding day, gazing at each other with enough love in their eyes to last ten lifetimes.
Her vision tunneled, and when Dillon spoke again, his voice seemed to come from a far away place. “Talk to me. Tell me where you’ve been, what’s happened.”
She shook her head. “I need some clothes.”
“That’s it? You need some clothes? What about us, Sara?”
Dammit, how could he ask that? He’d been the one who’d lied. Who’d started this nightmare with Sanchez and…oh God, maybe even another woman. Could he…had they…did Dillon even love her? “I don’t know,” she said. “Not anymore.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m sorry, I--” she said, standing. “Please. I need some clothes, shoes, cash, a cellphone--”
“You really expect me to just let you walk? After a year? After everything that’s happened? With no explanation? Just ‘see ya, bye’?”
She took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “Yes.”
With that one simple word, when it finally sank in, Dillon stumbled to his desk chair and sat. “Holy God. You did this. You actually let me think you were dead, for an entire year, on purpose?”
<><><>
The smell of hotdogs, popcorn, and beer hung in the cool night air. The stadium was crowded, packed to capacity, but he’d never be seen. No, professionals were never seen. And when it c
ame to killing, Rafael Sanchez was nothing if not professional. This time would be no different. Lessons had to be taught after all, and he was an expert teacher.
Jaw set with a grim smile, he tightened the silencer on the end of his rifle. He never should have trusted Manny Vega. The liar, the traitor, had let Sara Caldwell jump overboard with something several governments would kill for.
A sneer curled his lips.
If the Caldwell woman hadn’t drowned, if she’d made it to shore even half alive, Rafael knew she’d go straight to familiar territory. Dillon.
The name itself ignited hatred, and in case Caldwell got any noble ideas, Rafael was going to give him a warning. It wasn’t quite a payback for Marco’s death, but revenge would come later. In so many ways. He did, after all, have one hell of a trump.
For now, he wanted what was his. What the Caldwell woman had in her possession. What Manny had given her. Rafael was soon going to put a bullet in Manny’s forehead for what he’d done, but until then he’d use Manny as leverage.
First the warning. Then he’d make a call and find out if Sara Caldwell was still alive. And then, then he’d settle this very personal score for once and for all.
Amped and out for blood, Rafael squinted through the scope on his rifle and smiled with a cruel twist of his lips as his finger found the trigger.
<><><>
The only things Craig Duncan loved as much as his job with the DEA were baseball and women. Especially the Padres and especially the woman with the long red hair and bright smile sitting next to him. She had to be the sexiest thing on two legs. Leaning toward her, he whispered into her ear, “Did you know that this stadium is the site of Willie Mays’ six-hundredth homer?”
Stacy laughed, turned and kissed him full on the mouth. “Keep talking, sexy man, you’re getting me hot.”
Hot? Over a baseball stat? Who would’ve thought? But hey, he wasn’t about to argue, a turn on was a turn on. And since he was batting a thousand, he smiled and added, “Lou Brock became the majors’ all-time stolen base leader here on August 29, 1977.”
