Wolf

by Wolf (lit)

  He waited until that sank in, studying the faces of each of the men to be sure they were on the same page, looking for any sign that there were any among them willing to risk everybody else just to get what they wanted. He was slightly reassured when he saw they seemed to have taken it to heart, but not much. If they continued to slide toward monsters, none of them were going to be able to count on retaining enough humanity to consider the rest of humanity—even their loved ones.

  “Aside from that, we’ve got a better chance in the jungles down here—way more territory that isn’t inhabited, way more places to hide. For now, it’s our best bet. I’m no crazier about it than any of the rest of you, but I’ve considered it long and hard. Is everybody with me?”

  Again, he waited until they’d agreed to a man. “Alright, then I suggest you group up into teams, study the maps and commit them to memory, scour this tub for supplies and deposit them on deck so we can split it up, and then get whatever rest you can while we can. Once we hit the beach, we’re going to have to move fast and cover our tracks thoroughly. My team will ditch the boat. We can draw straws for which group hits the beach first, etc.”

  Hawk, Beau, and Cavanaugh lingered after the others had spread out to search for anything useable. “Unless you have an objection, Sarg, we figured we’d tag along with you,” Beau said.

  Mac considered it. They were his best men. If it had been an ‘ordinary’ operation, he would’ve preferred to split them up to lead the other teams. There was nothing ordinary about it, though, and that was saying something considering the shit they’d been through together. He managed a tired smile. “I can’t think of anybody I’d rather have watching my back.”

  The men relaxed, making it clear they’d expected him to object. “What about the woman?” Hawk asked.

  Mac met his gaze for a long moment and finally shook his head. “We can’t take her with us where we’re going.”

  Hawk’s lips tightened. “We can’t leave her. I wouldn’t be comfortable with it if she was a marine. That little gal—well, it’s plain as day she’s way out of her depth already—and was before we took the boat. I don’t know what in the hell she thought she was doing out here, but she’s got lamb written all over her.”

  Mac’s lips tightened. “You think I like it? You want to see her turn into—whatever the fuck it is we turn into? You really want to take that chance?”

  All three men looked a little sick.

  “Ain’t none of us want to see nuthin’ happen to that sweet little piece, mon ami,” Maurice ‘Beau’ Beauregard said finally. “And that includes lettin’ those bastards get their hands on her. And you know that’s what’s gonna happen if we doan take care of her.”

  Mac shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll try to think of something. In the meantime, Beau, I want you to get below and keep an eye on her … just in case any of the guys forget they’re supposed to be gentlemen.”

  Beau snorted. “I doan got no bars on my shoulders.”

  “You’re still a marine—duty and honor,” Mac retorted tightly.

  Beau shrugged uncomfortably. “No problem, Sarg. It was just a little wishful thinkin’.”

  “Well, don’t be thinking about it.”

  “I’ll watch her,” Hawk volunteered.

  Mac snorted that time. “I don’t think so. I’ve already seen how you’re handling keeping your hands to yourself.”

  “You should talk!” Hawk muttered indignantly.

  “Which is why I’m not watching her.” He nudged his head at Beau. “Get down there.”

  * * * *

  Fear, Sylvie reflected, was a lot more exhausting than she’d ever realized. Then again, it wasn’t something she was really familiar with. She was sorry she’d done something so stupid as to get her mixed up in whatever it was she was mixed up in. Not that it did any good to tell herself she should’ve known better.

  Adventure wasn’t for the faint of heart anymore than ‘taking a stand and doing something’ was. Deep down, she was a born coward and she knew it, knew her limitations. She’d tried to find her backbone and look where it had gotten her!

  She decided after a few minutes that she wasn’t really sorry she’d let Carl talk her into joining his little group or that she’d caved when they’d begun pestering her to be the pickup. It just wasn’t right that people needed medical help they couldn’t get in their country because they couldn’t afford it.

  Maybe she was just that much more susceptible to their plight because of her mother’s illness, but she thought she would’ve empathized regardless.

  She might not have willingly fallen in with Carl’s plans, but she would’ve been outraged. She would’ve been willing to stand up and demand that somebody do something!

  She was too old to do such stupid things, she thought glumly.

  Bravery was for the young and stupid who believed they were invincible, untouchable, and immortal!

  Like the kids that had captured her and were currently trying to make up their minds whether they most wanted to play soldier or rapists.

  She didn’t suppose they were that much younger than her, but she knew if she’d met up with them anywhere else under any other circumstance, she would’ve thought of them as kids.

  It was hard to think of a 200-pound gorilla as a kid, she reflected, even if he did look like one in the face. She seriously doubted there was a single one of them over the age of twenty-five, and most of the ones she’d gotten a glimpse of looked to be closer to twenty—with hard bodies, hard faces, and hard eyes that had seen way more than most twenty-year-old kids saw, or should see.

  Handsome, all American boys—men. They’d gone in as boys. They weren’t boys anymore, regardless of their youth. She needed to remember that. She needed to keep firmly focused on the fact that—in experience, if not age—she was dealing with some seriously dangerous men.

  Special Forces, Mac had said. Were they all Special Forces? And if so, what the hell happened? Why was half the base out chasing them? Try though she might, she couldn’t come up with a single theory that sounded plausible for an entire group of Special Forces soldiers to end up imprisoned and considered dangerous enough by the Armed Forces to launch such a full-scale search for them.

  Well, the dangerous part she didn’t have trouble with. She might not know a damned thing about the military, but everybody had heard about Special Forces.

  An image of Mac’s face formed in her mind. There’d been a wildness in his eyes when she’d first encountered him that had scared the piss out of her, but she didn’t think he was insane. He’d scared her with his threats, too, but he hadn’t made any attempt to reinforce those threats.

  Not that she had any desire to test him!

  “You ok?”

  Sylvie jerked at the sudden question, lifting her head to stare at the stranger now standing in the doorway to the cabin. She nodded numbly instead of pointing out that she wasn’t ok with being a prisoner.

  He nodded. “I’m Beau—actually Maurice Beauregard, but everybody just calls me Beau. Sarg sent me to look after you, so if you need anything …?”

  Sylvie felt her heart skip a beat, but she wasn’t sure if it was hopefulness that his consideration meant they weren’t a threat to her or if was simply because he’d mentioned Mac—and she wasn’t sure why the mention of him was enough to set her heart to hammering in overtime.

  Actually, she suspected why, but she didn’t have any intention of acknowledging it, even to herself.

  “Sarg? The one you all call Mac?” she asked hesitantly, not even certain herself why she was pretending she didn’t know exactly who he was referring to.

  “Yeah, Mac. He’s the Sarg. Good man! I’d give my right nut … uh … sorry ‘bout that. Ain’t been in mixed company in a while.”

  His friendliness didn’t particularly make her less uneasy. In point of fact, it unnerved her more, but she realized it might be her only chance to learn something. “You’ve … uh … worked with him a lot?”


  “Sure! Done ….” He paused, obviously jogging his memory. “Six missions with him. He’s gotten us out of a lot of tight spots.”

  “Really?” Sylvie asked, interested in spite of herself. “Six? He doesn’t look … uh ….”

  Beau chuckled. “Experience is what counts.”

  Sylvie felt her face heating in spite of every effort to curb it, because the minute he mentioned experience, her mind instantly leapt to the memory of being pinned to the bed beneath him. An involuntary shiver skated through her.

  Beau’s eyes gleamed knowingly. “I was talkin’ about on the field, sweet pea. But I ‘spect he’s got plenty of that kind of experience, too. He’s a marine, sweety—we fight hard, work hard, and play hard.”

  Sylvie cleared her throat. “My name’s Sylvie—Sylvie Stone. Actually, Sylvia, but I never really liked that.”

  “Sylvie,” he repeated in his thick Cajun accent.

  It was amazing how much prettier it sounded when he said it.

  He crouched in the doorway. “So, tell me, Miss Sylvie—what you wuz doin’ in a bad place like dat, eh?”

  Sylvie studied him. “You first.”

  His brows rose. All of the humor vanished from his face. “I don’t tink the sarg would like me runnin’ off at de mouth about it,” he responded finally.

  His accent got thicker the longer he talked—or maybe because he was agitated? Clearly, either way, it wasn’t something he was planning on telling her. But was there really any reason not to tell him what he wanted to know? She hadn’t wanted to before because she couldn’t think past her own troubles, but they had far more trouble than she did. It wasn’t likely they were going to narc on her and her friends. “I was supposed to pick up some people,” she said finally. “Carl—he’s a guy I know that has this sort of radical group—had taken some people down to Cuba for medical treatment they couldn’t get in the states. He needed somebody to pick them up and take them home. He knew my stepfather had a boat and he convinced me to sail down and wait for them.”

  He looked skeptical.

  “That’s all, really.”

  “Good ting for us. I doan know about the others but I shore was glad when I see dis boat just sittin’ out dere in the water. I was beginnin’ to think they was gonna catch us again ‘fore we even made it off that fuckin’ island.”

  “Beau!”

  The growl came from Mac. Sylvie recognized his voice even though she couldn’t see him.

  Beau surged to his feet, his expression a mixture of discomfort and resentment. “I was just talkin’ to Sylvie. You din say I wasn’t supposed to.”

  Mac stepped to the door and glanced around the room before his gaze settled on her. “You hungry?”

  “I’m about to starve stiff,” Beau responded immediately.

  Mac rolled his eyes. “Well get in there and find something,” he said irritably and then turned to Sylvie again. “How about you?”

  She discovered she was despite the tension in her belly. She nodded and surged to her feet. Mac scanned her attire and looked disgusted.

  “It’s what you gave me,” she said a little defensively.

  He shook his head. “I don’t guess it matters what you wear,” he said a little irritably. “Come on.”

  Sylvie didn’t know whether to be flattered or unnerved by his comment, but she moved toward him. He settled a hand along her back at her waist, urging her out. It felt like a firebrand. She felt her skin prickle all over. The urge to outrun his touch, however, died when she discovered there were several men in the main cabin. She immediately felt a counter urge to stay as close to Mac as she could.

  Hawk, already seated at the table, watched her like his namesake as she crossed the room, at Mac’s urging and settled across from him. It wasn’t until a noise across the room distracted him, in fact, that he seemed to remember he had a fork in his hand. Frowning, he focused on his plate—which she saw contained one of the microwavable meals from the stores.

  “We’ve got chicken, chicken, chicken, and beef,” Mac said sardonically.

  Sylvie felt a flicker of discomfort and irritation at his sarcasm.

  “I’ll take another chicken if there’s enough,” Hawk said before she could answer.

  “Me, too! This is some good shit!” Cavanaugh said enthusiastically. “Better than the shit we’ve been gettin’, anyway.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Beau said tartly.

  Mac sent him a significant look and Beau shrugged. Carrying two, he moved to the table and looked down at Sylvie. After staring back at him blankly for a moment, she finally realized he was waiting for her to move over. She scooted across the seat.

  He settled, setting both meals down. “Beef? Or Chicken?”

  Considering his comment, Sylvie decided he’d probably prefer the beef. “The chicken’s fine.”

  He pushed it toward her. “Bring something to drink when you come, Beau.”

  Sylvie heard the rattle of the fridge and then the rattle of bottles. Her stomach knotted when she realized he’d grabbed the case of beer Carl had stocked. Hopefully, however, it wasn’t enough to get them drunk.

  “You drink beer?”

  Sylvie glanced at Mac. “No. I’ll take water.”

  Beau set the case down and headed back into the kitchen area, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of water. Hawk slid around the booth to give the others room and grabbed a bottle of the beer.

  “Who’s the beer for?”

  Sylvie stiffened. “Carl brought it.”

  “Carl your boyfriend?” Hawk asked.

  She glanced at him, realizing he was a lot closer than she’d first thought. “He’s just a friend.”

  “Your boyfriend don’t mind you take jaunts with old Carl?”

  “Why don’t you just ask her if she’s got a boyfriend, dumbass?” Cavanaugh asked with a chuckle.

  Hawk shot him a bird. “You got a boyfriend?”

  “Knock it off,” Mac said before she could answer.

  “Shit, Sarg. We’re just making conversation here,” Beau muttered irritably.

  “You’re making her nervous. Let her eat.”

  On one level, they weren’t. The easygoing conversation between them almost made her forget she was a captive. She could almost imagine herself sitting down in a club or someone’s backyard, just enjoying a little food, a little flirtation, and friendly company.

  On another level, they definitely were. It was impossible to ignore the fact that they were hitting on her. Whether they were actually serious or not was another matter, but it was still a little overwhelming to be hit on by so many good-looking men at the same time.

  And they were good-looking now that she’d settled down enough to notice. It almost went without saying that they were all built like young gods—because they were young and in peak physical condition besides. Being young and built well was enough to make them attractive by itself, but it went beyond that. They had nice faces to go with that youth and great build. She doubted any of them had ever had any trouble coaxing a woman into their bed. Even though she was inclined to think Mac the handsomest of the four, the others could give him a run for his money.

  Beau was a total flirt and his Cajun accent was just icing on a package that was already dangerously attractive. Cavanaugh had a hint of that same accent and she wondered if they’d known each other before they’d joined the service. That thought led her to another. Every one of them had a southern accent.

  Curious coincidence? Or had they all known each other before they’d joined up?

  “You’re all from southern states, aren’t you?”

  The men looked at each other a little blankly and then shrugged. “Sarg is from Wyoming,” Hawk volunteered.

  Sylvie glanced at him in surprise. He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m surrounded by Rebs. They kind of rub off on you.”

  She smiled faintly at the admission, but then frowned thoughtfully. “So it’s just a coincidence? You didn’t know each oth
er before you went into the service?”

  “Nah,” Cavanaugh responded. “I’m from the mighty state of Mississippi—Hawk’s a long, tall Texas, and I figure you can guess where Beauregard’s from.”

  “Most of the hot spots are hot zones,” Mac responded to the question she hadn’t voiced. “It’s easier to handle the heat when it’s something you’re used to. Then, too, southern boys are just crazy enough to think crawling around on their bellies through mud and getting shot at is a hell lot of fun.”

  The ‘southern boys’ grinned.

  “Guess that goes for rednecks from Wyoming, too, huh?” Hawk quipped.

  Mac sobered. “I guess I thought so when I enlisted.” He nudged his head in a silent command for the others to leave.

  At least Sylvie thought that must have been the signal. They gathered up their empty plates and slid out of the booth. Cavanaugh strolled to the fridge, took the other case of beer and headed up top to pass them out to the other men. Hawk gathered up a roll of charts from the couch that she hadn’t noticed, and returned with them.

  Stacking her empty plate with his, Mac passed it off to Beau and then used his meaty forearm to wipe the table down before he spread the charts. Uncertain whether he actually expected her to look at them or not, Sylvie tried not to be too obvious about glancing at them. He pointed to a speck on the uppermost map. “We’re going to drop you here.”

  It took a moment for it to sink that he was talking to her and several moments before it dawned on her that he was telling her they were going to let her go. She was afraid to ask if he meant dead or alive.

  “Never been there myself, but if it’s on the map it must be a reasonable sized place. We’ll have to drop up on the coast a few miles from it, but you can follow the beach easily enough. You speak any Spanish?”

  Sylvie swallowed several times against the lump that had formed in her throat. “Not … not much.”

  He frowned. “That could be a problem, but it’s a coastal village. They probably have somebody there that could speak a little English. If not, they’ll figure out pretty quickly that you’re American and take you to somebody that can.

  “The cover story is that you were on a boat taken by pirates and managed to get away. That’s close enough to the truth you should be able to carry it off and it’ll explain your presence there without any paperwork.”