Crazy Sweet

by Tara Janzen

  Julia had chosen a path Honey could barely comprehend, but she could ease her way. A quarter of a million dollars in small bills went a helluva long way in Central America, whether a person was fixing orphanages or supporting the families of farmers displaced by a consortium of coffee corporations, the church’s newest rallying point against a government trying to usurp its power.

  Honey was all for helping people. It was Julia’s hands-on approach to saving the sick, feeding the hungry, and easing other people’s suffering through prayer and judicious infusions of cash that made her lose sleep at night, because it could take a frightful toll.

  It had taken a frightful toll.

  Politics was a deadly game, especially in the Third World, the world Julia’s young doctor husband had meddled in too deeply, trying to change things that couldn’t be changed, trying to improve the lot of people whose lot in life couldn’t be improved. Dr. Carl Bakkert had made Honey look like a realist, and that was a tragic statement on the frightful depths of idealism some people could sink to and still not be prepared for the consequences.

  So here she was, running out of time and short on ideas, and wondering why, with all the huge problems she was dealing with, one of the biggest seemed to be that Smith was cute.

  Really cute, in a bigger, badder, faster, stronger, smarter sort of way that she could guarantee caught a lot of women’s attention. It had caught hers from the moment she’d seen him sitting in front of the cantina. Sure, he’d looked like a thousand other slackers she’d seen in dozens of other tropical beach towns all over the world, but not quite—not with that body, and not with the calmly cold expression he’d had on his face. As relaxed as he’d been, he’d looked like a man on a mission.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised he’d been the one to reach her first when she’d been running from all those men. Everything about C. Smith Rydell said he was used to winning, to getting what he wanted—and he wanted her.

  She knew it, which just made the whole “cute” problem that much worse. She was only in El Salvador for one reason, and it was not to find herself attracted to some mysterious guy in serious need of a haircut—no matter how cute he was, no matter how thick and dark his eyelashes were, no matter that every time she looked at his mouth, all she could think was . . . trouble.

  But he’d saved her almost before she’d even known she needed saving, thinking way ahead of the game, being kind of romantically heroic, yelling at those guys through the door, ready to take it all to the next level. Whatever it took.

  And he had that whole “I’m in charge—get used to it” attitude that normally would have had her explaining a few of the realities of life to him—except he was the biggest wall of reality she’d ever run into. She didn’t understand it. She just knew it, and it was a comfort, to wash up against that much solid confidence and know it wasn’t going to let her down, at least not in a hotel room in San Luis in the middle of a riot.

  And then there was the heat.

  God, the heat.

  Every time he sat down next to her, it was all she could do not to squirm—but she wouldn’t. Honoria York-Lytton did not squirm, especially in front of men, and most especially not in front of strange men. And yet it was wonderful. And it was awful. It was the kind of heat that got girls in trouble—and it was happening with him.

  She needed to get a grip. Heat and Smith were not her problems. Her problem was that she was going out the door and into the street, one way or the other, and in her heart she knew that even with the map she had in her tote, and even if she managed to get her gun and her bullet back, it was going to be damn hard getting to the church.

  Damn hard.

  Dangerous.

  Rain in the mountains had washed out the road Julia and Father Bartolo had been taking from the rebel camp, so they were running as late as Honey, and every hour later that it got was one less hour Honey would have with Julia before she disappeared again, for God knew how long. It had been eight months, two weeks, and five days since the last time Honey had seen her, and the thought of going that long again broke her heart right down to the center of her soul.

  Julia was hers.

  She did not want to be late, and it was two miles to St. Mary’s from the Royal Suites Hotel. The Hotel Palacio was only a couple of blocks closer. With detours to take into account, she wanted an hour to get there. She wanted to be waiting when Julia showed up.

  So here she was, in a hotel room on a sweltering summer night in a tropical country coming apart at the seams, with only a couple of hours before she threw herself into the breach and committed a crime that would probably get her shot by the local government, if she didn’t manage that all by herself getting to St. Mary’s.

  And there was C. Smith Rydell, the Rock of Gibraltar with a pair of Ray-Bans tucked into his T-shirt pocket, pacing the bathroom floor and making her hot all over.

  CHAPTER

  21

  THIS IS ONE of those parties where you wish you’d brought your own booze, your own music, and your own rules of engagement,” Hawkins said, holding his phone in one hand and a pair of binoculars in the other.

  “Don’t start with me,” Dylan said.

  “Sorry, boss, but I’m looking at more trouble in one place than I’ve seen in a while.” He was lying on the roof of the nondescript Buick he’d taken out of the Steele Street garage, watching four of Royce’s men pull gear out of the black Expedition they’d rented at the airport. “They’ve definitely got the girl’s number. They’re three blocks west of the garage, parked in the old Geiss Fastener lot, and it looks like they’re loading up to go in on foot. From the looks of the gun cases they’re pulling out of the back of their SUV, I’d say they’re getting ready to seriously break some laws.”

  “I’m sure they are, but let’s keep Loretta out of it as long as possible, preferably all night long. Have you gotten a positive ID on Royce?” Dylan asked.

  “No,” Hawkins said. “Loretta’s men said he got in the SUV, and there haven’t been any stops since I picked them up.”

  “If they’re going in on foot, they must figure she’s waiting for them.”

  “Absolutamente, boss. They’re going hunting. Otherwise, why not just drive up and go knock on the door.”

  “I wonder—what in the hell did Gillian do in El Salvador?”

  “So Rydell is still off the radar?”

  “Somebody needs to teach that boy how to use a phone.”

  “Well, whatever it was she did, it sure got the job done,” he said. “We need to send Frankie T a nice thank-you note, or we would have been left out in the cold—geezus.”

  “What?”

  “Here’s an ID for you. Zane Lowe just got out of the Expedition. That bastard has to be fair game anywhere in the United States. Have Skeeter see what she can find on him. Hell, I could probably make money taking him out.”

  “Let’s just pick Gillian up and get her under wraps. When these boys come up empty-handed, they’ll leave.”

  “Bull. Now that they’ve tracked her down, they’ll be back. We should move on them and talk fast later.”

  “Not tonight, Superman. Not when the Feds are watching.”

  He swore, one succinct word, but Dylan was right, for tonight.

  “Yeah. I guess we better drop a little thank-you to Setineri, too. I take it Red Dog hasn’t answered her phone, either?”

  “No. But she’s holding steady on the warehouse roof.”

  “She’ll move fast once she gets a load of these boys. How far is Travis from the garage?”

  “Five minutes out. He’s driving Adeline.”

  “That’s a helluva sound signature. She’ll hear Addy’s pipes whether she’s paying attention to her phone or not.”

  “It’s why Skeeter gave the Angel Boy Quinn’s newest piece of iron,” Dylan said. There wasn’t a person at Steele Street who wouldn’t recognize the sound of one of Quinn’s Camaros. “Gillian will know somebody is coming in to get her, and maybe that will m
ake her think twice before she does something we’ll all regret.”

  “Maybe,” Hawkins said.

  “Or maybe not,” Dylan said.

  Yeah, that’s what Hawkins thought, too. He’d trained her, done his best to put her back together, but there were parts of that girl nobody was ever going to reach.

  Geezus. He looked up from his binoculars for a second, scanning the streets around him. Colorado weather had just kicked in big-time, the temperature dropping a good ten degrees in less than that many seconds. The wind was coming down the alley to his north, blowing trash and taking the heat out of the air, and replacing it with something they hadn’t had in weeks—rain, a soft, steady sheet of it.

  And the weathermen strike out again, he thought in disgust. Nobody had predicted rain.

  “Get your headset on,” Dylan continued. “Skeeter is going to connect you to Travis. It’ll be radio communications from here on out, and Superman?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you get turned around down there in the alleys and lose these guys, be sure and let us know.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Yeah. You, too. Good hunting.”

  CHAPTER

  22

  FROM THE PRIVACY of the bathroom, Smith brought up the menu on Honey’s pink flip phone and wrote down its number. Then he keyed in a different, thirteen-digit number, verified it onscreen, and hit “send.”

  He got an answer on the second ring.

  “Drug Enforcement Agency,” an official-sounding female voice said.

  Damn. Just his luck. He’d been hoping someone else would be answering that number tonight—anyone else.

  “Carol? It’s Smith Rydell,” he said, stopping his pacing and sitting on the edge of the bathtub, where he could keep an eye on Honey in the other room.

  “So?” the woman said, her voice turning glacial.

  She’d always been quick, just not quick enough not to get wrapped up in the rebound of his divorce.

  “I need a favor,” he said.

  “You don’t work here anymore, remember?”

  “I’m in trouble.”

  “Then get yourself out.”

  He could almost see her handset heading back toward its cradle.

  “Carol, Carol,” he said quickly, and loudly, in case she really had already moved to hang up on him.

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve got a problem. I’m in El Salvador on a civilian cell phone, and I need to call my commanding officer on a secure channel. The situation here is somewhere between urgent and desperate. Can you help me?”

  “Are you trying to get me fired, Smith? Call the embassy,” she said curtly.

  The instant he’d heard her voice, he’d known this wouldn’t be easy. It had been a rough breakup, and it had been him doing all the breaking.

  “That’s part of my problem,” he said, rising from the edge of the tub and pacing over to the window. “I need to do this without State or anyone else knowing about it for a while. Carol, please.”

  “You are trying to get me fired, you jerk.”

  “I am a jerk, you’re right.” And he’d never been more of a jerk than after his divorce. “But I’ve got reason to believe one of my teammates is in danger, and if I can make the call, maybe I can keep her from getting hurt.”

  “Her?” The tone of voice was unmistakable, pure bitch.

  Ouch. He hadn’t known Carol still cared quite so much.

  “An operator who goes by the name Red Dog.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then, “La cazadora espectral? You’re working with Red Dog? The Red Dog?”

  Well, that set him back a bit, and yes, as far as he knew, he was working with the Red Dog. He was pretty sure there was only one—thank God.

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. Tell her nice hits in Colón.”

  Geezus, news traveled fast.

  “They were, and I did.” He looked out the window, checking the street. The situation hadn’t changed. It was still chaos with subguns and tire fires.

  “Oh, my, God.” Carol practically swooned over the phone. “You were there? With her? In Colón?”

  Normally, that was a question he wouldn’t have answered, but he was in trouble, and he did need help, and something was telling him he’d just stumbled onto a way to get it.

  “Yes,” he said, counting on being able to work this whole Red Dog thing to his advantage, and hers.

  “Is she as amazing as they say?”

  “Yes.” An amazing amount of trouble.

  “And beautiful?”

  “Very.” In her own kick-ass, take-no-prisoners, tough-girl way. When Red Dog walked into a room, people noticed, and a good many of them stepped back. It was an interesting phenomenon to observe. She wasn’t that big, but she managed to dominate a good bit of the space around herself—space nobody intruded on, not without reason or her permission.

  “And is it true that she doesn’t remember her own name?”

  “Yes.” And he guessed that made it official. He was now president of the Red Dog Fan Club. “She knows her name, but only because she’s been told. She doesn’t remember it.” Neither did he remember Carol ever being quite so breathlessly excited about anything, except during sex. This was a new side of her.

  “How awful,” she said in a way that sounded a lot like “how cool,” as in “how romantically tragic, to lose your mind and become a vengeful killer.”

  He didn’t want to tell her that there was no vengeance involved. It was Gillian’s job, no more, no less, except when it came to Tony Royce, which brought him back to the point of the phone call.

  “She’s in trouble, Carol, and I’m her only hope.” Just call him Obi-Wan.

  “Okay,” Carol said after a slight hesitation. “But I’m doing this for her, not you; I want to make that perfectly clear.”

  Got it, he thought.

  “I appreciate it, Carol.” God, had he really made love to this woman? It never failed to amaze him how much animosity could be generated by intimacy.

  “What’s your phone number?”

  He read it to her, and she read it back for him to verify.

  “And who do you want to call?”

  “General Buck Grant, in Washington, D.C.”

  There was another moment of silence, before she spoke.

  “You’re with them now?”

  He wasn’t answering that question, and after a moment’s silence, Carol knew it.

  “Okay. Fine. Be that way. Press your ‘end’ key twice,” she said, “and leave your phone turned on. I’m going to set up a satellite link between Grant’s office and the U.S. Embassy in San Salvador.”

  When he and Carol had first met, she’d been assigned to the Central American desk. Now she was a communications supervisor with all the tricks up her sleeve and at her fingertips.

  “I’m going to put you on a local channel that will connect your phone to the embassy and simultaneously block your cell tower reception and transmission,” she continued. “Give me about five minutes. If it doesn’t work, I’ll call you back from here.”

  He did as he’d been told, pressing the “end” key twice, before walking back into the bedroom. He knew what she was trying to do, and he was grateful. If it worked, Grant’s transmissions would be uplinked to the DOS secure satellite network, terminated at the San Salvador embassy’s computer, and digitally transmitted to his phone at minimum power. His transmissions would follow the same route in reverse. The only opportunity for anyone to monitor the conversation would be if they could intercept the 0.6-watt transmissions between Honey’s cell phone and the embassy computer.

  The risk was considered acceptable in an emergency situation, and the route bought him the hours he needed. The embassy computer logs wouldn’t be reviewed until after the morning office staff arrived at work, between nine and ten o’clock. By then, he’d be on a plane headed back to the States.

  Stretching out on the bed, he settled in to wait. Five minutes.


  His gaze strayed to Honey sitting next to him.

  A lot could happen in five minutes, but he doubted if anything would.

  She was busy taking all the bows and bobby pins out of her hair and putting them in a zebra-striped, zippered makeup bag trimmed in red leather. There was a reason she had so many pins, the same reason she’d had her hair pulled into a French twist. Unleashed, it was wild, out of control, going crazy with the heat and the humidity.

  “Nice hairdo,” he said, just to get her to stick her tongue out at him again.

  She didn’t disappoint, and he had a feeling that’s why she’d done it for the second freaking time. She knew he liked it.

  She knew he wanted to kiss her.

  She knew every man she met wanted to kiss her.

  Women, especially hot, spoiled, beautiful women, were enough to turn a guy into an absolute idiot, and he was disappointed as hell to find out he was no exception, not when it came to her.

  Geezus. He usually had more sense.

  Finished with the last pin, she ran her hands up into her hair and slipped her fingers through the whole tawny blond mess, stirring it up, rubbing her scalp, giving it all a little shake.

  He wanted to look away. Honestly, he did, but he couldn’t.

  When she was done, she gave her hair a final toss over her shoulder and met his gaze, very directly, across the very short length of bed separating them.

  Very short.

  “Interesting phone call, Smith,” she said.

  “You couldn’t have heard my phone call all the way from over here.”

  The look she gave him said only one thing: Oh, yeah?

  Shit.

  He hadn’t said anything too incriminating or classified, but he hated to think he’d misjudged the distance between them, or the acuity of a sorority girl’s hearing.

  “What do you think you heard?”

  “I heard you admit to a woman named Carol that you’re a jerk, which tells me something must have been going on between the two of you.”

  Okay, she’d heard plenty, probably everything.

  “Not as much as you’re thinking,” he assured her.