Dangerous to Hold (6 page)

“Enrique is in charge in my absence. I'll send word of the new drop date and location as soon as I arrange it. You will go with the men, gringo, to inspect the merchandise before any money changes hands.”

“Suspicious bastard, aren't you?” Jake offered with a half smile.

Che allowed a small answering twist of his lips. “Yes, my friend. I am.”

As Jake joined the rest of the men squatting in the center of the clearing for the noon meal, a swift, heady feeling of relief coursed through his veins. With Che and half the camp gone, he ought to be able to manage the remaining dozen for a few days. Enrique, pig-eyed brute that he was, sported more brawn than brains.

Now, if Jake could just figure out how to keep the prickly nun and her charges safe without blowing his cover, he might just pull this damned thing off after all.

 

“I'm telling you, Adam, it's the only way.”

Maggie paced the thick carpet in front of her boss's mahogany desk and sent him an impatient look.

Impeccably groomed and wearing a hand-tailored gray suit that had probably cost more than Maggie made in a month, Adam sat back in his black leather chair and listened while she stated her case.

“We haven't heard from Jaguar in almost twenty-four hours. Not since the emergency signal he sent yesterday saying he was in place and had a neutral on board.”

“It also said to stand by.”

Maggie swung to a halt in front of his desk. “That was before we got a positive ID on the remains. Now we know that Sarah Chandler is the neutral with Jake. What's more, we've had confirmation that three kids disappeared the night of the raid. Jake's got his hands full, if they're all with him.”

“He's handled more difficult situations.”

“True, but we've got a wild card in this situation that none of us anticipated—Senator Chandler. He's liable to mount his own rescue operation if we don't do something soon.”

When Adam didn't respond, Maggie pressed her point.

“Remember how he chartered his own plane and flew into Somalia to negotiate the release of the downed chopper pilot
last year? The one who just happened to be the son of one of his constituents?”

“I remember,” Adam replied coolly. “Somalia wasn't our operation.”

“No, but Cartoza is. Chandler could get Jake killed if he blunders in down there.”

“So you want to go in instead and work the extraction, if possible?”

The fact that Adam didn't reject her plan out of hand told Maggie that he'd been considering alternative courses of action, too. Still, she'd have to talk fast to convince him to send her in instead of another agent. She knew he was reluctant to relieve her as Jake's control.

The relationship between field agent and controller was critical to any mission. The tie between them grew so intense, the ability to communicate instantly so vital, that the partnership transcended that of mere co-workers. It became a nexus, a bonding such as soldiers experienced in combat. But in this instance Maggie's instincts told her she could help Jake more on-scene than in the OMEGA control center.

“I won't break the communications loop. Samuels will relay Jake's transmissions to me real-time. And Cowboy can take over as controller for us both. He's recovered from his last mission, and knows almost as much about the area as any of us after his years as an attaché. Besides,” she added, “he owes me one.”

“I take it you're referring to the incident at Six-Shooters?”

Maggie glanced at Adam in mingled surprise and exasperation. “How did you know about that? That was personal, between Cowboy and me.”

He merely quirked a brow.

“Okay, so you have your own sources.”

She should've guessed Adam would hear how she'd rescued the handsome, easygoing Cowboy a few months back from the tough-as-nails EPA attorney who'd sunk her claws into him and refused to let go. Her disguise for that little private operation had been perfect. Not even Cowboy, as good
as he was in the field, had recognized the streetwalker with the frizzy blond hair and thigh-high black plastic boots who'd sidled up to him in D.C.'s version of a country-western bar. Maggie's husky whisper that he didn't have to worry anymore, she'd been treated at the clinic for that little inconvenience, had made him sputter into his beer. It had made the attorney gasp, snatch up her purse and sail out.

The quick, irrepressible grin that was Maggie's alone flitted across her face. Among the dozen or so OMEGA agents, she was the acknowledged master when it came to impersonations. And the most outrageous. She'd perfected a chameleonlike ability to adopt the smallest nuances of any environment. That, combined with her ear for the rhythm and cadences of a local dialect, had gotten her in—and out!—of the most unlikely, impenetrable target areas. And she knew just the ticket to get her into Cartoza.

“If you agree that Cowboy can take over as controller, I have the perfect cover,” she announced. “I'll go in as one of the sisters of Our Lady of Sorrows.”

She caught the quick, involuntary glance Adam sent skimming down her figure. So her brilliant turquoise above-the-knee knit tunic with the picture of the latest addition to the Washington Zoo on the front wasn't exactly nunlike? So her tight black leggings hugged her calves? Adam knew that she could go from flashy to demure in the blink of an eye, or vice versa. She much preferred vice versa, Maggie acknowledged with an inner grin.

“I must admit, the idea of seeing you in a nun's habit is an intriguing prospect,” Adam admitted, his blue eyes gleaming.

She leaned forward and placed both palms on his desk. “It's perfect, Adam. The sisters move freely in the country, and their chapter house in Cartoza's capital is less than twenty minutes by helicopter from Jake's last known location. Assuming he hasn't moved, and assuming the senator's daughter is still with him, I can get to the target area as soon as he calls for an extraction.”

“And if he doesn't?”

“Then I'll do some intelligence gathering of my own among the locals, and at least be prepared if Senator Chandler decides to play his own hand.”

“Jake hasn't called for backup,” he reminded her, playing devil's advocate. “He might not appreciate you jumping into his operation.”

She worried her lower lip a moment. “I know. But I just have this—”

“Prickling sensation at the base of your spine,” Adam finished dryly. He rose and flicked down the cuffs of his icy blue silk shirt. “All right, Maggie. Go down to Cartoza. I think I can hold off Senator Chandler at this end for a while.”

The cool assurance in Adam's voice convinced Maggie that he could hold off a half-dozen Senator Chandlers. For as long as he wished. Not for the first time, she wondered just where and how Adam Ridgeway had developed his air of authority.

In his public life, he was the son of a wealthy Boston philanthropist, had served a brief stint in the navy after college, and then settled down to the serious pleasures of an international jet-setter. His friendship with and
very
hefty campaign contribution to the dynamic young congressman who had become President had led to Adam's appointment as special envoy.

During his jet-setting years, however, Adam had also led a private, secret double life. The agents at OMEGA knew that over the years he'd provided the government with vital information that only someone who frequented the big-money world of casinos, Greek shipping magnates and international art auctions would have access to. But none of them knew exactly how he'd collected the bullet wound that scarred the flesh of his upper chest. Or how he'd gained his sharp, incisive knowledge of field operations, a knowledge that made them trust him implicity with the lives they regularly put on the line.

Someday, Maggie thought, she just might find out.

Right now, however, she had a mission to prepare for.
Flashing her boss a quick grin, Maggie whirled and left his office.

Adam's private secretary paused in the act of arranging a bouquet of daffodils in the crystal vase set on her delicate Louis XV desk. “Well, did you get the go-ahead?”

Maggie gave Elizabeth a thumbs-up. The gray-haired woman had worked for the special envoy since the position was created and was a favorite with the OMEGA agents. Multilingual, well-groomed and unfailingly polite, Elizabeth also qualified each year as an expert marksman with the 9 mm Sig Sauer Model P225 handgun she kept in a drawer at immediate hand level. Specially loaded with Glazer Teflon bullets, the weapon was devastatingly accurate at close quarters and would do serious damage to anyone unwise enough to try to force his way past the security screens on the first floor. Even the specialists who regularly tested OMEGA's state-of-the-art security systems joked that they wouldn't want to test Elizabeth.

She gave Maggie the motherly smile that so endeared her to the occasionally cynical and hard-bitten agents. “I'm glad to hear someone's going in, dear. I'll admit I've been worried about Jaguar. Although now I'll just worry about you, as well.”

Maggie's eyes twinkled. “You always worry, no matter who goes in. You can rest easy this time, though. I'll be in and out of there before you know it. I'm guessing this little operation will be over within twenty-four hours—two or three days at the most.”

“A
aaarrrooo—ooo—gaaahhh!”

The distant, raucous roar brought Jake to instant awareness. He lay still in the predawn darkness as eerie, deep-throated answering calls echoed through the surrounding hills. A troop of howler monkeys were staking out their feeding area for the day, their deep bass wails warning other troops away from their territory.

Listening to the dominant male who lead the gravelly chorus, Jake felt a decided kinship with the shaggy-maned, bearded animal. He'd done everything but howl himself in the past twenty-four hours to keep the other men in camp away from his territory.

The big, pig-eyed lieutenant had wanted to put the blue-eyed
médica
to work on the fungal diseases and chafed skin common to men who traveled through the wet jungles. Jake had managed to convince him that the complaints could wait. She wouldn't be much use to anyone, as exhausted as she was. He'd won her a day, two at the most, he figured.

Not that Sister Sarah seemed to appreciate his efforts on her behalf.

After two days in this sweatbox, anyone else would've lost some of their starch. Not her. Although she'd exchanged her habit for the baggy cotton clothes he'd procured for her, she was as stiff-backed and prickly as ever. It still rankled when he remembered how she'd snatched the little three year old away last night. The boy had tugged on Jake's pant leg, asking if he really shooted people. Those damned beryl eyes of hers had flashed with scorn as she shushed the child and told him not to bother Señor Creighton.

Creighton, for crissakes.

Jake would have stalked out of the hut then, but a rumble of hoarse laughter outside had told him the men had decided to take advantage of Che's absence to hit the tequila. He wasn't particularly interested in watching the games they'd soon indulge in, nor did he dare leave the sister unprotected long enough to slip into the jungle and retrieve his backup transmitter. He'd have to try tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. Maggie wouldn't, couldn't, give him much longer than that.

Twenty-four more hours, Jake told himself. Forty-eight at the most. That was all he had. With luck, that was all he'd need. Che ought to have the new drop set up by then. As soon as Jake got word—and managed to retrieve his backup transmitter!—he'd tell Maggie to have an extraction team stand by. They'd swoop in and pick up the sister and the children the minute Jake led the patrol out of camp en route to the drop site. The extraction teams OMEGA used were good, a composite of elite special forces from the U.S. and the host country. The team would execute the entire rescue in radio silence, using silenced weapons and a swift, harmless gas that effectively precluded resistance. No one outside the immediate area would have any idea of what was going down. By the time Jake was a mile down the trail, the little nun beside him would be safely on her way back to her convent.

The thought made him frown in the darkness.

He lifted the net tent and rolled off the thin, lumpy mat.
Dawn would come shortly, with its usual sudden swiftness. He might as well see about breakfast for his little extended family.

An hour later, Jake dropped a battered frying pan onto the crate that did double duty as a table.

“Here, I fried up some bananas.”

An aroma of cinnamon and glazed sugar drifted across the already hot and humid air. The big cooking bananas, sliced lengthwise and fried to a crisp, would make a filling, nutritious breakfast.

Sister Sarah glanced up in surprise, and Jake struggled to contain his involuntary start. Even after a day and a night in the woman's company, he still wasn't used to the sight of her scrubbed, delicate face without the white wimple and black veil framing it. Or to the long blond hair she'd pulled back and tied with a narrow strip torn from the hem of her habit. Jake had never thought of himself as particularly conservative, but at this moment he wasn't sure he agreed with Pope Whoever's Vatican Council. Hair like that ought to be worn short, he decided irritably. Short and straight, in a style that didn't add several degrees of attraction to an already stunning face.

“I'll take the boys outside after they eat,” he announced, in a tone that warned her not to object. He was in no mood for arguments after his long, hot, nearly sleepless night. And he sure as blazes wasn't about to offer up his boot again. The transmitter might be beyond repair, but rubber boots could save the life of someone tramping through the soggy, rotting vegetation that layered the rain-forest floor.

The primitive latrine Jake had rigged would suffice for her and the little girl, but the boys could darn well use the stream. Besides, they needed exercise.
He
needed exercise. He felt restless and edgy and caged. He wasn't used to sharing his quarters with a woman whose every move seemed to snag his gaze and whose breath fluttered softly in the darkness. Nor with three kids, two of whom, at least, appeared to be recovering from the terror of the raid. He turned away to dig out some water-purifier tablets for the canteens he'd just refilled.

Sarah bristled at the gringo's—at Creighton's—curt tone, but decided not to challenge his assumption of authority over the boys. Actually, it sent a spurt of secret relief rushing through her. After a day and a night with three small children, she was feeling an accumulation of stress that had nothing to do with their uncertain position in the rebel camp. Didn't kids
ever
run out of energy? Or questions?

Struggling to her feet in the overlarge, if blessedly cool, cotton skirt she'd donned yesterday, Sarah moved toward the makeshift table. The mercenary stepped back, but not quite far enough. Her bare arm brushed his. The feel of his warm, taut flesh, liberally sprinkled with wiry dark hair, made Sarah suck in a quick breath. She sent him a wide, startled look.

“Jesus!” he muttered, shifting his eyes back to the canteens.

“Please don't use the Lord's name in vain around the children,” she admonished tartly.

His answer was a scowl.

Unsure what had put him in such a foul mood this morning, but sharing his sentiments, Sarah set out the battered tin plates and spoons their reluctant host had provided for them yesterday.

“Come on, children, you need to eat.”

While the three youngsters gathered around the crate, Sarah scooped the bananas out of the frying pan. Her taste buds tingled at the delicious aroma. Breaking off an end of one banana, she popped it into her mouth. “Mmm…these are good.”

Teresa's accusing black eyes stopped her in midswallow. Oh, hell. She'd forgotten again. Sarah gulped down the sweet, glutinous mass.

“I was just testing them, Teresa. In case they were too hot for you to eat. But they're okay. You can say grace now.”

The little traitor shook her head, then smiled shyly up at the tall man standing beside her. “
You
say it, Señor Creighton.”

Sarah wasn't sure which she enjoyed more—the pained
expression that crossed his lean, unshaven face whenever one of them referred to him by that name, or his startled look at the thought of leading a prayer. Good, she thought with malicious satisfaction. Let him struggle with the words for a change. She'd stretched her own skimpy knowledge of Catholic prayers, gleaned from Maria in the past two weeks, about as far as they would go.

He cleared his throat, then said gruffly, “Thanks Lord. Let's eat.”

His fervent efficiency won grins of approval from the smaller children. Even Eduard managed a smile.

Raising a brow, Sarah passed him a plate. “Is that the best you can do?”

“I'm a little out of practice,” he admitted, showing a flash of strong white teeth against his dark stubble.

“It's time you got back into practice,” she pontificated, throwing herself into her role. “You have a lot to ask forgiveness for.”

The sardonic look that made his eyes shade from misty gray to dark flint passed over his face. “More than you know, Sister Sarah.”

They didn't speak during the short meal, except to answer Teresa and Ricci's seemingly endless stream of questions.

Yes, Sarah was aware that Teresa's back tooth was loose.

Yes, the sun streaming in through the broken shutters made a pattern just like a big striped iguana on the dirt floor.

No, Ricci shouldn't add the insect he'd crunched between his fingers with such delight to his mashed bananas.

“C'mon, big guy.” The mercenary scooped Ricci up under one arm. “Let's go outside and see if we can find you bigger game. You too, Eduard.”

Sarah breathed a sigh of relief as the door shut behind two of her charges. And to think she had laughingly suggested to André one rainy, love-filled afternoon that they make lots of children. Lots of little miniature Frenchmen, with their father's heart-stopping smile and gallant Maurice Chevalier charm.

At the memory, the pain that lingered just below the surface of her consciousness seeped into her heart. Why hadn't she guessed from the way André kissed aside her attempt to picture their future, that he didn't want children? Not with Sarah, anyway. Why hadn't she realized he had no intention of leaving the four he already had, or their mother? How could she have been so stupid? So incredibly gauche? How could she ever forgive herself for making another man's wife try to take her own life?

“Sarita, will you comb my hair?”

Sarah nodded, swallowing to relieve her tight throat. She sat on the now-cleared crate and tucked Teresa between her knees. She'd managed to put a measure of her pain behind her when a soft knock sounded on the door.

Sarah snatched Teresa to her chest. She stared at the door, her heart pounding in painful thumps.

The gringo—Creighton—wouldn't knock. Nor would the boys.

Another soft thump of knuckles sounded against the wood.

Moistening her lips, Sarah called out, “Yes? Who is it?
Quién es?
”

The wooden door slowly inched open. A heavyset woman with thick black braids and a dull expression in her brown eyes stood on the stoop.

“What do you want?
Qué quiere?
”

Her eyes on the little girl, the woman held out a small bundle.
“Para la niña,”
she mumbled.

“For Teresa?”

Sarah scrambled to her feet, trying not to trip over her overlarge pink-and-green skirt. Now she knew who it belonged to. Her unexpected visitor wore a similar one, although its purple-and-blue hues were considerably more faded. Moreover, her stained blouse showed ragged, poorly stitched rips. With a flash of insight, Sarah realized the gringo must have bought or bartered for this woman's best outfit. Maybe her only other outfit.

And now she was offering something for Teresa. Perhaps
a clean shift to replace the sweat-stained one the child wore. Or, better yet, some underpants. Sarah had washed the youngsters' underwear last night. The items refused to dry in the humid, muggy heat. Even chubby, smiling little Ricci had protested at putting the damp things on again.

Sarah gave the little girl a gentle push. “Go ahead, honey. Take it.”

Teresa hesitated, then stepped forward. She lifted the bundle out of the woman's hand and scuttled back to Sarah's side. Her nimble fingers made short work of the string wrapped around it.

“Oooh! Look, Sarita! Look!”

Eyes shining in delight, Teresa shook out a dress in bright red cotton. Ruffles embroidered with colorful flowers and birds decorated the neckline and the full skirt. A sash of sunshine yellow looped around the waist, its long, dangling ends also embroidered in gay colors.

Teresa took a few dancing steps around the hut, the dress held up against her thin body. Excitement and the unguarded joy of a little girl shone in her face.

Sarah smiled and turned to thank the silent woman. For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of…of something in the woman's eyes as they rested on Teresa, but as soon as Sarah spoke they immediately became flat and dull.

“It's beautiful. Thank you.
Muchas gracias, señora.
”

The woman stood silent.

Teresa overcame her shyness and went forward, chattering in rapid-fire Spanish. She put out a small and rather grubby hand and laid it on the woman's arm.

Sarah's keen eye caught the convulsive way the woman's fingers folded over Teresa's, as if she wanted to impress the feel of the girl's small hand in her flesh. Then she whirled and was gone.

Teresa shrugged off her sudden departure with the cheerful unconcern of youth. “I will wear this dress now,” she announced, prancing around the hut. “To show Señor Creighton how pretty I am.”

Señor Creighton again!

“You'll be a lot prettier if you let me wash you first.”

Teresa's wide smile faltered at the bite in Sarah's voice. Ashamed of herself, Sarah gathered the girl into her arms.

“I'm sorry,
niña.
It's…it's the heat.”

The little girl sniffed.

“Come,” Sarah coaxed, “slip out of that old dress, while I get the canteen and a cloth of some sort. I'll wash you, then we'll see if we can find something pretty to tie in your hair, okay?”

Showing her gap-toothed smile once more, the little girl complied. Sarah dug through the backpack she now had no compunctions about raiding and pulled out a pair of the white cotton briefs. With a small smile, she reached for a canteen.

She soon had the girl as clean as possible under the circumstances. The red dress was a little loose on Teresa's small body, so Sarah wrapped the sash twice around her waist and tied it with a big bow. The girl played with the flounces on the full skirt while Sarah worked the comb through her thick black hair, then parted one section of the crown and tied it with a strip torn from the mosquito netting to form a jaunty ponytail.

“Okay, sweetie,” Sarah told her, patting her fanny. “You're done. You look very pretty.”