Deception Island (25 page)

“Let Theo go. He's not one of you.”

Gabriel turned to her, smiling, as he released Devi. He looked almost...sad. “He will be, in time. We will look after him, here—orphans are my favorite kind of children.”

Holly gritted her teeth. For now, the odds were against her. But if they were to be moved out, maybe the Lost Boys would split up. This wasn't a federal penitentiary. Sooner or later, an opportunity would present itself.

Within minutes, the women were crammed into the small truck Holly had seen earlier. With no room to sit, they clung on as best they could as it jolted along a sandy path. Three Lost Boys followed on a quad bike, including Chamuel and Bandanna Guy. With two more goons in the front of the truck, and at least three guns and a machete between them, Holly didn't like the numbers.

A small hand enclosed Holly's and squeezed. Devi. Though Holly needed her hand for balance, with her wobbly knee and shaky hold on gravity, she squeezed back, hoping she wouldn't fall and plow straight into the kid. She smiled. It felt fake as hell, but the girl smiled shyly back.

Next to Devi, Theo's translator clutched at the side of the vehicle. Damn, the kid had lost the one person in Gabriel's camp who'd offered some comfort. The truck flew into the air, and Holly winced as her stomach muscles compensated, her belly aching from Gabriel's punch.

After maybe fifteen bone-rattling minutes the truck forded a stream, climbed a bank and skidded to a halt, sending Holly flying into Devi, who took out a couple of women behind her. A skull cracked into Holly's, triggering a headache. A woman fell out with a cry, her spine smacking onto the ground. The rest were ordered out. Bandanna Guy opened a gate in a tall wire fence and they were herded through it onto an asphalt road, surrounded by trees. An airstrip? The lightening gloom of dawn revealed a waiting plane—larger than the one she and Rafe had parachuted from. Shit. They'd be untraceable.

Chapter 25

The truck accelerated away, leaving Chamuel, who'd grabbed the machete, Bandanna Guy and two other armed goons. The men began shoving the women toward the plane, pointing and shouting. Perhaps Holly and the women could overcome the soldiers once onboard? Surely the men wouldn't risk shooting in midair. And then what—bring the plane down? As Holly stepped into line, a hand grabbed the neck of her T-shirt and yanked. She scrambled to avoid falling.

“I wait long time for Miss America,” Chamuel whispered into her ear. “You come or I pick little girl. She good and tight.”

Oh. Shit.

Bandanna Guy shouted at Chamuel, frowning. He yelled back, gestures flying past Holly's face. She swallowed, to settle her curdling stomach.

“No fight me or I cut off your hands. You no need hands. Just mouth and cunt.” He pressed the blade into her back, forcing her to arch, then threw her forward. Her knee wobbled, and righted. “Walk.” He pointed to a patch of jungle fifty feet away. She walked, gingerly at first as her knee eased up, his footsteps dragging along behind. She slipped the knife out of her pocket and held it against her stomach. Pocketknife versus machete wasn't a fair fight, so her timing would have to be perfect. Saliva flooded her mouth. She could do this—whatever it took. She swallowed, hard.

“Stop,” he said, as they entered the canopy. He sank his fingers into her upper arm and swung her around, as she swept the knife around to her back and snapped it open. “Down.” He pointed to the ground.

She clenched her jaw. Doing what she was told would give him a false sense of security. She lowered herself to her knees onto the damp forest floor, keeping her hands behind her, as if she was propping herself up.

He stood over her, thrusting his tented groin toward her mouth. Ugh. If he made her do that, she'd bite the damn thing off.

“Down!”

She unfolded her legs and lay back, making a point of looking as scared as she felt. The knife handle was slippery in her palm. She just had to wait until he dropped his guard—and the machete.

“Take off.” He gave her shorts a tug.

She couldn't do that one-handed—the button was too stubborn. Which meant neither could he. “No.”

He sneered. “You like man do that?”

She turned her face to the side and whimpered, as if she were about to let him take what he wanted. He dropped to his knees and fumbled with her fly. Fighting the urge to recoil, she adjusted her grip on the knife. She wouldn't mess this up like she had with shooting Gabriel. No hesitation. Chamuel's life for Amina's. He tore at the button, muttering as it refused to rip.

Her hand shook.
Wait...wait
. Finally, it gave and he leaned over, ready to scoop his filthy hands into her shorts. Every muscle in her body tensed. She filled her lungs, scanning his neck and throat. He let the machete go.

“You will like,” he said. A thread of his saliva dripped onto her T-shirt.

Bile shot up her throat.
Now
. She snapped upright and punched the knife into the side of his neck, angled down. For Amina, for all of them. The blade sank up to the handle. She twisted it. Before he could react, she scooted out from under him, grabbing the machete.

He reared back on his knees and gagged, eyes bulging. Blood gurgled from his mouth. She circled him, holding the machete with shaky hands, panting heavily. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. She'd done it. She'd goddamn done it. But now what? Fighting him off was one thing, but finishing him off with a machete...?

His hands flailed at the knife, still stuck in his neck. He yanked it out with a sucky, squelching noise, and stumbled toward her, its bloody point aimed at her chest.

She scrambled backward. Sunlight seared her eyes. He pitched forward. She sidestepped, and he swayed and thumped to the ground. He grunted, but stayed down. Shouts rose from near the plane. Shit, she was back in the open, in full view of three men with guns.
Run
.

The air cracked with gunfire as she loped into the jungle. Something punched into her upper arm, sending her careering onto the vine-covered ground. She grabbed at the spot. She'd been shot? She lurched to her feet and staggered further into the undergrowth, pain scorching her skin. Her arm still felt workable, just with a pulpy, bloody nick in it.

She scooted behind a tree and chanced a glance behind, buttoning her shorts. Chamuel's body was wrenched into an unnatural pose, a deep red gouge in his head. His friends had finished him off—by a stray bullet, or a targeted one? They'd been none too discriminating with that volley.

Bandanna Guy sprinted from the plane, gun leveled, yelling over his shoulder. His two comrades watched his progress, weapons aimed. One grabbed something from his waist—a walkie-talkie. Damn. As he raised it, a dozen women closed in from behind. Devi struck first, leaping onto his head and scratching at his eyes. Holly clawed the bark of the tree.
Yes
. A tide of women sucked him under. As the other soldier caught on, women swarmed over him like fire ants. The walkie-talkie and guns went flying.

Oblivious, Bandanna Guy bolted toward Holly, camo pants pumping, red T-shirt a blur. Right now, her job was to keep him from looking behind. She crashed through the jungle, crying out as if in pain. Gunfire rattled, popping as it hit trees and dirt. The guy was operating on luck—the sunlight shining in his eyes would obscure his view of her until he reached the canopy.

Crouching low, she turned sharply right. If she kept charging into the jungle she'd get lost and die out here—and he'd expect her to run away from the airstrip, not parallel to it. Her breath labored, as loud as Malibu surf.

She slid down a bank, trying not to think about what lay beneath the ferns, and splashed into a creek. A fog of mosquitoes zapped around her. She spat out a mouthful of the bloodsuckers. The stream had to be the one they'd forded to get to the airstrip. She could follow it back and double around to help the women. If they were holding their own, she could trek back along the trail to Theo.

She jumped from rock to rock, trying not to splash or leave footprints in the mud, her speed checked by her wobbly knee. The air was so thick it felt liquid and hot right down to her lungs. No sea breezes here. Sweat slicked the machete handle. She adjusted her grip. Where was Bandanna Guy? She hadn't heard him talking—hopefully he assumed his friends had radioed in.

She cleared a boulder and ducked behind it, pressing her back into its cool, smooth surface. The pulsing insect noise alternated with the pounding in her ears. She had no hope of hearing Bandanna Guy over that cacophony, but he'd be having the same trouble.

If he couldn't find her, what would he do? Return to the airstrip and start shooting, or raise the alarm, or both? Damn, this wasn't just about escaping—she had to take him out. She looked up to the tree-laced heavens. This really wasn't her thing. Give her a greedy dreamer and a get-rich-quick scheme and she'd come out the winner—or even leave her with her fists against a scumbag in a dark alley. But a machete, a jungle and a soldier who'd been trained to kill since childhood?

She peered around the boulder. Nothing but a blue-green haze of twisting jungle. She crouched over the stream and splashed her face. Rivulets of water mixed with blood and sweat ran off her clothes, clouding the stream pink. Stupid. She was leaving a trail.

Maybe she could circle back to the airstrip and get one of the guns. She pushed off, forcing herself to keep a steady pace. Too fast and she'd slip and screw her knee for good. Too slow and the guy would catch up. She rounded a bend in the stream. Ahead, light filtered through the tall canopy. A large clearing. The airstrip? Something scuffled in the trees. She ducked against the mossy bank, her neck prickling.

She transferred the machete into her left hand and picked up the biggest rock that fit in her grasp. She'd do this—for Amina, for all of them. She waited. Nothing. She peeked over the bank. Stillness. She loaded another rock into her pocket and, warily, resumed her trail.

An inhuman scream pierced the air. She stumbled and splattered into the water, stifling a scream of her own. What the hell? Another screech, overhead. Her heart constricted as she looked up. Half a dozen hairy brown monkeys flew through the treetops. If it was some primate alarm system, it was effective. Caution be damned—she ran, splashing. Overhead, the monkeys followed, signposting her journey.

A gunshot split the air and reverberated around the stream bed. To her right, movement flashed through the jungle—a red T-shirt, thirty feet away. Shit. Another boom. She ducked. Like that would do any good.

The banks steepened, the stream narrowed and deepened. She sank into water up to her thighs. She'd run into a canyon, with seven-foot walls of sheer rock on each side. The current pulled against her. She was an apple bobbing in a bucket, or whatever that saying was. Like she'd ever bobbed for apples. Ahead, the stream disappeared over a rocky waterfall. She'd slice herself to pieces if she slid down it. She swiveled and surged back through the water, fighting the current. There had to be another way through.

Bandanna Guy loomed above her on a ledge, jogging to a halt. Fuck. She heaved a rock. It bounced off a palm trunk and skated into leaf litter. Black eyes locked on her, followed by a gun barrel.

A boom echoed up the canyon, blowing all sound away. She didn't stop to check if she was still alive. As she cleared the pool of water, something large dropped down behind her—some
one
. She swung wildly, heaving the machete. He fended it off with his gun and it went soaring. As it clattered down the waterfall, her gaze met her attacker's. Not beady black eyes. Big dark-brown ones.

“Holy shit. Rafe!”

Chapter 26

Holly looked up. “Watch out, there's a guy—”

“I took care of him.” Rafe grabbed her arm, right on the bullet wound.
Youch
. She shrank away. “Are you okay?
Merde
, the blood...”

“It's not mine.” She looked down. What color had her T-shirt even been an hour ago? “Well, not much of it.”

“Not much?”

“Just a little, right where you're...” She glanced at her arm.

He let go abruptly and pulled up her ripped, bloody sleeve. “Gunshot?”

She nodded, unable to take her gaze off his beautiful face. Rafe? Here? Had a bullet hit her and made her delirious—or was this heaven? “I'm guessing it's not bad. I can't really feel it. What the hell are you...? How did you...? Are you alone?”

“Yes, unfortunately. But I'm here.” Gently, he touched the skin around her swollen eye. “It's a long story. I just met your friends—the Cambodians. They nearly blasted me straight to hell, before I talked them down. One of them spoke French, and briefed me.”

“They're okay?”

He nodded. “They found cable ties on the soldiers and secured them. I disabled the plane and took them to a good hiding place in the jungle, with their captives. For which they kindly gave me a gun.” He raised his shoulder.

“Gabriel and his men—they're evacuating.”

“I know. And our backup won't get here in time. I'll hide you with the women, then I'm going after Theo.”

“I'm not waiting around. I'm coming with you.”

“No. I've put you in enough danger. Here.” He pulled a bottle of water from his pocket. “I need to be sure you're safe.”

“Don't worry about me, I'm a survivor.” She ripped off the cap and glugged.

“We're all survivors until we're not. You are a lost girl looking for a cause, and I like you too much to want to drag you in any further.”

Oh, boy. Here she was fighting for her life and her mind fixed on his “I like you” like a moth at a neon sign.
Of course he likes you, you moron
. “I know where he's being kept, and I know how to get there. It'll save time.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, as he parted them to speak. “Don't say no, now. I think I've proved that two's better than one. Come on, while my adrenaline's still pumping.”

“Wow.” He grinned. “I'm glad you're alive.”

“So am I.”

His eyes drilled into hers. Why was he not moving? He caught her hips and pulled her close, taking her in a blessedly bruising kiss. Yep, she was alive, all right. She planted her hands on his waist, relishing the tautness of the muscle as she hungrily returned the kiss. Touching him again—she could cry, in relief.

He released her abruptly. “Theo—how is he?”

She palmed his cheek. “He'll be okay now.”

Rafe's brow creased.

“He'll be very happy to see you,” she added, slipping her hand down to his stubbly jaw, relishing the rasp against her palm that told her he was real—not even close to an angel. As if she'd ever make it to heaven. “I'm happy to see you, too.”
Like you wouldn't believe
.

He grabbed her hand and planted a long kiss on her palm, his eyes tightly closed. Her insides went gooey. Oh yeah, she had it for this guy, bad. Her vision watered. She choked out a sob.

His head snapped up. “What was that? Are you okay? Need more water?”

“I cried, you robot.” She swallowed the urge. It would be so comforting to give in, so easy to dissolve into his strength.

“Oh. Yes. It's okay, you know, to cry.”

“I'm good. Moment's over.” Her lip quivered. She clamped her jaw tight.

“I am sorry, Holly, for what you've been through because of me.”

“Drop it.” She held up a palm. “Seriously.”

“Drop what?”

“Stop being kind.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Kindness kills me. Be as nasty as you want and I'm okay. But being nice... That makes me weak. You can be kind to me all you like once this is over.” Because—wow—as much as she wanted Theo back with his father, and the women safe, she really didn't want this...
thing
...she had with Rafe to end.

He nodded slowly. “I once thought we were so different.” He tilted up her chin. “It's okay to show weakness with me, princess. Because, believe me, I know you're not weak. You are the strongest, most loyal, most beautiful woman I've ever known.”

The kiss came gently, this time. Tears ran down her cheeks. Happy tears? Sad tears? Kissing Rafe wasn't helping her mental state, but oh, God, her chest was filling with bubbles of goodness. She wound her hands around his neck. She needed him close. If she could fuse herself to him right now, she would.

He released her, all too soon. “I feared for you, Holly.”

Did she detect a waver in his voice? For the first time he seemed less than 200 percent confident, like it cost him something to say that. He traced the path of a tear up her jaw, up her cheek, as if he was putting it back. He probably didn't understand tears. Hell,
she
didn't understand tears. Surely just a normal physical reaction after a stressful twenty-four hours. She'd cried the first night in prison, too. Then, never again—until now.

Truth was, she was terrified. Not of Gabriel—well, yes, she was terrified of Gabriel—but these tears were coming from a different place. She was terrified of this, of the knot in her stomach that wasn't going to let her ignore the truth anymore—she'd fallen in love, goddammit.

She grabbed his hand and pressed her cheek into it, then her lips. He groaned and pulled her tight. A dozen bruises and other injuries protested, but she clung on, wanting to give as much to him as he gave to her. He'd told her he didn't have the normal range of emotions, but he was obviously feeling something now. Relief? Or the same cocktail of emotion that churned in her belly?

Something crackled. She flinched. Bandanna Guy's walkie-talkie. Rafe scaled the bank, gesturing at her to remain silent. A reedy voice trickled out of the unit, in Rafe's native language. Rafe replied, muffling his voice with his hand, eyeballing her to remind her not to speak—like she needed the warning. A terse reply crackled back. Rafe responded briefly, then flicked a switch and slid it into his waistband.

“It's safe to talk,” he said, lying flat on the bank and reaching for her.

She took his hands, and clambered up. “What was that about?”

“Gabriel's men at HQ were wondering why the plane hadn't taken off. I said we were fixing a maintenance issue, but everything was under control. They seemed to accept it.”

“A maintenance issue. That's one word for it.”

“At least we know no one managed to raise the alarm. We must go. We have to secure Theo. This will be over soon, princess.”

* * *

Rafe relieved the dead soldier of his M16.
Merde
, the things Holly had been through. He didn't want to subject her to anything else, but she was right—he could use her help finding Theo. Then he'd force her to hide while he rescued his boy. He'd tie her to a tree and gag her, if necessary.

Theo. He was so close.

He passed the rifle to her. At least the militia could be relied on to keep their weapons in working order.

She raised her palms. “I have no idea how to use that.”

“They don't need to know that. Use it as a decoy.”

“Wouldn't it make them more likely to shoot me, if I'm aiming a gun at them? I'd rather take my chances with my right hook.”

She had a point. And she wouldn't be facing the enemy at all, if he could help it. He pocketed the magazine, dumped the rifle and searched the guy's pockets, commandeering a packet of cable ties. They crept through the jungle, quietly swapping accounts of the last twenty-four hours and talking scenarios and tactics for freeing Theo, their voices hidden beneath the cicada screeches. The gunshots had scared off the macaques, at least.

The airstrip was silent and still. Rafe scanned the patch of jungle he'd led the women through. No sign of anyone, and he'd made sure they'd left no tracks. Flynn would find them right away, using the coordinates Rafe had texted him, but the militia would have to do a time-consuming grid search, once they'd even figured out there was a problem.

If, as Holly said, Gabriel had around two dozen soldiers at the compound, they'd immobilized four so far. It would help to get that number down further.

“Is it okay if I retrieve your knife? I'd feel better if you had it, if you don't want to use a gun.”

She winced. “If it makes you feel better.”

He jogged to Chamuel's body, twisted the blade out of the guy's clamped hand, and wiped it on the grass. If anyone deserved to rot, that
fils de pute
did. He checked that his walkie-talkie was switched off, as he had with the other soldiers. It was a matter of time before Gabriel became suspicious about that, but what else could he do? He dragged the body into the foliage. The longer the militia puzzled over what happened here, the better.

“Could we take that?” Holly said as he returned, jerking her head toward a quad bike parked beside the wire fence.

“Noise would be risky. Our best advantage is surprise.”
Our only advantage
. “Can your knee handle it? You've been favoring it.”

She nodded. “It's wobbly, but working.”

He slashed the vehicle's tires and handed her the knife. She zipped it into her pocket. Her other pocket bulged with something heavy.

She stared at the plane. “Should we check on the women?”

“Believe me, princess, they are well in control of that situation.”

They slipped through the open gate and splashed through the stream bed, taking refuge in the tree line. Once he was satisfied there were no immediate threats, they jogged along the rough road, ready to dive into thick cover at a second's notice.

It was the fence next to the airstrip that had first assured Rafe he was in the right place. Why would a rustic surfing lodge need a four-meter fence topped with barbed wire? Then gunshots had ripped out, and he'd sprinted and found the plane and the women. Figuring out who they were, he'd approached with his hands up.

The news that Holly had been shot had driven a dagger through his heart. Then another woman, the one who spoke French, hugged him, crying about Theo and how she'd comforted him as best she could.
That
he was grateful for.

“Water,” said Holly, breathlessly, after about twenty minutes of jogging.

Ducking under the canopy, he handed her a bottle. Her face was flushed, the pink sheen from the heat and effort mixing with bruises in shades of red, purple and green. Her black eye was bloodshot, half-closed and rimmed with red, and her arms and legs were washed pink and brown with dirt, blood and sweat. And still she was beautiful as heaven—nothing short of an IED would rob her of that. “I don't think I'd recognize you without your bruises.”

She touched her puffy eye. “I must look like a zombie.”

“You look very much alive to me.” So alive that she was prompting all kinds of reactions in him that didn't befit a man of his rank on an operation.

“That's encouraging. I can't wait to throw these clothes away.”

He caught her waist in both hands. “I can't wait for that either.” A lightness came over him whenever he looked at her, despite the fear he held for Theo. He wanted to kiss her again. He clamped his lips together. He'd been overcome with relief earlier. This time he would control himself.

She rolled the one eye she could fully open. “I meant get changed into something that isn't soaked with blood. Like, I don't know, a dress. I haven't worn a dress in six years. I'd very much like to get that chance again.”

“I'd like to see that.”

She frowned. He let his hands slip from her waist. He shouldn't confuse things between them. He was fooling himself that a future lay ahead in which he'd see her in a dress, or see her at all. There could be no future for him with any woman, no matter how tough she was, no matter how she appeared to be capable of handling the danger he posed. Not when he didn't trust himself to control the fire that burned in him. He'd messed with her life enough.

“You can email me a photo,” he said, “in the dress.”

She smiled, and handed back the water. “A photo. Sure. I'll do that.” The phone in his pocket vibrated. A text from Flynn. He was at least two hours away.
Merde
. Gabriel could be on another continent by then.

They continued in silence. The air was marginally cooler on the track than in the greenhouse of the jungle, but his skin dripped, and sweat trickled into his eyes. Behind him, Holly panted rhythmically as she ran—a now-familiar sound he didn't want to think too carefully about. As they came to a corner, she tugged at his T-shirt. He stopped.

“I recognize this place, from being on the truck,” she whispered. “The hut where they were holding the women is about a half mile from here.”

He switched on the walkie-talkie at minimal volume and listened for chatter. Some logistical talk about moving out, but nothing to suggest any suspicions. He switched it off.

They resumed at a quick walk, following the tree line. As they neared the hut, voices filtered up the track. They came to a stop near a clearing, ducking behind undergrowth. The stench of chlorine bleach blasted him. Two soldiers stood outside a dirty concrete hut, smoking and talking, no weapons in view. The older one looked familiar. Scratches and thuds came from inside. A small truck waited out front, parked parallel to the hut.

“Can you hear what they're saying?” she whispered.

He placed a finger on her lips. He could have removed it—should have removed it—but he let it linger a bit. For several minutes they watched and listened. A man stepped out of the hut, shouting. The soldiers lazily stubbed out their cigarettes and disappeared into the back of the truck. They returned carrying dive tanks, which they heaved inside.