Enemy Mine (The Base Branch Series Book 1) (19 page)

L
aw opened
the door with both his hands up where Baine could see them. Flanking and filing behind him were four men in brown tactical gear armed to the eyeballs with M-4’s, side arms, grenades, and blades. Baine’s gun didn’t waiver. He only regarded his friend. Was Law a hostage? His hands were up like one. Then again, he could’ve presented like that so Baine wouldn’t shoot him accidentally. The two in the front lowered their weapons while the two in back ignored him, scanning the hallway at the ready. One big mother in the front, as big as Law and not much off Baine, split from the crowd, stepping over Kobi toward him and Sloan. His blue eyes were wide as fucking dinner plates.

Baine zeroed in on him. “Don’t take another step.” The guy drew up, but stared at Sloan. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Is she…” The guy looked too pained to even finish the thought.

“Last chance. Who are you?”

That caught the blond’s attention, drawing his sharp chin and narrow eyes to Baine for the first time. “CIA operative Ryan Noble. Sloan’s partner. I know you as Baine Kendrick, son of that piece of rotting flesh. Who are you, really?”

US? It fit with the weapons and the type of chopper they flew, if his eyes and ears didn’t deceive him.

“Baine Kendrick McCord. British Intelligence. Show me your creds.”

The guy reached two fingers into his back pocket, took two measured steps forward, and reached his hand out to give it to Baine.

“Open it. My hands are full right now.” No way was he taking his hand off the gun or Sloan before every doubt was erased from his mind. His gut told him the bloke was a friendly. The sheen of moisture covering the hard guy’s eyes said as much. Then again, he could be one hell of an actor.

The eagle-emblazoned card read Central Intelligence Agency, United States of America, Clearance Code: 102708102412KDS, Issue Date: January 2010, Operative: Ryan Noble. Baine looked at the bottom right corner for the red BB that emblazoned his own credentials and found it. He, Ryan, Sloan, and Law were all Base Branch agents. The only difference was in what part of the world each was stationed. Policy mandated they identify themselves as Intelligence agents from their respective countries of birth. No one could know they were Branch operatives, but sometimes they needed to identity themselves with authority.

“What’s her favorite color?” Baine couldn’t be too protective of Sloan.

The guy’s brows quirked. “Revenge. She doesn’t give a shit about colors, unless they’re vital to a mission.”

Baine eased his gun down, but watched for any movement behind Ryan, who motioned one of the guys forward. “Get the I.V. in her and we’ll book it.”

A chappie with as many freckles on his face as Baine had hairs on his head stepped forward with a first aid kit, placed it on the ground near Sloan’s feet, and got to work unloading the supplies he needed.

Ryan dropped to his knees across from Baine. He reached a shaky hand toward Sloan and Baine had to stop himself from biting it off at the wrist. When Ryan found her pitiful pulse his jaw tightened. “Damn it, partner, you hang in there.” Then he turned to Freckles. “We gotta move fast.”

A moment later, Baine and Ryan’s gazes tangled as they spoke atop each other.

Ryan with, “What the fuck happened? Is it a shot or stab wound?”

Baine accompanied, “How the fuck did you know she was in trouble and why the hell didn’t you draw on me?”

Both men’s jaws screwed down as they sized each other up. Ryan gave first. “We’ve been three clicks east, hidden in the gorge, since Slo dropped. She sent the signal at nineteen hundred. We moved according to the plan, two hours after.”

His bronzed fist clenched. “I tried for one hour. I talked her down from three, but there was no getting her to come off more.”

Baine looked down at Sloan and smiled as an invisible band cinched a notch on his chest. “I know exactly what you mean. The damn woman’s a force of nature.”

“Didn’t draw on you,” Ryan continued, “because it looked as though you’d already been shot in the heart. And your partner sweet-talked us as soon as we touched down.”

Baine eyed Law who stood quietly in the far corner of the room, face tight, but eyes sympathetic. “I failed her,” he said in answer to Ryan’s earlier question. “Didn’t get here in time. She got cornered and my…the fucking monster stabbed her with a letter opener.”

“From the looks of the place and your leg, I’d say you had your hands full trying to get to her,” Ryan said.

“Ready, sir,” Freckles piped up.

“Let’s move,” Ryan barked.

Both Baine and Ryan bent to scoop Sloan. The pretty boy bit his lower lip and shook his head. “It’ll be easier if we don’t have to transfer her at the HELO.”

“Then we won’t,” Baine growled. “I’m taking her all the way.”

Still that blond hair flopped back and forth. “No can do. Against regs and about fifty other international laws.”

“Fuck em’,” he ground through clenched teeth.

“We don’t have time for this,” Ryan huffed. “If you want her to live, let her go.”

It was a solid blow to Baine’s head. Like a mallet met him center between his eyes, his hands slacked to his sides. Ryan hefted Sloan easily, murmuring in a calm, reassuring tone as he hurried from the room. The stampede of boots receded from the stairs, through the foyer.

Next the
whoop whoop
dimmed.

And still Baine stayed on his knees, collapsed back on his heels, paralyzed. The litany carried on.
Let her live. Let her live.

H
oly fuck on a fox
. It’d been seven hours. Most broke within the first thirty minutes of his ministrations, but this chav showed backbone Baine didn’t have time or any more patience to entertain. He needed to get this shit wrapped up so he could get to Sloan. It’d been two miserable months since she’d been wrenched from his life. He ached for her. Her touch. Her smile. He also hurt for sleep. For peace. But he wouldn’t go to her without completing the task she’d asked of him. She deserved that much from him. A whole damn lot more. But at least that much.

He dropped the bloody pliers back on the metal table with a
clack
, dismissing his swollen knuckles and sore forearm. “I believe I’ve been going about this all wrong, Miguel.” Baine stood in front of the man, zeroing in on the defiant gaze settled in his well-worn face. “You will tell me who bought the last shipment or you will regret it for the rest of your miserable life.”

Baine turned to Law who stood guard at the door. As the words flowed from his mouth he hated himself a little more. “Bring the girl. If he doesn’t care about his own wellbeing, perhaps he cares about hers.”

Law nodded curtly, but his eyes glittered with rage. He hated what Baine had become too, but he obediently left the room. Baine turned to the master of one of Mexico’s largest cartels and saw the first wave of emotion roll across his features, breaking the smug facade he’d hosted since they’d dropped in on his operation yesterday.

Miguel Castillo’s lower lip quivered. “You call me a monster, but you are no different. You will hurt an innocent girl to get what you want.”

The man was right. He was a monster, and he would.

What the bloody hell have you become?

No. He was better than Miguel. The man had slaughtered hundreds of innocents to get what he wanted. Drugs. Weapons. Money. All for Devereaux Kendrick. Baine was putting an end to that.

But at what price?

Law stepped inside the room with Rosanna Castillo. Both her tiny hands wrapped around the big man’s forearm. She seemed totally at ease even as he led her blindfolded into the room. Law guided her toward the metal table behind Miguel. Every muscle in her father’s body tensed. He thrashed against the bonds at his ankles and wrists, causing fresh blood to pool beneath his arms. Jaw working with fury, his head jerked left and right, trying to see what horror lay in store for his beloved, but the head restraints refused to give.

Baine smiled and walked around Miguel.

Quietly the man whispered through the saliva and blood. “Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor es contigo.”

Baine chuckled and despised the sound.

The girl joined her father. “Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.”

Her sugar-sweet voice raised every hair on Baine’s weary body. His voice ground the word. “Amén.”

Miguel drew a ragged breath.

Baine ignored Law’s scowl, turning his attention to the little girl of maybe five or six years. “Hola Rosanna, me llamo Baine.”

“Buenas noches Baine. Mi nombre es…” Her forehead creased behind the dark fabric. “Oop, sabes mi nombre.”

He continued in her native language. “Yes, I know your name. I know your mommy’s name, your daddy’s. I even know little Nicolás.” The girl smiled and Baine’s stomach churned. Acid rose into his throat and for a moment he thought he would not be able to call it back.

After a full body shiver, he continued. “Would you like to play a game with me, Rosanna?”

“Sí,” the girl giggled.

“Wonderful. Give me your hand.” With a toothy grin she placed her tiny palm against his. “Great job, Rosa.” Gently he placed it on the cold table next to the hacksaw, pliers, and knife. “Now, I want you to spread your fingers out wide, just like this and hold as still as you possibly can.”

Her mocha hair swooshed as she nodded enthusiastically. “Sí, señor.”

Baine grabbed the blade and began tapping a star pattern around the girl’s fingers. “Very still now,” he reminded.

Again she nodded.

The taps grew louder. Faster. The tempo rose. And rose. Until it sounded like an S.O.S. on speed. Baine nodded to Law who leaned close to the girl’s ear. The pace reached a fevered pitch as drips of sweat rolled off Baine’s nose. Three. Two. One.

The girl’s scream ripped the room in two.

And Miguel Castillo screamed. “Cezar Vilaro!”

Rosanna clamped off her scream and tilted her head. “Papá, when can I see Uncle Cezar?”

Baine punched the man in the jaw and watched his body go slack. “Rosanna, you played the game very well. I think Law can find you a treat in the kitchen.”

She squealed in delight. Her two perfect hands reached toward Law. Clamping him around the wrist she hurried him toward the door, listing all the toppings she wanted on her ice cream.

As soon as the door closed behind them Baine collapsed to his knees. His sob split the room nearly as loudly as Rosanna’s scream had. He hung his head as his shoulders shook and his chest heaved.

I have turned into the very thing I hate most in this world. My father.

Baine only had one more bastard to deal with before he could go to Sloan. Cezar Vilaro. But how could he go to her as this monster? She would hate him. Hate what he’d become. His entire body hurt from wanting her, but better him hurt than her.

S
loan winked
at Ryan as she tightened the straps of her overnight pack and adjusted the waist of her loose fitting khaki’s. In the dull light of the Blackhawk’s belly she watched Ryan’s glare intensify. If the last week was any indication, the mean squint of his brow was permanent. It hadn’t let up since Commander Tucker briefed him on his current mission.

Ryan turned away from her with a dramatic snap of his body. He huffed like a petulant child before catching the latch in his grip and wrenching the heavy hatch back.

Her fist met his shoulder in a solid knock and she hollered above the whirling blades of the HELO. “I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow at twenty hundred.”

She sat gingerly on the metal floor. Each day she could do more and more. No thanks to Tucker or Ryan, who’d practically taken up residence in her crappy apartment and hovered at the office. When they weren’t mother-henning, she’d jogged short distances and lifted with her legs and arms at the Branch facility. She could even tighten her core, but it hurt like a mother if she twisted or slumped. Yep, abdominal exercises were still a month or so off. If the infection hadn’t set in, she could’ve been operational by now. But she shouldn’t worry about that and just be glad to be among the living.

Sloan waited for her shoulder bump from Ryan and one final comment about how crazy she was for dropping into Sierra Leone alone and in her “condition.” Even Tucker thought she was nuts, but had okay’ed the personnel and supplies for her journey. He, more than most, understood her need to confront the past and release the demons that had lived inside her for the better part of twenty years.

When Ryan’s fist didn’t come she looked up. He stared intently at her, his face an unreadable mask. Her breath stilled in her chest. She’d always been able to read Ryan. It made them perfect partners. In the field they didn’t need words. Just a quirk of a brow. A shift of the eyes.

But now his eyes bore into hers with a depth she’d never before seen. His hand nestled under her jaw at her pulse, which beat like a tribal drum. He held her loosely as his head dipped low, then stilled, his thick lips only an inch from her own. She tried to swallow, to speak, but hell if her mouth hadn’t gone dry as the ground of Namibia.

Ryan’s eyes never hid behind his lids, not even to blink. At this lover’s proximity Sloan noticed the near white-flecks fracturing his pale blue eyes. The sheer opposite of Baine’s steely blue. His face drew nearer and his warm lips brushed over hers then back again in the most painfully sweet embrace.

Sloan’s heart shivered. Not in love or anger, but sadness.

His lean body withdrew from her space, a small smile playing across his mouth. “I love you, Sloan.”

Sloan swallowed the clump of sand clogging her throat. “I love you. But I’m in love with Baine.”

That beautiful smile didn’t falter. “I know.”

“Then why…” Her head shook, unable to form a coherent though with the structure of her world shifting under her feet yet again.

He chucked her shoulder with his fist. “I’ve always loved you as a partner and friend. Then I almost lost you to that.” He pointed toward her stomach. “And I’m losing you to Kendrick, McCord, whatever the hell you wanna call him.”

Ryan chuckled but the sound sailed away in the whir of propelled wind. “You’ve been my center point for a long time. I got scared, and figured why not go for broke.”

For some reason she wanted to cry. The fear of the unknown. The changes she hoped were on the horizon. Sloan hugged Ryan’s face in her hands, ignoring the well of moisture in her eyes.

“You’re not broke or broken. You just need to kick your mommy’s handpicked harem of socialites, along with her ass, to the curb, and find your own center. Not hers. Not theirs. Not mine.” His brow quirked. “You always worry about doing the right thing. Being the Boy Scout. Screw the right thing,” she laughed, “or maybe the wrong thing for once, and find something worth fighting for.”

His index finger tapped her nose. “Is that an order?” His tone downplayed the emotions and seriousness of the subject matter, but the corners of his mouth turned down and his lips pursed like they always did when he was trying to figure a complex tactical problem.

“No, just something to think about,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. She squeezed him as hard as she could without rupturing an intestine and he hugged her back. His strong arms gave her the courage to let him go.

He held her shoulders at arm’s length. “If you come back in one pretty piece, I’ll think about it.”

“Done. Anything to get your mother out of your ear. She spews slow-acting neurotoxins. I fear for your health.”

Ryan’s hand dropped to his side as his shoulders shook with laughter. His genuine smile lightened Sloan’s sadness.
Everything will be okay.

Ryan’s hand went to the Sig at his waist. “Since you aren’t going to let me whisk you off your feet and out of this place or let me go with you, at least take my side arm.”

Sloan slid to the ground. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Twenty hundred hours.”

She turned to Ryan and waved. He just stood there, feet spread wide, one hand on his hip and the other on his gun, shaking his head at her.

From the tree line she watched the lights of the HELO rise into predawn ink and set out south to Liberia. When they became a distant twinkle, Sloan, with her civvies and overnight pack, set out north toward the Moa River, or Makona as she’d called it in her youth. The boarders of Guinea, Liberia, and Sierra Leone converged about six clicks ahead. She set an easy pace, partly due to the dark, the nearness to a rebel stronghold even ten years after the war, and her physical limitations. Mostly though, she strolled along taking in the smells and sounds of her homeland for the first time since she’d left in a small crate on the back of a supply truck nearly twenty two years ago.

As planned, she made it to the river’s edge just south of the village at dawn, without incident. Too early to roam the main dirt path through the heart of the small town before its resident’s daily routines beat the town to life, Sloan eased from the thick foliage down the steep embankment to the flat bar below. The rich tan sediment jutted about five feet into the river then curved back to the shore. Shucking her pack, Sloan’s shoulders relaxed from the release of pressure and sank an inch more as the view eased the small rattle of nerves she’d carried with her since she decided to return.

The golden sunlight rose from behind the trees, bathing the water and brilliant green leaves in unadulterated hues of yellow. Up the river the forms of a carved out canoe and petite man showed black against the splendor. He cast a net into the dark water. The scene warmed Sloan from deep inside and had her unlacing her calf-high hiking boots with rapid flicks of her fingers. She rolled both pant legs before toeing off the ten-pound boots and pulling off her plush socks.

A smile stretched her face as she burrowed her feet against the cool sand. Bits of rock pricked her skin, but she only wiggled her toes and sank deeper into the earth. She filled her lungs so full of the clean air her ribs would give no more. At the point of bursting she held her breath and turned her face up to the sun. Now heated from the inside and out, with her eyes closed, Sloan stepped into the water. A swarm of prickles enveloped her feet and the chilly water set off a wave of gooseflesh through her body, but she had never felt such peace.

In a rush of air, she released into the wind every haunting thought, every heartache Devereaux Kendrick had ever given her. The next breath came more easily and the next easier still. Sloan opened her eyes to the beauty of her home, forgetting the one day of horror she’d endured, and remembering the love this place cultivated for the first five years of her life.

After her feet were properly pruned Sloan replaced her shoes and backpack and set out for town. The fisherman, a young man of maybe fourteen or fifteen, traced her movement up the bank. He waved as she passed. His eyes were bright and smile wide. When she returned the wave he hid his smile with the back of his hand. The shy gesture tickled her belly and had her giggling all the way to a broad dirt road at the main corridor of the town.

Sloan stopped dead at the expanse of red clay. It had only been a donkey trail when she was little. From the columns of varied tire tracks she could tell it was well used. She didn’t know why the sight of it surprised her so. Things changed on a daily basis. Worlds progressed. She’d been gone for a long time. She shouldn’t have expected things to remain the same. The road was a great thing. A sign of growth and good fortune.

She slipped back into the brush and changed her pants for a patterned wrap and swapped boots for sandals then added her tracks to the carrot-colored dirt. As she walked, the roadside changed from rambling greenery to sporadically-placed one-room clay homes with thatched roofs and some tin. Closer to the center they multiplied, filling the space at the street edges. A scooter putted past carrying a man with a toddler wrapped to his front in a
mei tai
cloth. After a minute a large truck rumbled in his path, carrying what looked to be jugs and barrels of water.

Up ahead the street was congested with pedestrians.
The market.
Her mother had traded schooling for food and other necessities in this narrow strip. On one side of the road the old cement building stood proud, still the cerulean blue of her childhood on its doors and roof, but the exterior hosted a fresh, as in the last five years, coat of orange. Across the street, vendors set up their goods, while others, older children mostly, walked about the bazaar, carrying baskets of merchandise on their heads or propped in their arms.

She garnered only mild curiosity from the merchants as she mingled in the crowd. The children didn’t gather around her in interest. The men and women offered easy smiles, but no one questioned her presence. She’d planned it that way, wearing well-used clothing with vibrant colors and patterns to mimic the women of the town. In a weird way she felt as though she belonged. As though she were one with the strong woman who had given her life.

Past another clump of homes Sloan reached her destination. The place that changed the course of her life forever. No longer a clay shack and tin roof, the cement building sat where the old school house had burned to the ground with her parents’ bodies inside. Its clean cream lines stood proud against the green forest. A tear fell. Then another.

The school was more beautiful than the pictures had shown. It was more worthwhile than a D.C. home or pricey car. More precious than a twenty-carat diamond from the pitted earth of Sierra Leone.

Sloan swatted the tears away and hurried toward the building. When she rounded the final home she saw another building across the street from the school. It mirrored the structure in shape, material, and color. And like the first it held children. Sloan heard the joyous voices of young people singing.

“We pray that no harm on thy children may fall, that blessings and peace may descend on us all…”

Her throat tightened in recognition and at their sweet pitch. Quietly she sang along. “So may we serve thee ever alone, land that we love, our Sierra Leone.”

Without instruction, her feet carried her to the corner of the schoolhouse. She hung back from the door, unwilling to interrupt the beginning of class, but realizing she might very well draw attention in her current position. Still, there was nothing she could do to stop herself.

Sloan placed her forehead on the rough exterior.
Thank you Momma and Papa for peace. Thank God.
She actually stretched her arms out wide and held the structure in her embrace.
Life again.

Smooth metal caught her right hand and she stepped back in surprise. A placard embedded in the cement read: Cabanos Pre-School Built January 2010
In Loving Memory of Elizabeth McCord by The BKM Foundation.

The air whooshed from Sloan’s lungs.
Baine.

She turned toward the other building and zeroed in on its relieved metal plate, but didn’t go to it. From the pictures Head Mistress Sienna had sent Sloan knew it read:
Cabanos Primary School Built January 2010 In Loving Memory of Sylva Kolat Johnson and Daniel Johnson by The SKH Foundation.

Sloan loved Baine, was in love with him, but had never yearned to throw her arms around him more than she did in this moment. She didn’t need a night here to expel her demons. Her eyes were open and staring straight ahead. No looking back. It was time she looked toward the future.