No One Lives Forever (8 page)

He clenched his jaw. Whatever she peddled, he wasn't buying. "Oh, yeah, you're a beacon for truth and the American way." Then out of the blue, a thought occurred to him, something he'd read between the lines. He followed his gut instincts and tossed out a zinger from left field.

"Do you love him?"

For an instant, surprise registered across her dark eyes. Recovering, she masked the reaction. Her expression morphed into her usual distant facade. She turned her back and walked to the window, arms clutched to her chest.

"He is my employer."

"Answer the question." He pressed, knowing he had crossed the line.

She spun toward him, eyes flared with indignation. "That is none of your business."

Her strong reaction forced him to replay something she'd told him yesterday about the enduring connection between Fiona and her old flame. Before he could stop himself, he voiced his theory. "You love him, but he still loves my—"

"Don't say it." Cutting the distance between them, Jasmine strut closer with a finger raised in challenge. "Let's get something straight between us. We are here to intervene in Nicky's destiny, to save his life. That is all. If you have another agenda, then you're out . . . now."

Her face suddenly animated, he got a glimpse of what it would be like to suffer the woman's anger. Most probably, he deserved her outrage for intruding on personal turf, but the woman bluffed—big-time.

"Pretty cocky for someone who came begging for my help yesterday. And with the short fuse on this trip, you can't afford a Plan B." He called her bluff, punctuating his gall with a swig of coffee.

Jasmine raised her chin in defiance. She spoke in a quiet rock-steady voice, eyes aimed with deadly accuracy.

"It would not be in Nicky's best interest... no. But make no mistake. I will not tolerate mutiny, regardless of your connection to him. I would answer such a threat with my blade."

Now standing within inches of his chest, she toyed with a button on his shirt. Normally, the gesture would be flirtatious and seductive, but he'd seen the woman at work. Her moves had the signature of a coiled rattler, fangs bared, waiting for him to turn his back.

Slowly, her eyes trailed up his chest. Nails in glistening red tugged at his shirt. Her expression softened with her voice. "Besides, you're curious about your . . . new father. Admit it. You have to know just how far you've fallen from the base of that magnificent tree, don't you, little acorn?"

Anyone catching the scene might have assumed he was having an intimate conversation with a lover. But Jasmine worked best up close, her words as cutting as her lethal knife. Especially when her incisions stung with the harsh reality of truth.

Still, he fought to maintain control.
Little acorn, my ass!

"John Delacorte will
always
be my real father. And from what I found out about Charboneau, I've decided any connection I have to the man is merely a result of adolescent libido." He grabbed her hand and shoved it aside. "No thanks, not interested in making a love connection with daddy dearest."

She raised an eyebrow and curved her lips into a smirk. "Perhaps you should be the one to conserve on the bullshit, Christian. We might find a market for it in Brazil." In jaunty arrogance, she turned toward the door, not looking back. "Can we go?"

Without waiting for his reply, she stepped out of the room, heading for the plane. In her wake, sounds of the airport intruded upon the stillness of the room, then dissipated as the door shut behind her. Dressed in pressed jeans and boots, Jasmine clutched at her blue windbreaker, drawing it to her body. He watched her walk toward the jet, her long dark hair wafting in the breeze.

"If there's a market for bullshit in Brazil, I'd be a wealthy man," he mumbled under his breath. "But you, Jasmine, would be Oprah."

Taking one final look toward the gate, Christian looked off into the distance and sighed before heading for the door.

Next stop
—
Cuiabá, Brazil.

Cuiabá, Brazil,
Marechal Rondon Airport
8:58 P.M.

Christian didn't need this. The airport was a hive of activity . . . and not in a good way. After flying via private jet, he'd hoped for a simpler process to disembark. But the last bank of commercial planes arrived at the gates about the same time the Dunhill jet touched down. The influx of people crowded customs and bottlenecked the process.

Bad luck followed him like a shadow, hard to shake.

Despite the hour, travelers with places to go hauled bags through the bustling corridors . Their faces told a mixed tale. Some were energetic and filled with impatience to begin their Brazilian adventure, while others looked frustrated and tired.

Christian identified with the latter.

Several large groups of tourists arrived in a rush and were now being ushered to buses waiting on the curb outside baggage claim. The terminal echoed with the language of Portuguese, Spanish, and other dialects. Christian heard very little English spoken. The predominance of dark skin and hair, coupled with the bulk of the facial features appearing native, reminded him of his foreigner status.

By the time he got through customs and the baggage claim process, he felt every hour of travel deep in his bones. Even Jasmine, the Queen of Serene, couldn't hide her exhaustion. It showed in her eyes and in her sullen mood.

"I have to make a stop." She led him to a large locker along one of the corridors off the baggage claim area. She fished a key from her pocket, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door. A black duffel bag inside. And another smaller carryon. "This is the special arrangement I spoke to you about. We'll need a porter now."

Weapons and whatever else she carried. The woman always came prepared. She either maintained the locker year-round or had arranged it before she left Brazil a few days ago. She hailed a man in an airport uniform hauling a cart. As the man approached, Christian reached into the locker for the smaller bag on top. Feeling its weight, he shook it and turned his attention to Jasmine.

"What's in here? It's lighter than I expected."

At first he wasn't sure she'd answer. Eventually, she did.

"Nicky's clothes. He'll need something fresh when we rescue him." The words made her sound self-assured, but her eyes betrayed her.

"Good idea," he nodded, unsure what else to say.

Acting as a convenient and well-timed distraction, the smiling porter loaded their bags onto his cart and followed them through the airport, jabbering in broken English. Christian only understood every fifth word, his mind too fatigued to listen.

Outside, the dense air felt like a wall of moisture, the heat sustained even after dark. With evening temps like this, what would tomorrow bring? Diesel fuel and smoke mingled with humidity, making it hard to take a full breath.

Several uniformed men directed traffic with exaggerated hand gestures and the shrill sounds of whistles. The porter took control, stepping in front of Christian and ordering a taxi with a shout and a commanding wave of his hand.

Two cabs surged forward from the mix of vehicles, nearly colliding to gain advantage in driving the foreigners to the city. Neither driver blinked in their game of chicken. After a few well-chosen hand gestures and an exchange of colorful local lingo, one man reaped the spoils. He leapt from his taxi with a smile and a nod, now the picture of hospitality.

"Welcome. Where you go?" The cabbie hustled to open the door.

Jasmine avoided looking at the man. "Hotel Palma Dourada," she answered as she slid into the backseat of the bright yellow cab, fanning herself with a map of the city. The cabbie left the door open for Christian to join her.

Still standing on the curb, Christian watched the porter load up the last of their bags into the cab. With the trunk slammed shut, he slipped U.S. dollars into the porter's hand and started to join Jasmine. But an unmarked police car rolled past the tour buses to block the taxi from taking off, a rotating beacon of red fixed to the dash. A car door opened and one man emerged.

"Welcome to Cuiabá, Mr. Delacorte." Hands against the police car, a lean man in khaki uniform with steely black eyes glared at him. No cordiality on his face. "Please allow me to accompany you to the hotel. You ride with me."

Christian raised his chin and eyed the man with wariness.

"How do you know my name? And my ETA?" He asked the questions, but suspected only one answer. No doubt the man had an informant within customs.

"You will find nothing escapes me in my town. I make it my business to know such things. Please ... I must insist." The man gestured with a hand, indicating the passenger door.

"He's the police captain who followed me," Jasmine whispered from inside the cab. "Be very careful. I do not trust him."

Seeing the woman's reaction to the cop raised a red flag. On the issue of being trustworthy, Jasmine hoisted stones from her house of glass. By his way of thinking, if she didn't trust the police captain— that alone would be a ringing endorsement—making the cop the lesser of two evils. Yet by the looks of the man's stern expression, Christian couldn't tell if he'd be friend or foe. The guy looked scrappy, a street fighter. Not as tall as Christian, he had a muscular build, looking native, with his dark skin and hair. His piercing stare commanded respect. An age-weathered face framed the severity of his eyes and sent a clear message.

This was not a man to mess with.

According to the research on Brazil Christian read on the jet, corruption had become a major thread woven into the fabric of this country—an accepted practice to supplement low wages. Was the man standing before him getting his fair share, or fighting against others who did?

One thing was certain. Cuiabá was his town.

Christian considered Duarte's invitation and shut the taxi door, with Jasmine grimacing at him from inside. With reluctance, he walked toward the man's car.

"How could I refuse such hospitality?"

Once Christian slid into the passenger seat, the man introduced himself, without offering a hand in greeting. This was not a social occasion. "My name is Captain Luis Duarte. I wanted us to have a moment alone, you and I. Your female companion and I have already had the pleasure."

As the man spoke, he turned off the red cherry and pulled from the curb, heading for town. With the windows rolled down, Christian rested his elbow on the car door. He glared out the front windshield, only his peripheral vision on the man behind the wheel.

Once beyond the airport terminal, a canopy of stars filled the night sky, fading near the horizon with the lights of the city ahead. Headlights drilled the blackness, luring insects from the gloom. And Duarte's face ebbed in and out of shadows, silhouetted by the eerie light from the dashboard.

As it usually did, darkness closed in on Christian, weighing heavy like a vise around his chest. It squeezed tight, a constant pressure. To distract himself, he kept his eyes focused on the road ahead, glancing in the side mirror at the taxi following close behind.

With effort, he tapped into his senses, almost a heightened meditative state. Hot wind whipped through the car, buffeting his hair and shirt as Duarte drove. The hum of the engine and the drone of road noise absorbed the lull in conversation. His thoughts drifted to Raven, his calming mantra ritual. Eventually, the essence of this strange world washed over him like cleansing rain, invigorating his spirit.

"Yes, Jasmine mentioned your interest in her . . . activities." Christian heard his own voice like an out of body experience. "Do you always greet visitors to your country with such a warm reception?"

"No, but I made an exception for you. Then again, you are not just
any
tourist. You are here in Brazil to search for Nicholas Charboneau, are you not?" He didn't wait for an answer. "How do you know him?"

Christian took a gamble that the police captain didn't know everything and skirted the truth about his relationship to Charboneau.

"Actually, I've come because of Jasmine. I've never met the man." He didn't
exactly
lie.

"So you are not connected to his ... organization? The syndicate in Chicago?"

Duarte had definitely done his homework.

"No, not at all. I have my own company, Delacorte Protective Services, but I'm here because I owe her a favor."

"Such a huge favor. You must owe her quite a debt to repay it in this manner." The man's dark eyes cut through the murky black. "She does not strike me as a woman with many friends."

"I didn't say we were friends." Christian returned the lawman's stare. "Besides . . . she wouldn't exactly take no for an answer."

Duarte found amusement in that. "No, beautiful women seldom do."

"Have the kidnappers provided any proof of life evidence? They can't possibly expect payment if they haven't shown he's still alive."

"It is true most abductions communicate such things, usually a photograph of the victim holding a current newspaper. But I have not seen such proof. Has the bodyguard been contacted?"

"No. She would've told me."

"Are you sure of that? She seems to be a woman of many secrets."

Christian shifted his gaze to Duarte. The man's face drifted in and out of the dark as he kept his eyes on the road. He had asked a simple question, one Christian couldn't answer in good faith. By his silence, he gave the police captain all the confirmation he needed.

Score one for the home team.

Grimacing out the window, Christian distracted himself with the changing terrain. Entering Cuiabá, the capital of the state of Mato Grosso, he found the city held traces of its colonial past mingled with newer development.

Known as the southern gateway to the Amazon, the city served as a beacon of civilization on the edge of Brazil's great wilderness. He had seen photos of the city in his latest research, but nothing like seeing the real thing. Intersected by a river named after the city, the urban setting looked peaceful in the photos, with its flat terrain and skyscrapers nestled between an abundance of trees.

But after what happened to Charboneau, Christian knew a seedy underbelly existed in this picturesque place. Mankind tainted perfection with its very nature.