White Dawn: A Military Romantic Suspense Novel (15 page)

Adán climbed in first, then Nick waved
Olivia into the car and stepped in himself. Richard Collins the
Third sat in the far back corner and was shaking Adán’s hand as
Olivia settled on the seat opposite them.

Once Nick was sitting and the car was
rolling once more, Adán spoke, using English. “Mr. President, may I
present Nicolás Escobedo, President Pro Tem of Vistaria.”

Collins turned his attention upon Nick.
“Nicolás Escobedo. Your people did well, at the White Sands. I’m
sorry I can’t acknowledge you formally.” His bushy eyebrows came
together in a frown. There was a lot more gray in them than the
television showed. But the hazel eyes beneath them were alert and
gleaming with intelligence.

“This is Olivia Davenport de
Castellano,” Adán added. “Señora Davenport is Vistaria’s Ambassador
to the United States.”

Collins’ eyes twinkled. “It is good to
meet you at last, Olivia. You have your father’s eyes and, I’m
told, his stubbornness.”

“I prefer to think of it as merely
knowing my own mind, Mr. President.” She leaned forward. “Is there
any way to break this deadlock between you and Mexico? You’re both
waiting for the other to acknowledge us.”

“I think it’s far too early to start
talking about diplomatic treaties,” Collins said flatly. “You’ve
yet to win your country back.”

“I agree completely,” Nick said. “But
allies don’t need diplomatic treaties to work together.”

Collins looked at him. “You want our
military aid.” He said it flatly, like it was a fact.

Nick shook his head. “We can win this
war without the United States. But you might want to provide aid
and troops just to ensure the outcome.”

Collins smiled. “Out of the goodness of
our hearts?”

Olivia recognized that the President was
asking indirectly what was in it for the United States. It was a
fair question.

“You saw what Serrano did at the White
Sands,” Nick replied smoothly. “You can infer from there what sort
of man Serrano is. Do you really want a man like him leading a
nation lying so close to your own borders?” Which told her he had
understood the President’s irony, too. Then Nick added the kicker.
“Vistaria is eighty miles from the coast of California, Mr.
President. That’s closer than Cuba.”

The President made a harrumphing sound
in his throat and Olivia hid her smile. No President liked to be
reminded of the Cuban Missile Crisis, but in this case, it was an
apt analogy. If Serrano gained control of Vistaria, who would he
turn to for allies and friends? He had ruined any chance of winning
America’s approval.

She looked out through the tinted window
as the car gently turned. They were pulling up in front of the
cathedral.

The President tugged on his vest. “I
took a call from the president of Astra Corp late last night. He
was very upset. Serrano is digging silver out of his mine, and
using it to fund his war efforts.”

Nick nodded. “We have proof that he is
doing exactly that.”

The car came to a halt and the door
opened smartly.

The president looked out, then back at
Nick. “You pointed out that allies help each other. I can see my
way to helping you, if you help me. Call it an overture of
friendship.”

Olivia caught her breath.

Even though Nick didn’t move a muscle,
she could
feel
his alertness. “You want your mine back.”

“I want my mine back. I can’t go in
there with my military because the facility is privately owned, but
I object to third rate thugs liberating United States assets. You
can keep the Black Hawks. They’re a speculative investment that I
expect to pay off in a large way.”

“With or without Mexico’s approval?”
Nick asked.

Richard Collins the Third smiled thinly.
“I am the President of the United States. I don’t need Mexico to
tell me what to do.” He climbed out of the car and the door was
shut softly behind him.

Nick sat back and blew out his
breath.

Adán grinned. “He likes you.”

“All you have to do is win back the
mine, Nick,” Olivia pointed out.

Nick looked out the window, his fist
against the glass. “Yes, that’s all I have to do,” he said
softly.

Carmen was back to hating Garrett’s
guts. She leaned over, her hands on her knees, gasping for breath.
Sweat was dripping off her chin and it had soaked through her shirt
from neck to hem. Her hair felt disgusting. It kept flopping damply
against the back of her neck. If she’d had two minutes to spare,
she would have pulled out her knife and sawed it all off.

But she hadn’t had two minutes to draw
breath since sun-up.

Garrett had called a surprise PT drill
not long after dawn and everyone had scrambled out of their sacks,
dropping breakfast bowls and racing to dress and throw on their
boots.

Garrett had led them on a three mile run
deep into the forest along one of the local trails they had
calibrated for distance. That had been the first stage. By the time
they arrived back at the camp, Carmen’s legs had been aching.

Then came a series of drills. Squats,
three different kinds of press-ups, jacks and the one she hated the
most, burpees.

At the end of each round, they got
thirty seconds to recover, then they went into another round.

“We’re doing ten rounds, gentlemen!”
Garrett yelled at them. “If anyone falls off the beat, or stops,
another round will be added. Go! Push-ups! One…two…three….”

There was a collective groan from all of
them as they worked through the set of ten standard push-ups. The
ground was digging into her palms and stones bit her fingers.
Carmen groaned as loudly as all of them.

That was when Garrett seemed to zero in
on her. He walked around to where she was trembling her way through
the last two push-ups. “You’re falling behind, Escobedo!” he yelled
at her. He grabbed the back of her tee shirt and pulled her up and
let her down. “Faster!” He was leaning right over her, like the
world’s worst drill sergeant.

She picked herself up and went into
jumping jacks.

“Too slow!” Garrett called.
“
Eleven
rounds!”

Ledo, who was next to her, glared
sullenly. There were a few groans, but no one had much breath left
to vent their frustration.

They ended up doing thirteen rounds. The
additional three were all her fault, even though Carmen could see
others, like Archie with his huge muscle-bound body, falling behind
as well.

“Sixty seconds!” Garrett call.
“Breathe!”

That was when she bent over and parked
her hands on her knees. She felt sick. Faint. It was a stinking hot
day and the air was still. The heat seemed to be covering her like
a blanket.

Efraín staggered over to a patch of
weeds and vomited.

Garrett clapped his hands and pointed
behind him. There was a sheet of paper pinned to a tree, about
fifteen yards away. “You will each take three shots. For each shot
not inside the circle, you will run a mile. When you return, you
will get another three shots. First up!”

Carmen glared at Garrett, hating him all
over again. This was beyond ridiculous.

Angelo was the first up. He got two in
the circle, but the last missed the tree altogether. He swore
heavily.

Carmen was startled. Angelo was normally
a good shot.

“One mile. Go,” Garrett told him.

Angelo rested his rifle up against the
rubble of the refectory wall, then started jogging toward the
marked trail.

Carmen was still breathing heavily when
it was her turn to step up to the line. She pulled out her Glock
and tried to take aim the way she had been taught, gripping her
wrist for greater steadiness, but her arms felt like lead weights.
As she aimed the gun, they shook, making the sights waver.

“Hurry up!” Garrett yelled. “The
Insurrectos aren’t going to stand there while you get your aim
right!” He was standing over her again and she winced. Then she
gritted her teeth and
made
her arms straighten up, just for
the two seconds she needed to get three shots off.

All of them missed.

Sick, she looked at the virgin sheet of
paper that Llora had pinned to the abused tree.

“Get moving!” Garrett said.

She holstered her gun and unbuckled the
belt.

“Take it with you. You wouldn’t leave it
behind for the Insurrectos, would you?”

Carmen glared at him. “Fuck you,” she
said tiredly.

“
Four
miles!” he shot back.

For a moment, she was tempted to trot
over to the weeds and up-chuck just like Efraín, who was now
sitting on the hard-packed earth, his head between his knees. But
Garrett would rail at her even harder if she did.

She turned and headed for the trail.

“
Run
, soldier!” Garrett
directed.

She started to run. The best she could
do was a tired trot. Her legs felt like cast iron and her arms and
shoulders were aching.

The first mile was the worst. Close to
the three-quarter mile mark, she stopped and leaned over the grass
and foliage at the edge of the trail, wondering if she really was
going to vomit. But the nausea passed and she started to slowly jog
again, back to the camp.

Barely into the second mile, she found
her breathing had settled down and the dead weight feeling in her
limbs had gone. She picked up speed very slightly, feeling light
and full of energy.

The third and fourth mile were almost
effortless. She arrived back at the camp and jogged over to the
lineup. Garrett was still bawling at everyone, sending them running
as they failed to hit the mark and the thunderous looks on their
faces as they passed her, heading for the trail, told its own
story. Garrett was not loved, right now. Not in the slightest.

Carmen pulled out her Glock as she
approached the line. “I should shoot
you
instead,” she told
Garrett.

“Get three of them in the circle and you
can take a free shot,” he said bluntly.

That told her how much he believed she
could do it.

The free, floating feeling of lightness
and energy was still with her. Even her breathing was calm. She
stepped up to the line and raised the gun. She barely paused to
aim. She frankly didn’t care if she hit the paper or not.

All three bullets hit the target. One of
them was awfully close to the line, but it was inside it. Carmen
lowered the gun, staring at the holes.

“Llora?” Garrett called.

Llora stepped over to the tree from her
safe point and pulled the sheet off and examined it. Then she held
up two fingers, then turned and pinned another sheet to the
tree.

Dull anger touched her. “No,” Carmen
said flatly. “It’s in.”

“You only winged your man. Take a hike,
Escobedo. One mile.”

“No.” She shoved her gun in the holster
and wiped the sweat out of her eyes with the sleeve of her tee
shirt, which was less damp than any other part of it.

“One mile, or KP,” he said.

Carmen launched herself at him. She’d
had enough and she didn’t have the energy to find the words she
needed to explain exactly what she thought of him. A growl erupted
from her throat as she threw her arms around his neck. She brought
her boot up, intending to kick him in the stomach.

Her boot never made it. Garrett moved
with the speed of a panther, using her momentum to flip her around.
His arm hooked over her neck and he dropped her flat on her
back.

The black barrel of his Mauser touched
her temple. “You’re dead,” he said flatly.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her
lungs were locked in her chest. She struggled to draw breath and
when she did, it was a shallow pant. “I hate your guts, Garrett.”
It took three breaths to get it out.

He straightened up and put the gun away.
“Go and clean yourself up. Then go and help prepare lunch. Move it,
soldier.”

But she couldn’t move. It hurt too
much.

Garrett lifted his foot and swung it
back and she realized he was going to kick her. The fury that was
circling through her gave her just enough energy to roll out of the
way, onto her hands and knees. She stared at him.

Garrett was standing with both feet
spread, his hands on his hips. The kick had been a feint. “I see
you found the wherewithal to move,” he told her. He turned his back
on her, to watch Archie take his next three shots.

Carmen hung her head, exhaustion
battling with her fury. After a moment, she got painfully to her
feet and headed for the refectory. Angelo was already there,
drinking deeply from a water canteen. So were four others,
including Efraín. They were watching her.

Judging her.

She mentally shrugged. Let them sneer at
the privileged city girl. She didn’t give a fuck. Not right
now.

The shower was lukewarm, thanks to the
heat of the day. It was one of the best showers she had ever had.
She toweled off briefly afterward, but the day was so warm and
still, she would be sweating in another twenty minutes.

She dressed in her other clothes, which
was another pair of jeans and a tee shirt. She had arrived at the
camp wearing Nick’s sailing sweater and someone’s discarded pants,
covered in paint. That they had been able to find jeans close to
her size at all was a small miracle. Besides, no one here cared
what she looked like, only how good she could shoot.

There was a big pot of stew cooking on
the stove. She dipped a bowl into it and found a cool corner to sit
and eat. She was ravenous.

As she ate, she watched Garrett put the
rest through their paces. From her viewpoint on the sidelines, she
saw that Garrett was smudging out the line in the dirt and moving
it closer and closer to the tree. He was giving them a break. A
sneaky break.

Ledo was the last one to hit his target
and one of his bullets was on the line itself. He dropped the gun,
letting it swing from his forefinger and looked at Garrett
miserably.