Dangerous to Hold (18 page)

She wondered vaguely why she wasn't more afraid. She couldn't work up enough moisture in her throat to swallow. By contrast, her palms were so damp she wiped them continually on the sides of her habit. But the physical manifestations of fear didn't penetrate to her inner self.

Her entire being was focused on the dim silhouettes moving
ahead of her, intermittently illuminated by the flashlights they carried. Every few steps she'd catch a glimpse of Jack. He wasn't hard to distinguish from the other shadowy shapes. If she hadn't been able to pick out the broad shoulders that strained against his disreputable khaki shirt, she would have recognized him from the way he moved. With a silent, self-contained coordination. A smooth, easy grace that belied his size.

The memory of their afternoon by the glistening, silvered pool flashed into Sarah's mind. Jack had circled the water with the same deadly grace, stalking her like some kind of predator that had spotted its prey. She hadn't been afraid then, either, Sarah remembered.

She should have been, but she hadn't.

She should be now, but she wasn't. She'd passed beyond fear to that curious state where every sense is heightened, every emotion suspended, every faculty focused on one thing and one thing only.

She ran over the simple instructions Jack had passed to her, repeating them over and over in her mind like a litany.

 

By the time they halted at the edge of a vast clearing, she was as ready as she'd ever be.

Her heart began to thump against her ribs as her eyes swept the scene. For a moment, Sarah thought they'd stumbled by mistake onto a movie set. Spotlights mounted on high towers bathed the clearing in light and illuminated the cluster of buildings that occupied it. Set square in the middle was a tile-roofed two-story house, surrounded by an arched veranda on the upper floor. Gauzy curtains fluttered at the open windows upstairs, while light spilled out of the patio doors on the ground floor. Sarah caught the brief, intermittent flare of insects grilled by the bug lights that guarded the windows and, incredibly, the sound of chamber music floating from one of the downstairs rooms.

Only someone with supreme self-confidence would leave his home open to the night, Sarah thought, her gaze sweeping
the neat, orderly complex once more. Only someone of indomitable strength could force the jungle back and bend it to his will.

The music rose to a polite crescendo. A cello led the chorus, followed by a trill of violins. Sarah felt an eerie sense of displacement. She was standing on the edge of a tropical rain forest, surrounded by men who carried their automatic rifles with the ease and nonchalance with which the men of her world carried their briefcases, listening to a sonata that she'd last heard performed by an ensemble at the Kennedy Center.

The strange sensation heightened, until Sarah clutched at Ricci's leg to anchor herself in reality. She tore her eyes from the surreal scene before her and searched the dim figures at the edge of the clearing. Jack stood out among them, tall, solid, a dark shape barely visible in the wash of the lights from the hacienda. He faced the far end of the clearing, his body taut and stiff. Sarah followed his line of sight and saw what he'd come for. What he'd risked his life for.

There, at the end of a grassy runway, sat a medium-size plane, propellers still whirling. Portable spotlights ringed it, washing it in a bright, incandescent light. Sarah couldn't tell the make, and wouldn't have recognized it in any case. But even from this distance she recognized the U.S. markings on the crates being unloaded by a scruffy-looking crew.

Slowly, her arms feeling as though they were weighted with lead, Sarah reached up and lifted Ricci from the packhorse. She wrapped her arms around his small body, pressing his face against her shoulder. He trembled against her but made no sound.

Eleanora moved up to lift Teresa down. The girl burrowed into the woman's legs, clutching her skirt with one hand and the root doll with her other. Eduard stood stiff and silent beside them.

Sarah searched the other woman's bruised, swollen face in the dim light, wondering if she had any hint of what was to come, wishing desperately she could explain it. Eleanora met her look and gave a slow, silent nod.

The stillness of the moment was broken when one of the men from the rear guard edged past their small, still group, anxious for a better view of the clearing. A second followed, then a third. The plane and its rich haul drew them like a magnet, as Jack had hoped it would. Over the pounding of her heart, Sarah heard their excited murmurs.

Their eyes were locked on the prize they'd waited for.

Hers were on Jack.

Che and the woman in fatigues stepped into the clearing.

Jack took one step with them. Two.

The other men followed.

Jack half turned, searching the dimness for her face.

Sarah tightened her arms around Ricci and pressed his head more firmly into her shoulder. She watched Jack lift his hand, slowly, deliberately…then freeze as a new sound cut through the night.

He whirled to meet this unexpected threat, as did the men around him. The snicker and click of bolts being drawn back competed with the rhythmic pounding of a horse's hooves.

“It is the
patrón!
” someone called.

A white stallion danced to a halt.

“You are late, Che,” a cultured voice called out. The speaker didn't use the mountain dialect, but instead a pure, flowing Spanish that Sarah had no trouble following. “Did you bring the woman?”

“Yes, as you instructed. She is back there, with the packhorses.”

The rider shifted in his saddle. Sarah heard the creak of leather. The thud of a hoof dropping against the hard-packed earth.

“Welcome to my humble
estancia,
Miss Chandler,” the rider said in clear, unaccented English. “I've been anticipating your arrival with great eagerness.”

S
arah stood frozen for an endless moment, her arms wrapped around Ricci. If Jack gave the signal, she didn't see it.

Her stunned gaze was riveted on the horseman. A thousand conflicting, chaotic thoughts chased through her mind. Out of them all, only one emerged to impress itself on her numbed consciousness. She and Jack and the children hadn't been brought here because of a rescheduled drop. Nor because the rebels had decided to abandon camp. They'd been brought here because this criminal had somehow learned her identity.

The fear that Sarah had held at bay earlier swamped through her. Her stomach knotted as she watched the horseman swing off his mount with a lithe, easy confidence. He was a short man, she noted, and rather heavy, yet fluid in his movements. He drew the reins over the stallion's head and patted its muzzle with absent affection.

“I met your father once, some years ago,” he said conversationally, moving toward Sarah. “A most forceful and invigorating man. Very strong in his opinions. When you're
rested and recovered from your ordeal, you must tell me how best to deal with him.”

Jack stepped forward to block the man's path. “Nobody's going to be telling—”

“I'll handle this.”

Ever afterward, Sarah would wonder at the cool authority in her voice. It stopped Jack in his tracks. He spun on his heel, staring through the dark shadows. Before he could say anything, the
patrón
signaled his approval.

“Very wise, Miss Chandler.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

Jake's low growl raised the hairs on the back of Sarah's neck. “Isn't it obvious?” she said, only the faintest tremor in her voice. “You have your business to conduct, and so, apparently, does this gentleman.”

“Very perceptive, my dear. You are indeed your father's daughter.”

Sarah didn't acknowledge the compliment, if it was one. “Take Ricci, Eduard.”

A thin, small shadow materialized at her side. Her hands shaking, Sarah passed the child to Eduard. At the same time, she pressed the small, flat box Jake had given her under the older boy's elbow.

Her low murmur was for Eduard's ears alone. “Just turn the top. To the left. Understand?”

“Sí.”

“Sarita?” Ricci's childish treble quavered. “Do we die, Sarita?”

Sarah closed her eyes, swallowing. “No, of course not. You stay here with Eduard and Teresa and Eleanora until I see what is to be done.”

“I want to go with Señor Creighton.” Teresa tugged against Eleanora's hand, a hiccup of fear in her voice.

“No!” Tension sharpened Sarah's reply. “You will stay here! Señor Creighton has…has business to conduct. You will be in the way.”

“Creighton?” Amusement tinted the
patrón
's voice. “Is that what he told you his name was?”

“That's what she calls him,” Che volunteered with a sneer, coming forward to join the other two men. All three turned to watch Sarah approach.

She stepped out of the jungle shadows and walked toward them. Light from the spotlights across the clearing caught the skirts of her robe and moved higher with each step, until it fell across her face. Seeing the
patrón
's narrowed, speculative eyes on her, Sarah reached up to tug off the veil.

The short, heavyset man drew in an appreciative breath. “The pictures in the newspapers didn't do you justice, my dear.”

She forced a small shrug. “They weren't taken at my best moment.”

“Nor does that habit particularly become you,” he murmured.

At the man's soft, almost caressing tone, a sick feeling curled in Sarah's stomach. She sensed, rather than saw, Jack stiffening beside her.

Sarah ignored Jack, concentrating on the man she faced. She recognized his type. Urbane, cultured, confident of himself and his power. She'd dealt with men like him all her life. Summoning the slow half smile she'd so often used to good effect with lecherous ambassadors and interested politicians, she plucked at the black skirts.

“The habit served its purpose. I must confess it is rather uncomfortable, however.”

She reached up to unhook the top fastening. Then the second. She fanned her heated skin with the fold of material. The
patrón
's eyes narrowed on the patch of flesh she bared to the glare of the spotlights.

“I apologize that you had to endure such discomfort for so long,” he murmured. “My sources were a bit slow in passing me the information I sought about the medical sister my friend Che held in his camp.”

Sarah lifted one shoulder. “The camp is behind us now.
Perhaps you have something at the hacienda that I might change into.”

“Perhaps I do.” He gave a little bow. “Please, allow me to escort you.”

Sarah didn't move. “First we must settle the issue of the children. They were taken with me in the raid. They're tired and frightened. I would ask your—” She choked a bit. “I would ask your word that you will send them back to their village with the woman, Eleanora.”

He flicked a glance at Eleanora and the three youngsters and gave a dismissive shrug. “I have no interest in the children or the woman.”

Sarah nodded and started forward.

Jack caught her wrist, swinging her around. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I'm going with him.”

“Just like that? You're going with him?”

She searched his eyes, pleading with him to understand. “It's best for the children, and for—”

“And for Miss Sarah Chandler.” Jack sneered. “Do you think I'm going to let you just walk away? After all I did for you?”

“I'm grateful, truly grateful. But—”

He gave a vicious oath. Twisting her arm behind her waist, he brought her slamming up against his chest. “Want to know what you can do with your gratitude, lady?”

Jack's explosive violence startled Sarah. For a moment, she feared he didn't understand her motives. Didn't realize that she couldn't jeopardize the children for her own safety. She couldn't add to the risks he himself already faced.

At that moment, she felt him slip the small, palm-size gun into the hand twisted behind her back. For the space of a heartbeat, Sarah sagged against him, relieved that he understood, afraid to leave the safety of his arms. She wanted so much to wrap her free arm around his neck, to burrow into his strength and let him shield her.

The old Sarah might have done just that.

This Sarah had learned that she had strengths within herself she hadn't been aware of before. If she'd learned nothing else in these past days, it was that she could no longer hide.

Summoning her will, Sarah wrenched free and faced him, her fists buried in the folds of her skirts.

“All right, gringo. If my gratitude isn't sufficient, then perhaps you'll accept some more tangible form of thanks. I'm sure the
patrón
will give you a bonus for taking care of us, as an advance on what he'll receive from my father. Will you not?”

The man nodded politely, his eyes on Sarah's face. “Certainly, my dear. You will have to tell me, of course, just what specific…services…he performed for you, and what you think they're worth. Come, let us go to the hacienda and discuss this more comfortably.”

Sarah threw a last look over her shoulder at the children, swept her gaze past Jack's tight, rigid features, then turned and started across the clearing without another word. Covered by the heavy folds of her skirt, her finger curled around the trigger of the small gun.

Holding his horse's reins, the
patrón
fell into step beside her.

The steady plopping of the animal's hooves thundered in Sarah's ears. She strained to hear some other sound, some movement behind her.

Jake watched her walk away, a slight figure in black, identifiable only by the silvery-gold hair that tumbled around her shoulders. He turned slowly, one thumb hooked in his belt. He would have reassessed his options, but Sarah had just preempted them all.

Che wore a tight, satisfied expression on his face, as though the the sight of the woman walking away from Jake pleased him enormously. Which it probably did, the bastard.

“So, gringo,” he said with a sneer, “let us now turn to the business at hand.”

“Yes,” Jake responded. “Let us turn to the business at hand.”

His finger tapped a single coded signal on the metal gusset next to his buckle.

 

When it came, the attack took Sarah by surprise, even though she was expecting it. Halfway across the clearing she heard a low, steady
whump-whump-whump.
Suddenly the treetops rattled, as though a violent wind had just blown in. The man beside her froze, then spun in the direction of the sound. Sarah swung around, as well, gasping at the sight that greeted her.

Like a giant moth rising from the jungle canopy, a huge, black-painted helicopter lifted out of the trees and hovered over the clearing. Powerful spotlights switched on, and what Sarah later learned was a million footcandles of brilliant white light lit the entire area.

Sarah brought the little pistol up. “I wouldn't do that if I were you!”

The heavyset man paused with one foot in the stirrup and a hand on the saddle horn. Squinting against the glare, Sarah saw rage seize his features.

“You will not shoot.” He sneered. “Your hand is shaking so badly you would not hit me if you did. You hold that as though you've never fired a weapon before.”

Sarah wrapped her second hand around the first. “I haven't,” she admitted. “I've never touched a gun before in my life, and I'm extremely nervous about this.”

In the wash of bright light, Sarah couldn't tell if the man paled, but he did take an involuntary step backward, his eyes wide and fixed on her trembling hand. She heard the first shouts from the compound, and a sudden rattle of gunfire.

“Get down,” she ordered. “On your face.”

A sudden explosion rocked the earth back, far down the grassy runway. The horse, already skittish, danced sideways a few steps, threw up its head to avoid the piercing light, then galloped away. The
patrón
swore savagely and started toward her.

“Get down!” Sarah shouted. “Get down, or I'll…”

She wasn't sure what she'd do. She didn't have to make the decision, however. The
patrón
was only a few yards away when a figure launched itself from behind her and took him down in a flying tackle. Sarah sobbed in relief as Jack's fist slammed into the man's face. Before she could say a word, he reached behind her, grabbed a handful of her skirts and yanked her down. Sarah fell beside him just as a brilliant red flare soared into the sky, marking their place.

Red, she thought dazedly, her face pressed to the earth. As red as the quetzal's breast, stained by the blood of the dying Mayan chief.

It seemed to Sarah as though the red flare must have been a signal. The noise all around her suddenly intensified a thousandfold. A sudden whizzing sound split the night overhead. Rockets were launched from the helicopter, leaving bright trails as they arced overhead. Small explosions detonated all around the cluster of buildings. The hiss of escaping gas was added to the shouts and gunfire exploding all around.

Her ear pressed to the earth, Sarah felt the reverberations of footsteps thudding toward them. Her fingers tightened around the little pistol.

“Jaguar! Have you got her?”

Sarah assimilated the sound of the woman's voice and the name she used for Jack in the same second. She twisted her head and collected a confused picture of a tall, long-legged woman in black, with paint smeared across her face and a lethal-looking weapon in her hands. Incredibly, she was grinning at Sarah.

“I've got her,” Jack replied, scrambling to his feet. “What about the kids?”

“They're already in the chopper. The strobe guided us right to them.”

The tight, choking tension that had gripped Jake by the throat eased enough for him to swallow. He reached down and hauled Sarah to her feet. Her knees shook so badly that she sagged in his hold and would have crumpled to the ground.

Jake swore, then bent and scooped her over his shoulder. He wrapped one arm around her legs, keeping his other hand free for the weapon he snatched up from the ground.

“Take care of this guy. I'll put Sarah in the chopper, then join you. We've got work to do.”

He raced to the helicopter, bent low, protecting Sarah's body with his own. When he reached the side hatch, he tossed her inside. She scrambled to her knees, hampered by her skirts and the three year old who launched himself at her and wrapped both arms around her neck.

“Jack!”

“Stay here! Don't try any more of your damned cowboy tactics. If you move, if you so much as stick your hand out the door, I swear I'll—”

A rattle of gunfire nearby cut him off. He whirled and ran to Maggie's side.

 

It was over in minutes.

The gas canisters the assault helicopter had fired into the compound soon stilled all but a weak resistance. A burst of fire from the 50 mm cannons bristling from its nose shredded most of the tail on the smuggler's aircraft and halted its desperate attempt to take off. The combined force of elite Cartozan and U.S. rangers moved through the compound, subduing the dazed, coughing defenders and collecting an arsenal of weapons that would have supplied a small army.

“So, Chameleon, I will leave you now.”

Maggie turned at the sound of Colonel Esteban's voice. “Let me guess,” she said, grinning. “You've had a chat with one of the prisoners and managed to discover the exact coordinates of the processing plant nearby.”

His black mustache lifted. “I have. The rest of my force will arrive within moments. You may see the explosion from here when the chemicals go up.”

“I'd give anything to go with you!”