Dangerous to Hold (9 page)

He was still wide awake when a booted foot slammed against the door to the hut.

“Hey, gringo!”

Jake had rolled out from under the net and was on his feet before the second kick banged against the wood.

“Che wants to speak with you!” Enrique shouted unsteadily through the door. “Hey,
americano!
”

A third kick sent the door crashing back on its hinges. Enrique stumbled inside, his flashlight waving wildly. Its sharp, powerful beam caught the startled, frightened faces of the children clutching at their hammock edges. It swept over the bedrolls, then jerked back to pin Sarah in its piercing glare. Her silvery blond hair tumbled over her shoulders as she sat up and raised a hand to shield her eyes. Jake stifled a groan at the sight of her high, firm breasts clearly silhouetted against the thin cotton blouse.

Enrique didn't make any attempt to stifle his reaction. He gaped, openmouthed, for several seconds. Then a slow, hoarse chuckle sounded deep in his throat. “So this is why you've not joined us to drink tequila and exchange war stories these past nights, gringo. Your
médica
has been tending to your aches privately, eh?”

His thick, slurred phrasing told Jake there wasn't a hope in hell of them talking their way out of this.

“I, too, have such an ache, gringo.” Enrique held the flashlight on Sarah with one hand while he fumbled at his belt
buckle with the other. “You go talk to Che, and I will see that my pain is treated, eh?”

Jake had only one option.

He took Enrique down.

A
single, swift chop to the neck, and Enrique's knees buckled. Before he hit the dirt, Jake bent and caught the big man's weight across his shoulders. It happened so fast, so quietly, that the only evidence of any struggle was the flashlight bouncing on the dirt floor.

“Get that,” Jake grunted, staggering back a step under the weight of the unconscious man.

Sarah scrambled to the end of the bedroll and caught the spinning metal cylinder. Her hands shaking wildly, she directed the beam at Jake. He winced and turned his head away from the blinding light.

“Point it at the ground, for God's sake, then hand it to me.”

When she'd complied, he tried to give her and the children assurances he was far from feeling himself. “Don't worry, we're going to bluff our way through this.”

“Bluff?” The word came out in a strangled squeak. “How?”

“I'm guessing Che wants to talk to me because this dumb
son of a b—because Pig-face here is too drunk to understand the specifics on the drop. Che's probably furious with him and wouldn't object too strenuously if I put him out of action for a while.” Jake smiled grimly. “You may get the chance to practice a few of your medical skills on this goon when he wakes up.
If
he wakes up.”

Sarah's blunt-tipped fingers dug into his arm as he swung away. “Be…be careful.”

“I always am. But it probably wouldn't hurt if you say a couple of prayers in the next few minutes.”

In fact, Jake thought, it wouldn't hurt if she said a whole basketful of them. Using the flashlight to guide him, he made his way across the clearing to the shack Che had designated as his headquarters, kicked open the door and strode inside. Half a dozen startled faces turned at his entrance. With a twist of his shoulders, Jake dumped Enrique's inert bulk on the floor. His compatriots gaped at the sprawled body. Ignoring them, Jake crossed to a rack of portable communications equipment arrayed on a rickety table.

“Get Che for me,” Jake rapped out to the man seated on a stool before the radio. “Now.”

“He's…he's standing by.”

With a jerk of his head, Jake motioned for the man to vacate his seat. Picking up the hand-held mike, he pressed the transmit button. “This is the gringo. What have you got?”

“Arrangements have been made for another shipment. Our supplier will deliver it personally. He was most unhappy that the last shipment was diverted. There will be no mistakes with this one.”

Che's voice bore the sharp edge of anger and frustration. Poor bastard, Jake thought cynically. He had to choose between a lieutenant he couldn't rely on and an
americano
he despised.

“It will arrive at approximately 1100 hours on the twenty-seventh,” the rebel announced.

The twenty-seventh! Jake swore viciously under his breath. That was three days from today. He had to make it through
three more days in this camp. Three more days of keeping Sarah and the kids safe. Two more nights of lying beside her.

“Give me the coordinates.”

“Enrique has them,” Che said coldly.

“Enrique may not survive the night,” Jake drawled. “He's starting to annoy me, big-time.”

Che drew in a swift, sharp breath, audible even over the radio. “Enrique will survive long enough to lead you to the drop site. After you show us how to operate the missiles, I don't care which one of you puts a bullet in the other's head.”

“That's what I like about you, pal. You're such a warm, caring son of a bitch. So tell me, what did you find out about the
federale
presence in our sector?”

Jake smiled to himself at the frustration that almost sizzled through the receiver. “It appears it was an unannounced exercise. A stupid scheduling mistake by some staff officer at the headquarters. The
patrón
is most displeased.”

“Just tell him to make sure it doesn't happen on the twenty-seventh. One more screwup and even your
patrón
won't be able to afford my fees.”

The radio went dead. Jake tossed the mike onto the tabletop and swung around on the stool to survey the occupants of the room. They stared back at him with varying degrees of anger, wariness and interest on their faces. Pig-face lay sprawled in the dirt before them, like one of the huge, hoglike tapirs he resembled.

“Is that tequila?” Jake asked, nodding to the cloudy bottle standing on the table amid a litter of grease-stained cards and half-full glasses.

“Sí,”
one of the men answered cautiously.

Jake rose and stepped over Enrique's bulk. “Pour me a drink. It may be a while before your friend here wakes up and we settle matters between us.”

A thin, slumping man who'd been one of Sarah's patients picked up the bottle. He sloshed tequila into a dirty glass, shoved it toward Jake, then jerked his chin toward Enrique. “Why do you fight with that one?”

“His ugliness annoys me.”

A ripple of laughter greeted the sardonic response. By the time Enrique began grunting and twitching, the men at the table didn't make any effort to hide their amusement at his graceless return to consciousness. Jake concealed his satisfaction behind an impassive face. He'd spent half his life leading men. He knew that few soldiers would respect or follow someone who'd been made to look ridiculous in their eyes. And the picture Enrique presented when he finally sat up, slack-faced and drooling spittle, inspired very little respect.

“So, Enrique,” Xavier called out, “the gringo says your face offends him. I can see why.”

The bellows of laughter that accompanied this sally sent a wave of mottled red across the face under discussion. “Perhaps you won't laugh so much when I tell you that I saw the little
religiosa
in his bed,” Enrique snarled. “While we make do with Pablo's slut of a wife, this one has been plowing between those tender white thighs.”

The sideways glances the men sent Jake contained surprise, suspicion and a faint hint of disapproval, followed swiftly by hot, avid interest.

Jake didn't entertain much hope of convincing the big, red-faced man that he'd been hallucinating, but he figured it was worth the try. “You're a pig, Enrique. And you're drunk. You let your filthy mind run away with you. You frightened the woman and disgusted me.”

Enrique lumbered to his feet. “I know what I saw. You thought to keep her to yourself, eh, gringo? No more. After tonight, we all share her. Except you, of course. Tonight you die.”

He fumbled for the pistol in his holster.

Jake didn't alter his loose-limbed sprawl. One hand toyed with the tequila glass, the other rested negligently in his pants pocket.

“You cannot kill him, Enrique,” a short, frowning rebel protested. “Che has said he must be at the drop site in three days.”

In a few succinct words, Enrique dismissed his leader. He pulled out a big-framed .45 with a silver replica of the Mayan sun calendar on its decorated grip. Chairs tumbled over backward as the men scrambled out of the line of fire.

“And do you also expect your
patrón
to perform that particular unnatural act?” Jake inquired lazily. “He will be no more pleased than Che if you make him waste the money he's laying out for the shipment.”

The casual observation brought even the drunken lieutenant up short. Enrique knew as well as Jake that the drug lords would be far more relentless and exacting in their retribution toward one who crossed them than Che would ever be. The guerrilla leader wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through an enemy's forehead. The drug lords' henchmen would make him beg for it.

Enrique hesitated, the .45 wavering in his big paw. After a long, tense moment, he jammed it back in its tooled leather holster. “Maybe I won't shoot you, after all. Maybe I will just cut off your
cojones.
”

“You can try, my snout-nosed friend. You can try.”

Jake loosened his grip on the weapon in his pocket. The palm-size .22 carried five hollow-point rounds, any one of which would've put Enrique down. Jake wouldn't need them now. Tossing down a last swallow of tequila, he rose.

A feral light sprang into the lieutenant's eyes at the sight of the easy target. His hand moved toward the belt hooked over the back of a nearby chair.

Jake's razor-sharp machete sliced through the air. Its lethal, specially balanced blade pinned the leather belt to the chair-back and toppled the chair over with the force of the throw.

“No knives,” Jake told the startled lieutenant. “No guns. Let's settle this in a way that will give satisfaction to us both.”

A slow grin spread across Enrique's red face. “You're right, gringo. I will much enjoy feeling my fists smash into your face. Almost as much as I will enjoy your woman squirming and thrashing beneath me.”

Jake could have ended the farce that followed at any time, but he took a savage pleasure in reducing Enrique to a staggering, gurgling, bloody hulk. His rational mind argued that he needed to destroy the last shreds of confidence the other men placed in the lieutenant's authority. A primitive, wholly male instinct, however, wanted to make sure Enrique understood what the consequences would be if he touched Sarah.

Jake didn't escape totally unscathed himself. For all Enrique's bulk and drunken state, he packed the power of a bull behind his hammerlike fists. When the big man lay sprawled on the dirt floor once again, Jake hooked a foot around a chair leg and dragged it to the table.

“Now, my friends,” he panted, dragging the back of his hand across his bleeding lip, “let's finish that tequila.”

Jake closed his eyes as clear liquid fire slid down his throat and curled in his belly. He sagged back against his chair, enjoying the heat, the feeling of satisfaction, even the pain that throbbed in his chin.

He should go back to the hut. Sarah would be wide-eyed and trembling with anxiety, he knew. He also knew that there was no way he could soothe her fears and stretch out beside her right now. Not with his blood pounding in his veins and the remembered feel of her body next to his battling with the last remnants of his conscience.

 

Sarah sat in rigid, unmoving silence. The flickering light of the Sterno lamp surrounded her and the children in a small circle of gloom. They huddled against her, clinging to the black robe she'd hastily pulled on. It had saved them once before. With a sick, wrenching fear, Sarah hoped it wouldn't have to save them again.

When no shots or screams sounded for what seemed like hours, the children's fear slowly eased. Sarah's, however, mounted with each passing moment. Where was he? she wondered with increasing desperation. What would she do if he didn't return? Oh, God, he had to return. She squeezed her
eyes shut and repeated for the hundredth time the prayers he'd suggested.

Only gradually did Sarah realize that more than just self-preservation motivated her fervent prayers. It wasn't the lean, unshaven mercenary she wanted to see step through that door. She wanted to see Jack. Or, better yet, the Señor Creighton Teresa idolized. The man who'd carved a doll out of a mango root and tucked a delighted, squealing three year old under his arm. The man who coaxed even the still, silent Eduard to speak. The man who made Sarah's breath catch when he creased his cheeks in that damned crooked smile of his.

The man who finally returned, however, wasn't any of the ones Sarah had prayed for. She gave a glad cry of welcome when she saw his shadowy but unmistakable form silhouetted in the door, then gasped when he stepped into the little circle of light. Brownish dried blood covered most of his face and spattered his bare chest. Even in the dim sputter of the tiny flame she could see the dark bruise that covered one side of his jaw.

At her startled gasp, he attempted what must have been meant as a reassuring smile but ended up as a grimace of pain. He staggered a bit as he put a hand up to his jaw.

“Oh, my God!” She pushed herself out of the children's grasp and flew across the hut to take his arm. “Move, children. Let him sit down on the crate. Teresa, get me the cloth we use to wash with. Eduard, you find the disinfectant. The little bottle of liquid antiseptic, not the dry powder we used on you.”

“It looks worse than it is,” Jack muttered as she helped him ease down. “Most of the blood belongs, uh, belonged to Pig-face.”

“Did he die?” Ricci asked, wide-eyed and tremulous.

Sarah bit her lip as she took the canteen and the white cotton briefs from Teresa. That a three year old should have such a fixation with death tore at her heart.

The gringo tried again. This time he managed more grin
than grimace. “No, Squirt, he didn't die. But he'll probably wish he had when he wakes up.”

“Good!” Eduard's low response made up in ferocity what it lacked in volume.

Jack's head swung toward the boy. “You didn't like old Pig-face, either, huh?”

“For pity's sake,” Sarah said, turning his chin back to examine it. “Hold still.”

With a rush of relief, she saw that he'd been right when he said most of the blood wasn't his. Aside from several swelling bruises, she discovered only one laceration, along his jawline.

“Tilt your head back so I can clean this,” Sarah ordered, hoping against hope that she wouldn't have to perform an ant-optomy.

He propped his head back against the wall. Eyes closed, he allowed her to tend him. She wiped the last of the dried blood from the underside of his chin, then took the bottle of antiseptic Eduard handed her.

“Ouch!”

Sarah blinked. Somehow she hadn't thought this tough-as-unchewed-leather mercenary would be so sensitive to pain. Gentling her touch, she dabbed at his chin once more.

“That stings.”

The plaintive complaint sounded so much like that of a little boy that Sarah couldn't help smiling. She moved closer to his side and slipped one arm around his neck. Cradling his head against her shoulder as she would Eduard's or Ricci's, she swabbed his cuts.