Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (27 page)

She started to suggest as much to Michael when they moved around a clump of bushes and suddenly the whole camp was laid out in front of them, tucked into a wash, the depression deep enough so that the surrounding stunted piñons provided cover. Whoever had built the compound had piled brush between the trees to act as a privacy fence. They'd even pulled camouflage netting over the tops of the buildings, making the compound more difficult to detect from the air.

The camp itself wasn't impressive—four old camping trailers in a semicircle around a campfire ring and three warped wooden picnic tables. A brown tarp stretched between poles formed a crude shelter over the tables, where a dozen men and women sat, eating a breakfast of tortillas and beans.

A woman worked at the fire, baking more tortillas on a piece of tin balanced over the coals. When she turned to deliver a fresh batch of the flatbreads to another woman, Abby pinched Michael's arm. “That's Mariposa,” she said. She wore the same plaid shawl she'd had on the other day, the baby wrapped securely in its folds.

Michael rose to squat on his heels and indicated they should leave. Reluctantly, she turned to go. She would have liked to talk to Mariposa again, to make sure she was all right. But staying here wasn't safe.

But as they prepared to emerge from the screen of bushes into more open ground, headlights suddenly cut through the darkness. Michael jerked her back into the underbrush and they crouched there, breathing hard and watching a truck make its way toward them.

The truck was bigger than a pickup, with a canvas-covered bed, similar to ones sometimes used by the military to transport troops. It lumbered into camp and stopped not far from the picnic tables. Abby and Michael crept to the edge of the brush once more and watched as two men, carrying semiautomatic rifles, climbed out and spoke to the men and women around the table in Spanish. But they were too far away to make out exactly what they were saying.

Suddenly, the camp sprang to life. The two men with rifles began directing the others to load the picnic tables into the back of the truck. A second truck arrived, and then a third. One man, who wore a white shirt and white straw cowboy hat, and who seemed to be in charge, picked up a bucket and thrust it at Mariposa. She spoke to him, clearly agitated, but he shoved the bucket into her hand and gave her a push. She turned and started walked toward the edge of the compound.

“He told her to get some water and put out the fire,” Michael whispered. “They're ordering everyone to load the trucks and prepare to leave.”

“I'm going around to the creek to see if I can talk to her and find out more.”

Before he could stop her, she was on her feet, headed for the little creek that gurgled a few dozen yards from the camp. She moved cautiously, keeping the screen of brush between her and the activity in the camp. By the time she reached the water, Mariposa was already there, squatting on the bank and dipping the bucket in the shallows.

“Mariposa!” Abby called softly.

The woman looked up, startled. She dropped the bucket and it rolled away, under some bushes.

“Don't run. It's me.” Abby moved closer, so the other woman could see her clearly.

Mariposa's expression changed to one of alarm. She spoke softly in rapid Spanish. The only word Abby could make out was
peligroso
—dangerous.

“I want to help you.” Why couldn't Abby remember the word for help? She slipped off her pack and started looking for her phone. If she could get a signal out here, she could use a translator on the web to get her message across.

The shouting from camp grew louder. Mariposa glanced over her shoulder, then stood, the bucket abandoned in the creek.

Abby gave up the search for her phone. She dropped the pack and stood, also. “Come with me.” She held out her hand. “I can help you.”

Mariposa shook her head and started to back away. “No,” she said—a word whose meaning was the same in Spanish and English.

“Por favor,”
Abby said. “Please.”

Mariposa looked back toward camp. The shouting sounded closer now. She clutched the baby to her, and Abby was sure she was about to turn and run.

But instead, she untied the shawl and thrust it—and the baby—into Abby's arms. Then she whirled and fled, back toward camp.

Abby stared, stunned, the unfamiliar weight and warmth of the infant in her hands. The child stirred and whimpered, and Abby felt a primal response, a fierce desire to keep this tiny, helpless life safe. She cradled the child to her chest and turned to go back to Michael.

She collided with him just as she turned. For a second they were frozen, his arms steadying her, the baby cradled between them. She fought the instinct to lean into him, to draw strength and comfort from his solid presence. “What happened?” he asked.

“I saw Mariposa. I talked to her. But we couldn't understand each other. I don't know enough Spanish and she doesn't speak English. I think she told me it was dangerous for me to be here.”

“She's right. We have to get out of here. They brought another truck in and they're breaking down the camp. We have to get back to the Cruiser and radio for help.” He looked down at the bundle in her arms. “What is that?”

“This is Mariposa's baby.” She folded back the shawl to reveal the infant's face. The child stared up at them with solemn brown eyes. “Angelique. Mariposa handed her to me, then she ran away. I think she wanted me to keep her safe.”

“Come on, we've got to go.” He put his arm around her and urged her forward.

They only traveled a few yards before they spotted the line of men and trucks in between them and the Cruiser. Michael swore under his breath. “We'd better risk a call for backup,” he said. Huddled in the meager cover at the edge of the woods, he took out first his radio, then his cell. He swore under his breath. “The radio doesn't work this far out, and my phone can't get a signal,” he said. “Try yours.”

Abby felt sick to her stomach. “My phone is in my pack, back there by the stream. I was so busy with the baby...”

“I'll get it.” He started toward the creek once more, but just then a man stepped out in front of him and leveled a rifle at them. He wore a white shirt, a white hat and a menacing expression.

“You're in the wrong place, amigo,” he said.

Chapter Eight

“Abby, run!” Michael shouted.

The last thing she wanted to do was abandon him to the man with the gun, but instinct compelled her to protect the child in her arms. Propelled by the urgency in Michael's voice, she turned and fled, running hunched over to shield the baby, darting and weaving, waiting for the gunshots she was sure would follow. She had no idea where she was headed, but every instinct told her she had to put as much distance as possible between herself and the camp. She could hide in the underbrush and wait until her pursuers were gone.

As for Michael, she prayed he'd find some way to escape. If she could think of any way to come back and help him without endangering the baby, she would.

She stumbled over rocks and brush, her lungs burning. The baby never made a sound. In her short life was she already so familiar with fear and flight? She ran until she was gasping for breath, fighting a painful stitch in her side. The infant was heavier than she looked. Abby stumbled and feared she might drop the child. She'd have to stop and rest for a moment. She needed to get her bearings and figure out her next move.

She huddled behind a pile of rocks, letting her breathing return to normal and her pounding heart slow its frantic racing. The rocks still held the chill of the evening, and she pressed her back against a boulder, letting the coolness seep into her and dry her sweat. She strained to hear any hint of approaching danger. She hadn't heard any gunshots from the camp, but would she have even noticed in her panic to escape?

She peered out from behind the rocks. No one appeared to be coming after her. She couldn't even make out the camp from this distance, but she could see the trucks on the edge of the wash and the bustle of activity around them. If only she had a pair of binoculars.

She needed to get to the truck. Michael probably had supplies and tools in there, maybe even a spare radio. If she could figure out how to start the vehicle, she could drive back to park headquarters and summon help.

She tried to orient herself. The rising sun had been on their left when they'd parked, and they'd walked straight ahead—south. She squinted in the direction she thought the Cruiser should be, but saw nothing. Michael had made a point of parking amid a grove of trees. She'd just have to set out walking in that direction and hope her instincts were right.

Cautiously, she moved out of her hiding place. Now that the sun was fully up, she felt exposed and more vulnerable than ever. But she'd seen no signs of pursuit. And no signs of Michael. Had the man in the white hat shot him and left his body beside the creek?

She pushed the thought away. She had to focus on Angelique now. She folded back the blanket and studied the child, who stared up at her with solemn brown eyes. She stroked the baby's soft cheek with her little finger and Angelique grasped it, holding on tightly. A wave of emotion rose up from deep inside Abby—a fierce protectiveness, longing and love. She would do whatever she had to in order to keep this child safe.

Keeping to the shelter of rocks and trees, she started moving north, on a trajectory she hoped would take her to the parked Cruiser but be well out of the way of the men at the camp. Every few yards she looked back toward the camp, but no one sounded an alarm that they had noticed her.

When she was confident she was well out of sight and sound of the camp, she increased her pace to a ragged trot over the rough ground. With the sun up it was getting warmer, and she wished she'd had some way to collect water back at the creek. If she didn't find the truck, she and Angelique were going to be in trouble.

She stopped to rest a moment and look around. Still no sign of the truck. She should have reached it by now. She couldn't see the camp, either, which made her uneasy. She wanted to be away from it, but she didn't want to accidentally stumble back onto it. She'd read that people who wandered off marked trails in the wilderness tended to walk in circles. Without a map or compass to guide her, she might be doing the same.

A movement somewhere to her right made her freeze. Slowly, she turned her head. Yes, there it was again, a subtle shifting of the brush. A shadow where a shadow shouldn't be. She wrapped her hand around the grip of the Sig Sauer and worked on controlling her breathing. A deep breath in...let it out slowly. She wouldn't shoot unless she had to, but if whoever was out there came too close... She clutched the baby tightly and slid the gun from the holster.

“Abby! Abby, it's me!”

She leaned forward and stared at the man loping toward her. Michael covered the distance quickly, with no sign of injury. She took a few steps toward him, only her grip on the pistol and the baby in her arms keeping her from greeting him with a hug. “How did you get away?” she asked when he stopped beside her.

He bent over, a rifle clutched in both hands, gasping for breath. A moment passed before he could speak, and in that moment she searched for any sign of injury, but he seemed whole and healthy.

He straightened. “When I shouted at you, it distracted the guy enough I was able to kick the gun out of his hands. We struggled for a bit, but I got away.”

She nodded to the weapon he was holding. “With the gun.”

He hefted the weapon. “He's probably not very happy about that, but I didn't give him any choice.”

She glanced over his shoulder at the empty desert. “Are they coming after us?”

“I don't think so,” he said. “Not right now anyway. They seemed pretty anxious to clear out.” He nodded to the bundle in her arms. “How's the baby?”

“Good. She's very quiet. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.” She adjusted the blanket to shield Angelique from the sun. “I was trying to get back to the Cruiser,” she said.

“Good idea. But first, I want to get a closer look at their trucks before they leave.” He turned back toward the camp.

“Wait.” She grabbed his arm. “You can't go back there.”

“I want to get pictures before they leave—of the trucks and the people.” He pulled his phone from his utility belt. “I can't get a signal, but the camera still works.”

“It's too dangerous,” she said.

“They won't expect me to come back. You can wait here with the baby.”

“No, I'm coming with you.” The two of them together, both armed, seemed a better idea than splitting up and forming separate targets. He might think no one was after them, but how could he be sure?

He didn't argue. “We'll follow the creek back to the camp,” he said. “The trees will provide cover. We'll keep low and out of sight and just watch and take photographs.”

“All right.” She didn't like the plan, but she liked being left alone out there less.

They intersected with the creek farther up the wash and followed it down toward the camp. Soon, the slamming of vehicle doors and murmur of voices in Spanish filled the air. Michael stopped about a hundred yards from all the activity and crouched down. She huddled behind him, peering over his shoulder.

The men with guns stood guard as the other men and women filed into the trailers. Abby counted six people filing into one of the campers, which was smaller even than the one she'd rented for the summer. When all the people were inside, the guard reached up and locked the door, then pocketed the key.

“What are they doing?” she whispered, her lips against Michael's ear.

“I think the trucks are going to tow the trailers out of here.”

Before he had even finished speaking, one of the trucks had backed up to the trailer and begun the process of hooking on to the camper. Michael pulled out his camera and snapped picture after picture. Abby searched the camp for any sign of Mariposa, but couldn't find her. Was she already locked into one of the crowded trailers?

The man in the white shirt and hat who'd confronted them by the creek stood to one side. He'd found another rifle and held it across his chest, barking orders at the others. Within a quarter of an hour, the camp was clear. The man in the white shirt surveyed the area and seemed satisfied. He climbed into the vehicle at the front of the line and the trucks—four of them now, each with a trailer in tow—pulled away from the campsite. Two set out toward the main road, while the other two started cross-country.

When the vehicles were too far away for anyone to see them, Michael crawled out of their hiding place and stood to get a better look. “Where are they going?” Abby asked.

“There are a lot of old ranch roads and two-tracks cutting across this property. They're probably taking a roundabout way to the highway. My guess is the other two will turn off at some point, too. They won't want to risk being seen on the main park road by one of the park rangers or one of our team.”

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“I'd like to get some people out here to comb this place for evidence.”

“Are they going to find anything?” Except for an area bare of vegetation where the fire and picnic tables had been, there was little sign of the compound that had been here only an hour before. Even the rocks that had been used to make the fire ring had been cleaned and scattered, the footprints of those who had been here smoothed over with a branch of juniper.

“You never know.” He stared at his phone. “Still no signal.”

“Maybe mine will work,” she said. “Now that they're gone, I can retrieve my pack.”

“Good idea. Where is it?”

“Back this way.” She led the way along the creek to the spot where she'd talked to Mariposa. She scanned the creek bank. “I don't see it,” she said. “I could have sworn it was right in here.”

“It was blue, right?”

She nodded. “Bright blue. It shouldn't be hard to spot.” She walked along the bank, looking into the water and underbrush, even though she knew she had dropped it in the open. He searched, also.

“One of them must have seen it and taken it,” he said. “What was in there besides your phone and the GPS?”

“Water, food, a first-aid kit. A space blanket, another pair of socks, a whistle, compass and fire starter.” She ticked off the items in a standard backcountry emergency list—all things they could have used right now.

“They didn't leave anything behind,” he said, looking around.

“Except this.” She reached under a bush and started to pull out the metal bucket Mariposa had carried to the creek. “Though I don't see what good it's going to do us.”

“Don't touch it.” His hand on her arm stopped her and he moved up beside her. “We might get good prints off it that could help us identify some of the people involved.”

“What should we do with it?” She stepped back.

“Leave it here. We'll want to get a team in here to go over the place—they can pick it up then.” He tied his bandanna to a nearby tree branch to mark the spot.

“We just have to find our way back to headquarters,” she said. “And find our way here again after that.”

He straightened and looked around them, as if studying the terrain—the low hills and more distant mountains. “Which way is the canyon from here?” he asked. “Black Canyon.” If they could find the canyon, they'd find the road that led to the headquarters.

“I don't know.” She turned slowly in a circle, looking around them. “That's the thing about this place. The canyon isn't something you see from ground level. You have to be right up on it before you know it's there.”

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“We can try to find the truck.”

Her expression lightened. “I do know which direction the truck was in. All we have to do is walk right through there.” She pointed to a cut in the fringe of trees along the edge of the wash, then set off at a brisk pace, Michael close behind her.

After twenty minutes of walking and backtracking, they didn't find the Cruiser. But they did find the tracks where it had been parked, and the tracks of the other vehicles that had passed. “What happened?” she asked.

“They stole it,” he said. “Trucks don't just vanish, so one of them must be driving it.”

“If they found the truck, they must know we're still out here,” she said.

He nodded, his expression grim. “They'll probably send someone back to find us. We need to get out of here before that happens.” He pulled out his phone and tried it, but it continued to show no signal. “We need higher ground.” He looked around and spotted a low hill. “Up there.”

She cradled Angelique in her arms as she climbed up the hill, praying that someone didn't have her in the sights of a rifle's scope as she climbed. She felt too exposed up here on the side of this hill. Anyone who looked in this direction would be able to spot them. She picked up her pace, anxious to find cover once more.

At the top of the rise, she ducked behind a low piñon and struggled to catch her breath. Michael stood a little ways from her, holding up his phone. “I think this is going to work,” he said. “I'm getting a signal.” He started walking backward, watching the screen, the phone in one hand, the radio in the other. “Almost there.”

And then he was gone, dropping over the edge, a cascade of falling rocks and a single startled cry the only indication he had ever been there.