Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (51 page)

“The gumbo mud'll get them.” Tristan studied him. “Sounds like you covered every base.”

Boudreau shrugged and bit off another piece of jerky. “Not every one.” He paused for a beat. “There's one thing they could do. It's chancy, for them and us. It could work, but it could also—”

His words were interrupted by a huge explosion. Actually two explosions right on top of each other. Boudreau tossed the last bite of jerky down in disgust. “—blow up the log bridge,” he finished. “Push that biggest crate out here.”

Boudreau pried the lid off with his knife, then cursed in Cajun French. “I was counting on these grenades, but they're corroded.”

“So they're duds?”

Boudreau shook his head. “
Non.
Worse than duds. Duds are dead. These, you don't know if they'll explode on time or if they'll go off in your hand before you can even pull the pin.”

Tristan shuddered at that thought. Looking into the crate, he saw the white crystals that covered the grenades. “What should we do with them?” he asked.

“They been fine here for fifteen years. They'll probably stay fine, long as nobody bothers them.”

“So if we don't have grenades, what are we going to use?”

Boudreau pushed himself to his feet, grunting at the effort. “Our heads, son. We're going to have to use our heads. Now let's go. We've got to disarm some bad guys. Let's hope they ain't too smart to get stuck in the mud.”

* * *

S
ANDY
HEARD
PEOPLE
TALKING
, she thought. She couldn't be sure because her ears were ringing from the explosion that had shocked her out of a restless doze.

“Tristan?” Her voice echoed in her ears. She yawned, trying to get rid of the ringing.

Tristan stuck his head into the lean-to. “Hey,” he said. “Did the explosion wake you?”

His voice was distorted, too. She rolled her eyes at him as she moved to get up. When she did, a sharp, stinging pain hit her stomach. Her hand flew to her tummy. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, no!”

“What's wrong?” Tristan asked.

“I think I tore the cloth away from the wound.” She looked up at him and felt tears start in her eyes. “I forgot,” she muttered, wrapping her hands around her tummy protectively.

Tristan crawled over to sit beside her and pulled her close. “Let me see.” He checked the bandage on her tummy. “I think you're okay. I don't feel or see any blood and the bandage is still in place.”

She shook her head. “You don't understand. I wasn't careful. I went to sleep and forgot about the baby,” she said, sniffling. “I forgot him. And not only that. I forgot I'd been shot. I forgot that he...he might not be okay.” Now she was crying in earnest.

She pressed one hand to her heart and the other to the spot on the right side of her tummy where the little bean liked to kick. “Oh, Tristan, I for...got—” She sobbed.

Tristan pulled her close and held her, his face pressed into her hair, his hand still on her baby bump. “It's not your fault. I gave you something to help you sleep. You probably were dreaming—”

“Stop.” She laid her hand over his. “It's because he's not moving—” Her words were cut off by a sob.

“Wait,” Tristan said. “Be still.”

“What if he's—”

“Shh.” He pressed harder.

Then she felt it and her fingers curled against the back of his hand. Had she really felt a tiny kick?

“San?” Tristan's voice was unsteady. “Did I just feel something?”

She looked down at her baby bump, then up at him. “He kicked,” she murmured, almost overcome by relief.

“I know,” he said, his voice unsteady with awe.

“He kicked! Oh, Tris, he's alive!”

“Tristan!” Boudreau's gruff voice called from outside the lean-to. “We got to go. Even an idiot can figure out how to move through the mud, if you give him enough time.”

Tristan closed his eyes and sat still. She could feel the fine trembling of his hand against her skin, even through the bandage and the nightgown.

“Tristan!” Boudreau sounded irritated.

“Coming!” Tristan called, then he leaned over and kissed her. She was still crying, but now it was with joy. Her baby was alive. She kissed Tristan back, feeling the same thrill and the same growing flame that she felt every time, whether it was a kiss of passion during lovemaking or a sweet, tender kiss, like this one right now.

He pulled away reluctantly. “Got to go help Boudreau take care of those guys,” he told her as he pulled a long, curved magazine and three normal ones from Boudreau's weapons crate.

Once he'd stored the ammunition in the hunting vest, he kissed her once more. “Stay here and stay hidden. You'll be fine. I'll be right back,” he said.

Sandy knew he was lying. He and Boudreau were exhausted. Neither of them had the strength or stamina to stand up to the men chasing them.

She watched him as he crawled awkwardly out of the lean-to, wincing as every movement hurt his leg.

Despite her determination, the tears started again. “You lying liar,” she whispered, too quietly for Tristan to hear. “You'd better come back. I don't want to lose you again.”

Tristan pulled the camouflaged mat over the lean-to's opening while Boudreau talked about the best way to approach the log bridge. After a few minutes Sandy heard their footsteps crunching on the forest floor and fading as they got farther and farther away, until she could no longer hear anything.

She sat there for a few moments, willing him to turn around and come back, but knowing in her heart that he would never do that.

She'd felt betrayed and heartbroken when she'd found out he'd been recuperating less than a mile from their home. But now she understood that he hadn't left her alone. He had done everything he could to protect her.

“Bean, your daddy's crazy if he thinks I'm going to sit here and do nothing while he's in danger,” she whispered. She looked around at the crates. Tristan hadn't known what was in most of them. They were worth exploring. She might find something that they could use.

“But first, we've got to find that revolver he mentioned. I don't know anything about guns, but I'll bet I can handle a six-shooter.” She patted her tummy. “I heard them say there were at least two of those
varmints
out there, little bean. That gives me three shots each.”

Chapter Fourteen

Boudreau was at least two hundred yards ahead of Tristan. Before he could catch up, rifle shots rang out. Tristan listened but didn't hear the bass roar of Boudreau's shotgun.

“Bastards,” he muttered, doing his best to run. “You'd better not hurt him.”

The first thing he saw as the tangle of vines, branches and brush began to thin were the two small craters left by the exploded mines. The craters were shallow, but the force of the blast had knocked the log that connected the two islands of dry land into the swamp.

The next thing he saw was a man hip deep in the swamp, holding a rifle up over his head with one hand and trying to grasp a wet, slippery cypress knee with the other.

Tristan knew exactly what had happened. The man had jumped in, fooled by the deceptively calm surface, figuring he could walk across the firm bottom and climb up onto the dry knoll on the other side.

Instead, he'd found himself ankle deep in what the folks in South Louisiana called gumbo mud. It stuck to everything—skin, boots, tires and itself.

The other man was on dry ground, on the knoll behind his partner. He was yelling at his buddy to stop struggling, because he was only making things worse.

Tristan gave the man on dry ground a second look. He was one of the kidnappers. The one who'd held a gun on him and had tossed him across the pier.

Finally, Tristan spotted Boudreau. The Cajun was crouched down behind a lantana bush. There was blood staining the left sleeve of his shirt. A hollow dread washed over Tristan. He'd never seen Boudreau hurt or ill. His friend had always been invincible, larger than life.

It took all Tristan's willpower not to rush over to him. Boudreau's head angled slightly in his direction, signaling that he knew Tristan was there. Then he moved it back and forth in a negative shake. Tristan read him loud and clear.

Stay back. Let them dig their own graves.

He could live with that. Carefully and silently, he shifted his weight to his left foot and got as comfortable as he could. He gripped the automatic handgun and waited to see what the two men were going to do. As he relaxed, the men's yelling began to coalesce into words and phrases.

“Stop thrashing around!” the kidnapper yelled. “If you fall over you'll never get up.”

He was right. The more the man in the water struggled, the more the mud sucked him down.

“You got anything that might actually
help
, Echols?” the man in the mud shouted.

“Maybe stand still and see what happens. And careful with that rifle. I need you to be able to shoot.”

Boudreau's head lifted about a quarter inch. Tristan was barely a second behind him in realizing that the man was beginning to figure out how to handle the mud.

Boudreau pushed himself up onto his knees and raised his shotgun. Tristan held his breath. Was he going to shoot one of them? That wasn't like him, but then Tristan wouldn't have thought it was like Boudreau to shoot the
Pleiades Seagull
's captain without hesitation, either, for ordering Tristan killed.

“Bonjour, varmints,” Boudreau said and shot the ground around three feet in front of Echols's feet. Echols jumped backward and nearly tripped. Boudreau emptied the second barrel two feet in front of his toes.

“What the hell?” Echols yelled and raised his rifle again.

“Why don't you explain what you doing chasing us?” Boudreau yelled. “'Cause I'm tired, me. I'm ready to go to the house.”

“We want Tristan DuChaud. My boss wants to talk to him.”

Tristan stepped far enough forward to be seen, but not so far that he couldn't take cover if either of the men started shooting.

“Hi there. Remember me?” he shouted.

The kidnapper Echols threw his hands out in a frustrated gesture. “You. Still cocky as ever.”

“Oh, I'm not cocky,” Tristan said. “Just confident. So how you been?”

“Tristan,” Boudreau said. “Don't get too cocky.”

Tristan felt his face grow warm. Boudreau was right. This was serious business. He had no business acting as though it was not. “Well, Echols, here I am. What's Vernon Lee got to say to me?” he asked, watching Echols closely, waiting to see his reaction to the name of the owner of Lee Drilling.

It was the man in the water who reacted. He tried to lower his rifle to his shoulder, but the movement nearly toppled him into the water. Quickly he raised his arms again, waving them like a tightrope walker trying not to fall.

“How'd he figure out—”

“Shut up!” Echols yelled, then aimed his weapon at Tristan.

Tristan didn't react. He just kept his gaze on the man's hands and continued talking. “You're just going to shoot me? Here's an idea. Have your buddy record it on his phone so you can prove to Vernon Lee that I'm dead—this time.

“Oh, wait.” Tristan gestured toward the man in the water. “He's sinking already. If he drops the phone, you'll have nothing. Legend says that the gumbo mud'll suck you all the way to the center of the earth.”

“What?” the man in the mud screeched. “I'm sinking? How deep is this—” He looked down. “Echols? Get me out of here.”

“Shut the hell up and throw that rifle over here.”

“What? Oh, hell no!”

“Do it. We need that gun and without it, you can move much easier. Plus, if you drop it in the mud it'll be ruined.”

Tristan saw Boudreau turn to look over his shoulder at him. “You okay?” Tristan called.

“Yeah. They just winged me.”

“Look out!” Tristan cried suddenly as he saw Echols swing his rifle in Boudreau's direction. The Cajun dropped to the ground just as the rifle's loud crack split the air. The bullet tore through the brush above Boudreau's head. Then without hesitating, Echols whirled and fired off two rounds at Tristan.

Tristan hit the dirt where he stood as the bullets whistled by his ear. He waited a beat, then peered over the tangle of vines. Dappled sunlight glimmered off the steel barrel of the rifle as the man swung it back and forth between him and Boudreau, gauging how low to aim to send a bullet through the underbrush and directly into their bodies.

There was no time to check on Boudreau. Tristan lifted the automatic handgun and pressed the trigger. A burst of about six or eight shots spewed out of the gun, much faster than Tristan could count.

He dropped again at the very instant that his hand flew upward from the recoil. A squeal told him his wild volley had hit at least one man, probably the one in the mud. He doubted Echols was a squealer.

“I'm hit!” the man cried.

“Throw that gun over here before you drop it!” his partner yelled.

But the man stuck in the gumbo mud ignored him. He scooted sideways enough to steady himself against the cypress knee. He'd finally stopped struggling. There was blood on the left side of his shirt, but not much. The wound probably was a graze. As Tristan watched, he lifted the rifle and fired off a couple of wild rounds one-handed.

Then Echols joined the fray, and bullets spattered the leaves and branches all around Tristan. He had to stop them somehow. He didn't want to kill them, nor did he want Boudreau to have another death on his conscience, but what he wanted took a backseat to his determination to do whatever it took to get Sandy out of there and to a doctor.

“Tristan.” Boudreau's voice was a little breathless. “Get on back there. I'll take care of these two. You need to take care of yours.”

Tristan fired again another volley. More rifle slugs bursting all around them. “You go,” he called to Boudreau. “I'll take care of these guys. They can't have much more ammunition.”

“Neither one of you are going anywhere,” Echols said. Tristan rose up and took a look. Echols had been hit, too. Blood was staining the front of his shirt. But he had the rifle up and aimed again.

Then Tristan heard a sound that nearly stopped his heart. It was footsteps, treading lightly on the path behind him. There was only one person in the world it could be. He prayed he was wrong, even though he knew he wasn't.

“Sandy,” he whispered through gritted teeth, when he heard the footsteps stop a few feet behind him. “Get the hell back to the hideout
now
or I swear to you I will shoot you myself.”

“Tristan,” Sandy whispered. “I found some grenades.”

“What? Sandy!” Shock and gut-wrenching fear sent Tristan's pulse skyrocketing. “Damn it. Didn't you hear Boudreau? Those things are corroded and unstable. They could go off in your hands!” He shimmied backward until he was deep enough into the foliage that hopefully Echols couldn't see him. He pushed himself to his feet.

“Corroded? No, they're not. Look.” She was holding a small metal box. She started to lift the lid.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded. He hadn't seen any metal containers in the lean-to.

“Inside a big crate. They were the only thing in there.”

Behind them a rifle shot cracked, then another and another. “Get down!” he yelled. He grabbed her and pulled her down with him. She pushed the metal box into his hands. He opened it carefully. But instead of white crystals, he saw four perfectly good grenades, with shiny pins intact. “Boudreau,” he called. “Metal box in the hideout? Can't be very old.”

“Metal box?” Boudreau repeated. “Ooh-la-la. I put that in there the day before I pull you out of the water. I guarantee I plumb forgot.”

Tristan kissed Sandy briefly. “I love you. Get back to the lean-to.”

She glared at him. “I've got the revolver. I'm going to help.”

“The hell you are.”

“Tristan, you know what to do with those?” Boudreau called.

But Tristan didn't answer him. “You have to go back,” he said to Sandy. “I mean it. You've probably saved our lives by finding these grenades. But I'm not letting you get shot again.”

“I'm not going to sit in that lean-to and wait to see who shows up, you or them.” The glare that Sandy aimed at him was nothing short of a laser, drilling straight into his heart. “I will never sit back and wait for you again, you stubborn lying liar.”

He closed his eyes, hoping the stinging behind them would not turn into vision-blurring tears. “Sandy, I love you. I will never lie to you for your own good. I will never ever leave you. But please stay back. Please keep you and the little bean safe so I can get you both out of here.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. The laser glare dimmed as her mouth thinned grudgingly. “Fine. Okay. For the baby.”

Tristan breathed a sigh of relief, then scooted back to his shooting position. “Boudreau? We've got four,” he said.

“Shh!” Boudreau whispered. “Listen.”

Tristan froze, listening. Echols was talking. Not yelling. Talking. Tristan took a quick peek. “He's got a satellite phone,” he whispered to Boudreau. “If we can get our hands on that, we can call the sheriff and he can get a position on us.”

“We're stuck back in the swamp,” Echols was saying. He hadn't even tried to lower his voice. The tiny knoll he was on wasn't big enough for him to have a private conversation. He knew that Tristan and Boudreau could hear every word. “In a standoff, facing each other on two islands surrounded by a sticky mud that sucks you down into it and won't let go. Farrell is stuck in it.”

He stopped talking and listened. “You did! Yes, sir! Thank you, sir. I'll be listening for it. Tell them they can't land here. Not enough solid ground. They'll have to hover and send down a harness to pull us up.”

He paused, listening. The relief on his face turned to terror. “But—but, Mr. Lee, you can't do that. We're right here, not fifty yards away. That won't work. The strafing will hit us, too. We've done our jobs, sir! Please. You have to get us out! Mr. Lee, no! Mr. Lee? Sir?”

Farrell, who had been listening, forgot what he'd learned in the past few moments and started struggling again. “Strafing? Oh, my God! That rat bastard Lee is going to kill us, isn't he? Damn it, Echols, I told you we'd never get out of this alive.” He tried to pick up his right leg, then his left. “I can't move,” he shouted. “Help me!”

Tristan's pulse was hammering again, this time because of what he'd heard. Both of the men had used the name Lee for the man who had just called them on the satellite phone and told them he wasn't going to rescue them. From Echols's side of the conversation, it sounded as if Lee was sending a helicopter. The bird could probably pinpoint their location from the satellite phone and Tristan had little doubt about its orders.

Lee apparently wanted no loose ends. So he'd ordered the helicopter to strafe the entire area, thereby killing Tristan, Boudreau and Sandy and Lee's own men in one pass of the helicopter.

“Hey, Echols,” he called out. “Things don't sound good for you and your buddy there. What do you say we team up to stay alive? I'll help you if you'll help me. Call the sheriff on that phone. I'll give you his number.”

Echols set the phone down and lifted his rifle. “Call the sheriff so he can shoot us or arrest us or try us for treason?”

“He won't shoot you, I'm pretty sure. And arrested for treason? It's better than being strafed alongside your enemy, right?”

Echols glared at him. “Why should I believe you'd even think about keeping your word?”

Tristan pushed himself to his feet and took another step out of the foliage. “Maybe you shouldn't. But I'll tell you this. I'm one of the good guys. I want to get out of here. My friend is wounded.” They probably knew that Sandy was with him, but he wasn't going to mention her. “I'm no more interested in being strafed by Lee's helicopter than you are.”

Echols stared at him for a long time.

A vague sound reached Tristan's ears. Farrell heard it at the same time Tristan did.

“Oh, my God!” he screamed. “That's a helicopter! For the love of heaven call the damn sheriff! I don't want to die here.” He turned and tried to make his way to the knoll where his partner waited, but he slipped and sank to his armpits.