Her Kind of Hero (5 page)

“In some cases, it doesn't pay to advertise,” he said carelessly. “I used to work with Eb Scott and Cy Parks, but now I have my own group. We hire out to various world governments for covert ops.” He glanced at her stunned face. “I worked for the justice department for a couple of years, but now I'm a mercenary, Callie.”

She was struck dumb for several long seconds. She swallowed. It explained a lot. “Does your father know?” she asked.

“He does not,” he told her. “And I don't want him to know. If he still gives a damn about me, it would only upset him.”

“He loves you very much,” she said quietly, avoiding his angry black eyes. “He'd like to mend fences, but he doesn't know how. He feels guilty, for making you leave and blaming you for what…what my mother did.”

He pulled out a foil sealed meal for himself and opened it before he spoke. “You blamed me, as well.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. It was cold in the jungle at night, just like they said in the movies. “Not really. My mother is very beautiful,” she said, recalling the older woman's
wavy jet-black hair and vivid blue eyes and pale skin. “She was a model just briefly, before she married my…her first husband.”

He frowned. “You were going to say, your father.”

She shivered. “He said I wasn't his child. He caught her in bed with some rich man when I was six. I didn't understand at the time, but he pushed me away pretty brutally and said not to come near him again. He said he didn't know whose child I was. That was when she put me in foster care.”

Micah stared at her, unspeaking, for several long seconds. “Put you in what?”

She swallowed. “She gave me up for adoption on the grounds that she couldn't support me. I went into a juvenile home, and from there to half a dozen foster homes. I only saw her once in all those years, when she took me home for Christmas. It didn't last long.” She stared down at the jungle floor. “When she married your father, he wanted me, so she told him I'd been staying with my grandmother. I was in a foster home, but she got me out so she could convince your father that she was a good mother.” She laughed hollowly. “I hadn't seen her or heard from her in two years by then. She told me I'd better make a good job of pretending affection, or she'd tell the authorities I'd stolen something valuable—and instead of going back into foster care for two more years, I'd go to jail.”

M
icah didn't say a word. He repacked the first-aid kit into his backpack with quick, angry movements. He didn't look at Callie.

“I guess you know how to use that gun,” she said quietly. “If we're found, or if it looks like Lopez is going to catch us, I want you to shoot me. I'd rather die than face what you saved me from.”

She said it in such a calm, quiet tone that it made all the more impact.

He looked up, scanning her drawn, white face in the soft light from the lantern. “He won't get you. I promise.”

She drew a slow breath. “Thanks.” She traced a fingernail over the camouflage pants. “And thanks for coming to get me. Lopez said he didn't have any plans to ransom me. He was going to let his men kill me because he thought it would make you suffer.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were my worst enemy and you wouldn't care if he killed me,” she said carelessly. “But he said you did care about your father, and he was the next victim. I hope you've got
someone watching Dad,” she added fervently. “If anything happens to him…!”

“You really love him, don't you?” he asked in an odd tone.

“He's the only person in my whole life who ever loved me,” she said in a strained whisper.

A harsh sound broke from his lips. He got up and started getting things together. He pulled out what looked like a modified cell phone and spoke into it. A minute later, he put it back into the backpack.

“They're on the way in.” He stood over her, his face grim as he picked up the small lantern and extinguished the light. “I know you must be cold. I'm sorry. I planned a quick airlift, so I didn't pack for a prolonged trek.”

“It's all right,” she said at once. “Cold is better than tortured.”

He cursed under his breath as he hefted the backpack. “We have to get to that small clearing on the other side of the stream. It isn't deep, but I can carry you…”

“I'll walk,” she said with quiet dignity, standing up. It was still painful to move, because she'd been tied up for so long, but she didn't let on. “You've done enough already.”

“I've done nothing,” he spat. He turned on his heel and led the way to the bank of the small stream, offering a hand.

She didn't take it. She knew he found her repulsive. He'd even told her mother that. She'd enjoyed taunting Callie with it. Callie had never understood why her mother hated her so much. Perhaps it was because she wasn't pretty.

“Walk where I do,” he bit off as he dropped his hand. “The rocks will be slippery. Go around them, not over them.”

“Okay.”

He glanced over his shoulder as they started over the shallow
stream. “You're damned calm for someone who's been through what you have in the past two days.”

She only smiled. “You have no idea what I've been through in my life.”

He averted his eyes. It was as if he couldn't bear to look at her anymore. He picked his way across to the other bank. Callie followed obediently, her feet cold and wet, her body shivering. Only a little longer, she told herself, and she would be home with Jack. She would be completely safe. Except…Lopez was still out there. She shivered again.

“Cold?” he asked when they were across.

“I'll be fine,” she assured him.

He led her through one final tangle of brush, which he cut out of the way with the knife. She could see the silver ripple of the long blade in the dim light of the small flashlight he carried. She put one foot in front of the other and tried to blank out what would happen if Lopez's men caught up with them. It was terrifying.

They made it to the clearing just as a dark, noisy silhouette dropped from the sky and a door opened.

“They spotted us on radar!” came a loud voice from the chopper. “They'll be here in two minutes. Run!”

“Run as if your life depended on it!” Micah told Callie, giving her a push.

She did run, her mind so affected by what she'd already endured that she almost kept up with her long-legged stepbrother. He leaped right up into the chopper and gave her a hand up. She landed in a heap on the dirty floor, and laughed with relief.

The door closed and the chopper lifted. Outside, there were sounds like firecrackers in the wake of the noise the propellers made. Gunfire, Callie knew.

“It always sounds like firecrackers in real life,” she murmured. “It doesn't sound that way in the movies.”

“They augment the sound in movies, mademoiselle.” A gentle hand eased her into a seat on the edge of the firing line Micah and two other men made at the door.

She looked up. There was barely any light in the helicopter, but she could make out a beard and a mustache on a long, lean face. “You made it, too!” she exclaimed with visible relief. “Oh, I'm glad. I felt bad that you and the other man had to be decoys, just to get me out.”

“It was no trouble, mademoiselle,” the man said gently, smiling at her. “Rest now. They won't catch us. This is an Apache helicopter, one of the finest pieces of equipment your country makes. It has some age, but we find it quite reliable in tight situations.”

“Is it yours?” she asked.

He laughed. “You might say that we have access to it, and various other aircraft, when we need them.”

“Don't bore her to death, Bojo,” a younger voice chuckled.

“Listen to him!” Bojo exclaimed. “And do you not drone on eternally about that small computer you carry, Peter, and its divine functions?”

A dark-haired, dark-eyed young man with white teeth came into view, a rifle slung over his shoulder. “Computers are my specialty,” he said with a grin. “You're Callie? I'm Peter Stone. I'm from Brooklyn. That's Bojo, he's from Morocco. I guess you know Micah. And Smith over there—” he indicated a huge dark-eyed man “—runs a seafood restaurant in Charleston, along with our Maddie and a couple of guys we seem to have misplaced…”

“We haven't misplaced them,” Micah said curtly. “They've gone ahead to get the DC-3 gassed up.”

Bojo grinned. “Lopez will have men waiting at the airport for us.”

“While we're taking off where we landed—at Laremos's private airstrip,” Micah replied calmly. “And Laremos will have a small army at his airstrip, just in case Lopez does try anything.”

“But what about customs?” Callie voiced.

Everybody laughed.

She flushed, realizing now that her captors hadn't gone through customs, and neither had these men. “Okay, I get it, but what about getting back into the States from here? I don't have a passport…”

“You have a birth certificate,” Micah reminded her. “It'll be waiting in Miami, along with a small bag containing some of your own clothes and shoes. That's why Maddie didn't come with us,” he added smugly.

“Miami?” she exclaimed, recalling belatedly that he'd mentioned that before. “Why not Texas?”

“You're coming back to the Bahamas with me, Callie,” Micah replied. “You'll be Lopez's priority now. He'll be out for revenge, and it will take all of us to keep you safe.”

She gaped at him. “But, Dad…” she groaned.

“Dad is in good hands. So are you. Now try not to worry. I know what I'm doing.”

She bit her lower lip. None of this was making sense, and she was still scared, every time she thought about Lopez. But all these men surrounding her looked tough and battle-hardened, and she knew they wouldn't let her be recaptured.

“Who's Laremos?” Callie asked curiously, a minute later.

“He's retired now,” Micah said, coming away from the door. “But he and ‘Dutch' van Meer and J. D. Brettman were the guys who taught us the trade. They were the best. Laremos lives outside Cancún on a plantation with his wife and kids, and he's got the equivalent of a small army around him. Even the drug lords avoid his place. We'll get out all right, even if Lopez has his men tracking us.”

She averted her eyes and folded her arms tightly around her body.

“You are shivering,” Bojo said gently. “Here.” He found a blanket and wrapped it around her.

That one simple act of compassion brought all her repressed fear and anguish to the surface. She bawled. Not a sound touched her lips. But tears poured from her eyes, draping themselves hot and wet across her pale cheeks and down to the corner of her pretty bow mouth.

Micah saw them and his face hardened like rock.

She turned her face toward the other side of the helicopter. She was used to hiding her tears. They mostly angered people, made them more hostile. Or they showed a weakness that was readily exploited. It was always better not to let people know they had the power to hurt you.

She wrapped the blanket closer and didn't speak the rest of the way. She closed her eyes, wiping at them with the blanket. Micah spoke in low tones to the other men, and although she couldn't understand what he was saying, she understood that rough, angry tone. She'd heard it enough at home.

For now, all she wanted to do was get to safety, to a place where Lopez and the animals who worked for him couldn't find her, couldn't hurt her. She was more afraid now than she had
been on the way out of Texas, because now she knew what recapture would mean. The darkness was a friend in which she could hide her fear, conceal her terror. The sound of the propellers became suddenly like a mechanical lullaby in her ears, lulling her, like the whispers of the deep voices around her, into a brief, fitful sleep.

She felt an odd lightness in her stomach and opened her eyes to find the helicopter landing at what looked like a small airstrip on private land.

A big airplane, with scars and faded lettering, was waiting with its twin prop engines already running. Half a dozen armed men in camouflage uniforms stood with their guns ready to fire. A tall, imposing man with a mustache came forward. He had a Latin look about him, dark eyes and graceful movement.

He shook hands with Micah and spoke to him quietly, so that his voice didn't carry. Micah listened, and then nodded. They shook hands again. The man glanced at Callie curiously, and smiled in her direction.

She smiled back, her whole young face drawn and fatigued.

Micah motioned to her. “We have to get air borne before Lopez's menge there. Climb aboard. Thanks, Diego!” he called to the man.

“No es nada,”
came the grinning reply.

“Was that the man you know, with the plantation?” Callie asked when they were inside and the door was closed.

“That was Laremos,” he agreed.

“He and his family won't be hurt on our account, will they?” she persisted.

He glanced down at her. “No,” he said slowly. His eyes searched hers until she looked away, made uneasy and shivery by the way he was looking at her.

He turned and made his way down the aisle to the cockpit. Two men poked their heads out of it, grinning, and after he spoke to them, they revved up the engines.

The passengers strapped themselves into their seats. Callie started to sit by herself, but Micah took her arm and guided her into the seat beside his. It surprised her, but she didn't protest. He reached across her to fasten her seat belt, bringing his hard, muscular chest pressing gently against her breasts.

She gasped as the pressure made the cut painful.

“God, I'm sorry! I forgot,” he said, his hand going naturally, protectively, to her breast, to cup it gently. “Is it bad?”

She went scarlet. Of course, nobody was near enough to see what was going on, but it embarrassed her to have him touch her with such familiarity. And then she remembered that he'd had her nude from the waist up on one side while he cleaned and bandaged that cut.

Her eyes searched his while she tried to speak. Her tongue felt swollen. Her breath came jerkily into her throat and her lips parted under its force. She felt winded, as if she'd fallen from a height.

His thumb soothed the soft flesh around the cut. “When we get to Miami, I'll take you to a friend of mine who's in private practice. We'll get you checked out before we fly out to the Bahamas.”

His other arm, muscular and warm, was under her head. She could feel his breath, mint-scented and warm, on her lips as he searched her eyes.

His free hand left her breast and gently cupped her softly rounded chin. “Soft skin,” he whispered deeply. “Soft heart. Sweet, soft mouth…”

His lips pressed the words against hers, probing tenderly. He caught her upper lip in both of his and tasted it with his tongue. Then he lifted away to look down into her shocked, curious eyes.

“You should hate me,” he whispered. “I hurt you, and you did nothing, nothing at all to deserve it.”

She winced, remembering how it had been when he'd lived with his father. “I understood. You resented me. My mother and I were interlopers.”

“Your mother, maybe. Never you.” He looked formidable, angry and bitter. But his black eyes were unreadable. “I've hesitated to ask. Maybe I don't really want to know. When Lopez had you,” he began with uncharacteristic hesitation, “were you raped?”