To the Brink (5 page)

Thank God for Ben. Or maybe she should think of him by his Islamic name now: Rahimulla. Until tonight, though, he'd always been Ben to her. Ben Max Reyes Ayala. A gangly young man of barely nineteen. A young man who loved his mother and Snickers candy bars. A young and troubled man, apparently, who had gone over to the dark side of Islam: jihad extremism.

And yet he felt loyalty to Darcy.

Thank God that he'd stepped in and stopped them from what would have been a gang rape.

Thank her God. She even thanked their God, who wasn't even a distant relative of a benevolent Allah. Their God was the God of murderers and assassins.

Abu Sayyaf.
She'd heard the men murmur the two words like a mantra.

Abu Sayyaf. It meant Sword of the Father to those who believed.

It meant death to those the sword struck down — unless there was value to the cause. She represented value.

On a shuddering breath, Darcy shifted her weight off her bruised hip. She lay on her side where she'd been shoved on the jungle floor beneath a makeshift shelter comprised of a single sheet of torn and filthy canvas. She'd never been a Girl Scout. Didn't like bugs. Even the thought of a snake made her rigid with fear. But worse, even worse than snakes, was the dark. So she was grateful that they'd removed the blindfold early yesterday. Grateful but not foolish enough to believe the action had been prompted by kindness.

She'd slowed them down as they'd shouted,
"Bilis! Bills!" {Be quick! Be quick!),
shoving and dragging her through what she'd known from the scents and the sounds was dense jungle even before they'd untied the length of black muslin from her eyes so she could see where she was going.

And she understood full well that there were only two things keeping her alive—her value as ransom bait and her captors' desperate need for money.

Desperate. Now there was a word she could relate to. For the past two days as they'd marched her up and down hollows and across streams pressing at a torturous pace through a tropical rain forest teeming with wildlife, including brilliantly colored birds and a riot of gorgeous orchids, she'd felt the desperation on all fronts.

How could anything this beautiful and lush be so treacherous?

And how could a body be so tired?

Her hands were tied in front of her now. Her head still throbbed from banging the wall of the van and from what she suspected was chloroform, which they'd used to knock her out. She was covered with bruises and cuts. She needed food. She needed water.

She needed rest. But as another night deepened to the incessant sting of insects, the growl of her empty belly, and the change of the guard watching over her, she didn't dare sleep.

Was too afraid to.

Through weary eyes, she studied her new guard. He was just a boy. Her heart broke for him even though he'd been in line to take his turn at her. Beneath the hatred etched on his horribly young face, he was a beautiful child, no more than fourteen years old. He should be carrying schoolbooks or a skateboard. Instead, he carried an assault rifle and a rage bred by poverty and despair.

But terrorists—twenty or so by her count in this particular band of guerrillas—recruited killers of all ages.

Abu Sayyaf may have been founded as a freedom fighters' organization by a Philippine veteran of the Afghan-Soviet war, but it had devolved into nothing more than a clutch of armed bandits who specialized in kidnapping. Just another offshoot Al Qaeda cell with links to both the Jordanians and the Palestinians. Above all, they were thugs for hire to anyone who could pay the price.

Which explained why they'd taken her. Someone had paid their price. Since two accidental deaths of embassy employees would arouse suspicions, she'd had to be dealt with in another way.

She'd understood that from the beginning. Someone wanted her shut up. Someone wanted her gone—and what better way to have her disappear than to bury her deep in the jungle on some remote island where she would never be found? And the bonus: Abu Sayyaf took all the heat.

She watched the few remaining men who were still awake and passing around a cigarette. Their dark faces were shadowed and weary in the fire glow. Their determination, however, was absolute.

Something slithered through the undergrowth behind her. Every muscle in her body clenched involuntarily.

Oh God.

A baboy-damo?—
wild pig
—she guessed hopefully. She'd seen several of them the past two days as she and her captors had trekked through the forest. But she knew she was fooling herself. Little grass piggies slept after dark.

Snakes didn't.

She bit her lower lip to keep from screaming. Held her breath until she thought she'd pass out. Then swallowed back the unreasonable urge to laugh hysterically at the depth of her danger.

Abductions and terrorists and snakes. Oh my. Life is full of fun adventures.

Get a grip,
she mouthed soundlessly, and made herself breathe deeply until her heart rate settled. Until she could think straight again.

She suspected that she was on Jolo. She had sketchy memories of the kidnapping, sketchier still of the time between the abduction and when she woke up at daylight the next morning—at least she assumed it was the next morning. She did remember water. Crossing water. In a boat, maybe. With a loud motor. An outboard? She didn't know. But the reports filtering through the embassy lately all indicated that Abu Sayyaf activity had been heavy on Jolo, and the only way to get there was by air or water.

Even if it was only a guess, it helped to assume she knew where she was. It helped because she knew that if she could figure it out, so could Ethan. And then he would find her.

He had to find her.

She pushed aside the staggering odds of that actually happening and gauged the mood of the camp. All was quiet now. No arguing among the men. No eerie screams from the howler monkeys and baboons. No calls from the hornbills or odd whirring sound of the flying lemurs as they shuttled through the Narra trees.

Again, she thanked God as the memory of the ugly scene earlier made her glance toward Ben. No.
Not
Ben.
Rahimulla.
Rahimulla Sabur. He lay on a thin blanket directly in front of her "tent."

Amazing. It appeared that he was some sort of spiritual leader of the cell of angry, weary, and malnourished guerrillas. Fortunately for Darcy, Ben's mother was a Philippine citizen who worked on the cleaning staff at the embassy. A few months ago, she'd become ill and been in need of medical attention. It wasn't Darcy's job, but she had pulled a few strings, seriously bent a few regs, and made sure Ben's mother had gotten it. The young man had held undying respect for Darcy ever since.

Only his intervention at nightfall had saved her from a gang rape. And only his respect among the guerrillas continued to hold them at bay.

But for how long? That was the question of the day.

"I so apologize, miss." His English had been a little garbled with nerves, but his voice had been filled with regret and shame after the others had backed away, grumbling.

"What will happen to me?" she'd whispered.

He'd only shaken his head, his face grim, and reverted to the Tagalog spoken in the southern islands.
"Tumahimik ka kung ayaw mong masaktan." Be quiet if you don't want to get hurt.

She'd nodded, figuring it was good advice.
"Sala-mat." Thank you.
And she'd been quiet ever since.

And praying for a plan to come to her. And for that luck she would need to get out of this alive.

But she understood that luck, like time, could run out with the twitch of a hair trigger or a shift back to gang mentality. The key was for her to remain supplicant. The goal was to stay alive. Darcy could handle it. She had to handle it.

First things first. She didn't dare sleep, but she needed to rest.

Rest, however, was as elusive as rescue. Hours passed as she lay awake, her mind reminding her not only of her peril but also of the choices she'd made in her life.

Of the mistakes she'd made.

Of the man she had loved and walked away from.

Chapter 4

LIMA,
 
PERU

EIGHT YEARS
 
EARLIER

Many of the staffers hated embassy
parties. Darcy loved them. She loved the flash and the dazzle, the intrigue and the politics. She loved the scent of exotic perfumes and cherry pipe smoke. She also loved the opportunity to dress up when too often her days were spent in business suits and her evenings in T-shirts and jeans.

Tonight she'd chosen a short sleeveless v-neck black sheath and spiky heels. It made her feel feminine and sexy. Judging from some of the looks she'd been getting, it made her
look
feminine and sexy. She liked that, too.

The honest truth was that she loved everything about her post in Lima. Sure, she'd put in for Paris on her dream sheet—but it had been just that. A dream. No one drew Paris as a foreign post until they had at least ten years under their belt, and even when a lot came into play, the chances were slim. In her case, Lima was only her second foreign post, so she'd never really expected Paris. And as it turned out, she was glad she'd ended up in Lima. She was absurdly in love with Peru even though she hadn't seen much of it yet.

She was not, however, in love with the Lima city councilman who had just made it clear that he'd be open to entertaining her and the idea of a discreet affair if she was up for it.

"Señor," she said, flashing him her sweetest smile, "you flatter me. But I think you also tease me. Your wife is so lovely and she obviously cares for you a great deal."

Folding her hands companionably around his arm, Darcy walked the councilman toward the wife in question to ensure that his overture got cut off before the high notes. "Look how she looks at you."

In fact, wifey was glaring rapier-sharp daggers at Darcy, but she didn't let it stop her.

"You are a lucky woman," Darcy said, handing the gentleman over to his lady, "to have a man so enchanted with his wife."

"Enchanted?" the elderly woman said with a curious but nonetheless pleased look.

"Of course." Darcy smiled between them. "He was just telling me how dear you are to him. How much he adores you."

The would-be Don Juan nodded a smile to Darcy— an acceptance and even affectionate admiration for her expert maneuvering—and drew his wife to his side. "You would doubt that,
mi amor
?"

They were cooing like lovebirds when Darcy walked away, fully aware of another pair of masculine eyes watching her.

She'd noticed the handsome lieutenant the moment he'd walked into the reception room a little while ago. How could she not have noticed him and his companion, for that matter? Anyone would be hard-pressed not to. They were quite the striking pair.

She was used to seeing an American military presence in Lima. Marines guarded the embassy and historically the official commanding the joint military offices within the embassy was the highest-ranking officer of the branch with the heaviest military presence. Currently it was the captain of the naval contingent.

So, yes. She was used to seeing military men. She was not, however, used to seeing men like this one. Or reacting to them the way she was reacting to this Army lieutenant.

And react to him she did.

The American was not the more handsome of the two, she noted, taking in the flashing black eyes, flirtatious smile, and poster boy perfection of his military brother. But with his dark brown hair, deep-set blue eyes, and singular and edgy presence quietly proclaiming he was in command, capable, and, if need be, a ruthless warrior, he was definitely the more compelling.