Читать книгу Come As You Are - Amy J. Fetzer - Страница 7

Secure facility

Coast Guard Air Station Borinquen

Puerto Rico

The dark blue sedan sped across the airstrip toward the hangar. It was another ten minutes before it came to a halt. The driver remained inside as Nolan Deets left the vehicle. The rain spilled straight down, soft enough to soak everything as he walked across the concrete to the hangar doors. A few civilian workers milled at picnic tables beneath a steel overhang, the water running off and splashing on the ground so hard they were backed up against the walls, smoking and talking.

They each cast him a suspicious glance as he went to the door. A man in a black jumpsuit, cap and sunglasses blocked his path, and demanded ID.

Deets complied, then inclined his head to the workers. “If they don’t have clearance, get them out of here.”

The guard nodded, then stepped aside quickly and opened the door. The scrape of metal on metal rang in the yawning hangar and he stepped over the high threshold. Inside it was cold and damp, the smell of burned wood and scorched metal hanging heavily on the air.

Several people looked up, one man walking toward him, then stopped, nodding when he recognized him. The scientist returned to the long stretch of tables piled with evidence, scanners and computers for collection. At the far end, a lab was established, forensic technicians already working and, not to throw caution out the door, they wore hazmat gear.

In the center of the massive hangar, no fewer than a dozen men in black jumpsuits crawled over the yacht like leeches on infected skin. The forensic experts would pull anything that could be found, but Nolan wanted to see the damage for himself. He approached, removed his coat and tossed it on a chair beside a crate designated for collected evidence before he mounted the ladder running up the side of the ship. Once a beautiful luxury vessel, it was now nothing more than scrap, torn and twisted, yet no less imposing in dry dock and braced with massive timbers and steel scaffolding.

Nolan wasn’t impressed. He could think of a dozen other ways to spend that kind of money than putting a house on the open sea. Yet when the Cuban Navy flexed its muscles on a civilian vessel carrying Americans, Homeland Security, FBI, CIA and the Coast Guard got involved. The National Security Agency was watching them all. When Americans turned up dead, everyone wanted justice.

Three other vessels like this had been seized in international waters by Interpol. What had led Nolan to this particular ship was not only the Americans who were brutally murdered, but that prior to being delivered to Miami for the bride and groom, the ship had docked to be serviced in China and boarded by officials. The Chinese weren’t willing to share their dirty laundry with the U.S.—the murder being after the fact and having no consequence to the Chinese—but Nolan was still working on what had led them there. The other seized boats had made port on China’s coast as well.

To him, it felt staged. The other boats were boarded and confiscated, so why risk another? Why try to sink it? The owner of the yacht was just that, the owner. Some software tycoon who rented it out through a broker to anyone who wanted to pay the ridiculous price to ride on the high seas in ultimate comfort. The ship carried people, and the cargo manifest was food and supplies for the honeymoon trip. It looked like a simple pirate attack, but the brutal murder and the bomb said otherwise. Pirates didn’t hang around that long.

Interpol learned that pleasure boats were used to transport black market weapons and narcotics, but seizing the ships had given them nothing solid, except legal issues. Whoever was using the ships was off-loading cargo somewhere along the way.

He swung his leg over the twisted rail and dropped lightly to the deck.

Two men looked up, frowning, and Nolan showed his badge and turned away, snapping on latex gloves. One man handed him a pair of booties for his shoes, and he arched a brow.

“It’s a mess down there, sir.”

Nolan slipped them on. “What have you collected so far?”

“Bomb fragments. It was a big one, designed to sink it, but because the fuel was dumped prior to detonation, it stayed afloat. If your buddy hadn’t been looking for it, it would have gone up in flames and sunk.”

“They wanted no evidence at all.”

“We have enough to know the rig and trigger.” He showed him an alarm clock still in near-perfect condition, but because of the fire the wiring from the back had been reduced to a jellylike mass.

Nolan knew Logan Chambliss had been on this ship just before the explosion and why. In fact, he knew everything there was about Cassandra Furman-Layton, her groom and their connection to his college friend. They were all at the wrong place at the wrong time. He needed to learn something that would explain why.

Because nothing had been stolen—except lives.

Venezuela

Two things were hot buttons for her. Tell her what to do, then force her to do it. Tessa had let herself be used once before. She swore she never would again.

Yet, here she was.

Guilt was a nasty thing, she thought, and instead of pushing her anger aside, she kept it close, reveled in the outrage of someone blackmailing her for help. She relied on every smidge of it to propel herself as she bolted across the manicured grounds. Rapidly approaching the building, she used her speed as she jumped. Arms outstretched, Tessa sailed through the air like a black dart and gripped the decorative ledge above the first-floor window. Instantly, she snapped down her muscles, forcing herself to stop and not plow through the glass. She drew her legs up to slow her rocking, then hung straight to catch her breath.

She was dead center of the summer residence in the darkest section. It had windows straight to the top. Hanging like a rag, she glanced left and right for the patrols. They had precise movements, changing the guard every hour. She’d watched their predictability for a couple days with a group of reporters on the lawn across the street. It wasn’t a government building, so no tours, no open house. The uninvited couldn’t get past the door. And lately, no one came out.

The least the bastard could do was be seen so she could learn exactly where he was. He never called back and had blocked the number. He’d given her quick, short details to get to him, but he was a lying bastard, and could be setting her up. What Ramos was doing in the Vice President’s summer residence opened a thousand questions and she didn’t want to know the answers. Whatever he wanted, she had to do it. Being pulled back into her past to help a man who’d threatened to ruin her had so many double edges to the sword, she wanted it over with. But there were only two ways inside: hers and on the arm of someone powerful, but that brought attention to her. She wasn’t going to come out of this stinking, so the cat burglar route was her only choice. Without rope and harness, it was a real pain.

With a chin-up, she drew herself up enough for leverage, then swung her leg to catch the ledge to stand. The hooded cat suit made movement easy. She gripped the ironwork, putting her toes in the carvings around the windows to scale higher. Below her, guards paced the circumference in a measured march. She bit back the urge to hum and kept moving past the second floor. If he was on the inside, he was in trouble and completely abandoned, or he wouldn’t have contacted her. She wasn’t useful anymore. There was so much going on here, she couldn’t pin down which really made her more furious—that he threatened to expose her or that he was drawing her into something bigger. He was inside the Vice President’s private residence, for pity sake. Just knowing what the U.S. was doing with this minor player was trouble.

I’m so getting fired for this.

The NGS didn’t authorize her entrance into Venezuela and while backup was always good, she refused to bring anyone into a chapter of her life she wanted closed, and quickly. She’d thought it was closed. She neared the top, glancing down for the guards, then up to the open window she expected to be open. It was the only reason she went forward. Curiosity had nothing to do with it. Ending this pact with the Devil did.

She maneuvered to grasp the windowsill, then slipped neatly inside. She kept her back to the cool wall, with the curtains around her, then gently pushed them aside. There was a faint light from a few yards away on the right, and she edged the room, found the exits, then advanced. Encased in black, she blended and moved in short darts from darkness to the pithy black of the massive room. In a dance to avoid a shadow, she moved closer, then stopped, tucked near the drapes.

The light spilled from a small lamp on the desk and silhouetted the man sitting before it, his back to her.

“Very good, Tessa.”

She cringed at the sound of his voice, the Latin accent odd when she remembered a southwestern drawl. He turned in the chair, and she frowned, refusing to come out of the shadows. The light was near him. He’d have trouble seeing her, but she could see him.

Who is this man? Because it sure as hell wasn’t Paul Ramos. The man she knew was cover-model material, around forty by now. This guy was closer to sixty, his cheeks scarred from bad skin.

“A shock, I know.” He swept his fingers under a chin that was more square than she remembered. “Too many near-misses to be useful anymore, but all courtesy of our government. Certainly not a reward,” he said, fingering the remaining scars. “A promotion.”

To the CIA, she thought, noticing his accent fade with each word. “What is the company doing here?” The sound of her voice startled him, and he smiled. That’s when she recognized the man beneath another’s face. In the shape of his mouth, the chillingly dark eyes and the heavy brows over them.

“A long story you don’t need to know.”

No, she didn’t. But he had to know she didn’t have Intel resources anymore. It was pointless. “You’re a perfect idiot, you know that?” The consequences of him being here, masquerading, were too big a political disaster for her to comprehend, and she didn’t care. She’d trained herself not to or she could never have left so cleanly. “This won’t work.”

“It must.” He looked her over with a feral threat. “We haven’t much time.” He held out a folded leather pouch. “Take this.”

“Hell no. Come on, let’s go.” She tossed her thumbs toward the window. “Now.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You bastard. You said you wanted out.”

“I wanted this out.” He held out the case again.

Her gaze flickered around the room and she smelled a trap. “Bring it to me.”

Paul sighed and pushed out of the chair, grabbing a cane before moving toward her, slow and unsteady. She understood why he wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t.

He stopped a couple feet from her, a pleasant smile on his lips. “I knew you’d get in here. You’re still good.”

“And you’re a dirt bag. Wow, nothing’s changed.” She snatched the leather pouch and unrolled it. “What the heck is this?”

“Follow it. Figure it out and follow it. Whatever is at the end of it is vital.”

She looked up, frowning. “You’ve gone nuts in here, is that it? Follow a map? Do I look like a treasure hunter? I can’t do this. I have a life, and I’m not playing this game.” She held it out and when he wouldn’t take it, Tessa shoved it in his hands. They were cold and clammy and that forced her to look more closely. Dark circles under his eyes left him hollow, a hint of skeleton, his skin pale. His lips had a gray tinge to them.

“Why haven’t they taken you out of here? What are you doing here?”

“If I could leave now, I would. Denmark stinks and, no, they don’t know who I am.”

Tessa shook her head as if it would make the pieces fall into place. “If you’re playing Garcia, where’s the real one?”

“Dead.” He quickly explained the last assassination attempt during the coup, and the lack of a body. “This President spouts socialism, but his table is filled with some bad-ass Commu—”

“Like you give a damn.”

“When it means staying alive, yes. Garcia and his supporters stand in the way, and I’m Garcia, the target.” He pointed to his face and wobbled on the cane.

She frowned. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“I think the doctors did this to me.”

“You’re trapped, a hostage? Who’d do that to the Vice President?”

“Don’t you read the papers? Take a number. Democracy is circling the rim here. Take that off,” he snapped.

Tessa pulled off the black hood and met his gaze.

Paul Ramos stared into her icy-blue eyes and didn’t have to see the rest of her. Her image was planted in his mind years ago; a body that was all curves, and an exotic look in sable hair and tanned skin. But it was her pale blue eyes that were arresting, intense light in sultry features.

He already regretted bringing her into this, but he was cornered on all sides and couldn’t move freely. His only choice was calling the number that he’d recited like a bedtime chant, a reminder of his one decent act. Yet seeing her was like looking back on his shame.

“What’s at the end of this?” She gripped the leather pouch.

“It was my wife’s—his wife’s,” he said, leaning hard on the cane. “She’s getting chummy with a lot of powerful people, too. Granted, her husband is like this”—he gestured to himself—“and she’s filling in, but she’s up to something.”

“Up to something? Skulking in the shadows? Passing notes, what?” He was hallucinating. Eloisa Garcia was in her late fifties, well preserved and genuinely loved by the people. She reminded Tessa of Betty Crocker or Nancy Reagan with a fetish for handbags. But seeing him struggle to move, Tessa was realistic. She couldn’t get him out. She stuffed the map in her small backpack, thinking that the wife of the VP creeping around her own house was just ridiculous. “What will you do?”

His features tightened as if he didn’t expect her to care enough to ask. “Find out what’s really going on and stop it.”

The courageous hat didn’t fit him well enough for that to have a shred of truth. “Why did you drag me into this again? We had a deal and you’ve broken it.”

He looked repentant for about two seconds. “I’m cashing in the only chip I have left. Do this and we’re done, forever, I swear.”

“I don’t trust you, so that means nothing.”

Then behind him, she saw movement. She stepped back quickly as three men materialized from the far shadows in a circle behind Ramos. She watched through the sheer curtains. A hand over his mouth, a knife at his throat, and in seconds, he was gagged and secured.

The man in the center turned in her direction, aiming his gun. “Step out from the window, hands up.”

Tessa held her hood, panic flooding through her. A bizarre sense of déjà vu engulfed her.

“Now.”

She took a step forward, her eyes already burning with regret. Like the overlay in her memory, the new image pressed forward. He lifted thermal goggles to his forehead, his face and body hidden in Black Ops gear. Just like before. His gaze ripped over her and she saw it all in his eyes. Shock, dismay, then confusion.

His weapon lowered. “Tessa?”

In that instant, Ramos hit his heel on a floor alarm, setting it off. Tessa whipped her hair into the hood and slipped out of sight.

Logan headed after her, but Max grabbed his arm. “We’ve got to split.”

Quickly, Logan cut Ramos’s bond, yet stared into Garcia’s face. It was uncanny.

“The whole family’s here, how nice.”

Ramos’s shock was palatable and Logan recognized the oily smile. “We came for you, asshole. You blew it.” Logan’s anger exploded in his fist, one hit dead center of his nose. Ramos didn’t move again and he started to heft him over his shoulder.

“No time, no time,” Sebastian said into his headset, watching the doors. “We’re blown.”

“Finn? Finn? You get that?” Logan whispered Riley’s call sign. “Abort. Cut all comms, all comms, bug out, now.”

Reluctantly Logan left Ramos, rushed to the side of the room and checked the halls already filling with people. So the team moved to the only exit left. Logan opened the window and climbed out, scaling down the ironwork, going still when the searchlights splattered them in white relief. Waltzing from cover to cover, he tucked into the evergreen growing up the wall, waited for a pass of light, then slithered down the wall. He hit the ground running, Max and Sebastian flanking him, and they had a clear shot to the tree line. If they could get to the street…

Forty yards out, armed men swept in from all sides.

Logan stopped short, breathing hard, his hands up. “Well, crap.”

Soldiers pushed assault rifles in their faces. The USA would not respond to their capture. They were on their own.

Two blocks and one street over, Riley Donovan tore off the headset, and put the SUV in gear, driving away from the residence. As he did, he shut down all communications and let the computer rest for a few blocks, then rebooted. The small laptop pinned to the dash glowed in the dark, and he switched frequencies, then pulled into a parking lot near a skyscraper and shut off the engine. He tipped the screen to lessen the glow, yet never took his eyes off the frequency line, open and waiting.

He wondered if he could hack into the security cameras, yet as he tried, two questions repeated. Who was Tessa? And what the hell was she doing in the private residence with Ramos?

McGill stood so fast his chair rolled back. The two other people in the room had seen that disaster happen. No one spoke, but ruination hung in the air. The night vision film rolled again and he watched, knowing it wouldn’t change. Anger coiled in him. Ramos, he thought. McGill couldn’t say for sure that Ramos hadn’t recognized Chambliss before he set off that alarm, but it gave the woman enough time to escape, and trap the team.

“I want a digital of that woman.”

“Cleaning it up now, sir.”

Tessa righted a couple clay pots on the rooftop garden, then turned back to the edge. Going up instead of down put her in isolation and darkness. Well, partial darkness. Small eyeball lights plastered her shadow over the rim of crenulations that earned the nickname, the Citadel. She kept herself between the lights and through mini binoculars, watched as the three men were stripped of weapons. She held her breath when the troops yanked off the hoods.

Logan. It was him.

Good God, this was way up there on the weirdo meter.

Ramos with a new face, and then Logan here? Not good, not good at all. What was Ramos pulling her into? She suspected he’d set her up for that, but what the hell was with that leather thing? She could feel it against her stomach, tucked flat and sweaty. She winced as a soldier drove the butt of his rifle into the back of Logan’s skull so hard he dropped to his knees. Oh, jeez, that had to hurt, she thought, and it was her fault. She didn’t wonder why he was there. He was a SEAL and Ramos with a different, older face said a lot. Whatever it was, it was mega-classified. But when the soldiers forced the men back into the residence, she tried to speculate where they’d take them and how she could get in. The troops were crowding the area, congratulating themselves before leaving two guards standing post. The others left to check on their fake VP.

She lowered to the roof, her gaze flicking over the raised garden and seating area. An escape across a lighted lawn, what were they thinking? And just how did Logan get in? A HALO jump?

She hadn’t heard a helicopter, and although the roof was the easiest route in, if that exposed risk was their retreat plan, it stunk. And so did hers, she thought, realizing she was trapped. As far as she could see, the only way off the roof was down through the residence already swarming with police.

This has been such a bad week, she thought, tipping her head back. Dancing with natives already felt like months ago.

Shoulda never answered the phone.

On his knees, the back of Logan’s head throbbed, his body stiffening against the next blow. It didn’t come and he glanced to the side. Between the soldiers surrounding them, he saw a man striding across the lawn, shouting orders. A soldier yanked him to his feet, blood flowing warm on his neck as he forced Logan around.

At his feet, Max lay in a heap, moaning, and Sebastian didn’t look up to speed either. Christ, what a fuckup. He was going to kill Ramos for blowing this.

He glanced to the side and saw a man pushing his way between the soldiers. A few moments later, someone jerked his head back. He stared into a pair of dark eyes and knew this wouldn’t be pleasant. Within moments, the team was dragged into the residence, down two flights of stone stairs to what felt like a wine cellar. It was cooler, the corridors narrow, the baked walls crumbling as the soldier forced them below. Then three men circled them with weapons drawn as they cut their bonds.

One pulled open a door, then shoved Logan into a small room.

Logan turned sharply, his path blocked by a soldier who had to be a foot taller and wider. A good thing, since Max was slung over his shoulder. He levered him forward and Logan rushed to catch Max, but the giant dumped him on the stone floor. He flinched when Max’s head bounced. Max groaned lowly, then went still. Logan knelt to check his wounds as Sebastian stumbled inside.

He caught the wall, then lowered to the floor. “What’s with all the shoving?”

Logan tried to revive Max, rolling him over.

“Just kill me now,” Max groaned.

“Keep your mouth shut next time. Though the German accent was clever.”

“I’ve never been captured,” Max said. “What do we do? Is there a course in this?”

“For Crissake,” Logan said, backing off.

“A good pistol whipping is always fun,” Max said as he tried to sit up and then just sank back on his elbow. He tested the cut on the back of his head, then pulled out a handkerchief and held it there. Sebastian rested his forearms on his knees. Logan lowered to the floor and cradled his skull, ignoring the blood dripping down his temple.

“Logan…up there—?” Max said quietly. “It was her, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not sure.” But he was. Some people you don’t forget and Tessa was one of them. A half dozen feelings ricocheted inside him, but he couldn’t focus. Because the last time he saw her, she was running with Ramos, seconds before an explosion that killed her.

Tessa pushed off the ground and moved away from the roof lights toward the seating area. She stepped over poles and canvas meant for shading and descended the stairwell. The landing was elaborate, a wide, curved staircase, slanted enough that it was effortless. Her escape plan wasn’t contingent on Ramos’s health. She’d planned to walk out of there with him. She stood at the door, listening to the voices on the other side. It wouldn’t be long before they’d search up here.

She quickly stripped out of the skin suit. The tight spandex microfiber shrank down to nothing and she stuffed it in her pack, then unhooked the straps and changed it to look more like a purse. Doable. She stood and smoothed the skirt and scoop neck top that clung enough to be a distraction if she met up with anyone male. Expose the boobs and they don’t see the face. She adjusted everything into its best display, thanking her grandma’s heritage that she had enough to work with, then slipped on sandals.

The doorknob rattled and she thought, I’m done. Then she suddenly turned back to the furniture and sat on the patio sofa. Think, think.

When the men hurried up the staircase like a team of horses, she was posed and squinting in the dark. “Estavan? Is that you?” she asked in breathy Spanish. “I heard awful noises.”

The guards lowered their weapons, thumbing on flashlights and gliding the beam over her. As decadently as she could muster, she slid off the couch and came toward them.

“What’s wrong?” She stared between the men with her best dazed and confused look. “Estavan told me to wait here,” she kept on in Spanish, referring to the Vice President.

The men smiled to themselves, one ordering another to escort her out, then arranged his men so she wouldn’t be seen. Apparently, Estavan had been a naughty boy before. Oh, lucky me. Tessa paused by the oldest, looking him over like he was a Godiva chocolate before she followed the other men out. They took her down the servants’ staircase, the halls void of anyone. A soldier gestured to the door down a corridor lined with storage rooms, and she smashed any urge to throw them a wink, and slipped outside.

Releasing a long breath, she hitched her bag on her shoulder and started putting as much distance behind herself as she could without running like hell. She was near the road when she glanced back. Guards lined the walkways near the entrance, yet there weren’t many near the rear. She started to turn back to get inside and find the guys, but just as she took a few steps, she heard a sound like the slow beating of wings. The noise increased and helicopter lights speared through the trees. Okay, not an option, she thought, and turned away. She walked briskly toward the road.

She had to get out while she could. If they caught her with the leather map, life was over. She’d worked too hard to get hers back and keep it. She’d be damned if a bunch of stupid men would threaten it. But that wasn’t getting Logan or Ramos out.

And now more people knew she was alive.

Paul Ramos felt hands on his shoulders, and he breathed through his mouth, his sinuses swollen shut. Fucking Chambliss. Someone pressed an ice pack to his face. He grabbed it, glaring through stinging eyes. The room filled with soldiers, and he waved them off. “I’m fine,” he said. “Look elsewhere.”

Tessa was out, he was sure of it, and if not, he’d see her in a moment in handcuffs. But Chambliss? He hadn’t been a SEAL for over ten years and the fact that Chambliss showed up told him someone powerful had him over a barrel. He liked the sound of that. But his next thought was, Was he here to rescue me or kill me?

CIA was desperate. He hadn’t made contact but not for lack of trying. He didn’t expect any help. Jacobs had made certain of that.

Since the failed coup, every phone and room in the residence was monitored. He’d found the surveillance equipment easily enough but hadn’t learned who was monitoring it. The house security system cameras were unobstructed and obvious. These weren’t. Chinese, and nearly invisible. With the help of a maid, he’d stolen Eloisa Garcia’s satellite phone to contact Tessa. Neither U.S. central command nor CIA would accept the call because the number was blocked. Or they just couldn’t believe it. Either way, he knew he was suspected of treason by now. His track record hadn’t been stellar and they’d go with what they knew. To the CIA, he was over the fence, gone.

It would matter if Eloisa weren’t misbehaving. El Presidente was a widower his first six months in office, and Eloisa del Garcia was the acting first lady. It gave her far too much power and two weeks with her was plenty. He pushed out of the chair and walked to the doorway, the entrance wide and leading to another room. The corridor between was broad enough to hold a banquet and in the vast room, the echoing beat of the helicopter blades alerted him. Garcia’s wife was returning.

A guard came around the corner and stopped dead, lowering his weapon. Ramos took a few steps, his body not cooperating, and he saw the pity he’d grown to hate. He reached his hand out, and the man came to him, shouldering his weight.

I’m going to kill the fucking bitch.

As soon as he figured out how she was murdering him.

Diego Salazar devised a quick plan in the air, at his President’s request.

Secure the residence, the Vice President, and any suspects. He didn’t have to be told. It was his job to know. He’d ordered the pair of choppers to land simultaneously, and standing inside one, he waited till the other door opened, then quickly rushed to the other passengers and in the dark moved with them so that no one would recognize him, either. He hurried into the residence and flipped a quick, assuring nod to the woman before he took the servants’ staircase to the second floor. As he climbed, he listened to reports over the transmitter.

Three men, no insignia, none had spoken. The alarm had come from the private quarters. “Is it secure?” he asked into the small microphone unseen in his ear. Confirmation and location came from the commander of the Presidential guards.

Satisfied with the safety of the Vice President, he entered the second floor, then turned to the right, running his hand along the chair rail trim till he felt the seam in the wall. He pressed and the wall sprang open. He slipped inside and closed the door.

The room was empty except for a bank of flat screens, each picture broken into quarters and showing the grounds and rooms. He removed his weapons before he sat in the chair and called up the security cameras. He replayed them, combing through the last hours. He had nothing on the men, the cameras blackened over before they were seen, yet before that, one lens caught movement near the windows.

He leaned closer, his finger running over the vague silhouette of a woman.

It seemed the Vice President had more than male visitors. Tapping the keys, he brought up the other cameras. He focused on the men. His best interrogators were working on the suspects. They’d only just started. He wouldn’t view them in person. The less anyone saw of him, the better.

He opened the transmitters. “Stop, you’ll kill them.”

Instantly, the men obeyed, dragging them back to the cells, the same brigade used two thousand years ago by his Spanish ancestors.

Ramos hadn’t made it out of the room when Eloisa came rushing toward him. As much as she would dare hurry, he thought. She snapped orders to the armed guard to bring a wheelchair and when he met up with her, he gave her his best forgive-me smile. The wheelchair appeared and he lowered into it. She dismissed the servants to wheel him herself. She wanted to keep an eye on him and while she should be asking what happened, she didn’t.

When they were in one of the many living rooms, she closed the doors, then came to him. He stood. She froze in her steps, frowning. She hadn’t expected him to be more than a jellyfish in the chair, and it made him think she was poisoning his food.

“You are feeling better?” she said, less pleased than curious.

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?”

“I have learned enough from the staff. All that matters is that you’re unharmed.”

“Where were you, wife?”

“Speaking with our President. I am acting as his first lady.”

She was more than filling a role, he thought. She spent considerable time away, and while Garcia had influence, Ramos couldn’t make it beyond the grounds before he’d pass out.

He advanced, smothering his amusement when she straightened her shoulders defensively. She was still a beautiful woman, he thought. When she was younger she was robust and wild, her roots were on the streets. She’d aged gracefully to deeply seductive. She understood her strength as a woman and he let himself appreciate her Rubenesque figure.

He stopped inches from her. “You reek of him.”

She went still, her smooth brow wrinkling.

“Is he a good fuck?” he whispered in her ear like a lover’s call.

She lifted her hand to slap him, but he caught it, smiling gently.

“Watch yourself, Estavan.”

“What is it like keeping the widower and your husband happy?” He let her go, then turned toward the long sofa. “Perhaps Manny and I should discuss it.” He sat, his hands on his cane. “We can’t agree on policy, but in this, perhaps we could.”

She came at him like a vulture swooping in. He was faster, catching her by the arms and holding her back. “No?” he asked.

“I am not unfaithful.” She wrestled against him but he was stronger, for the moment. He didn’t give a damn if she was screwing the entire army, but that she was spending more and more time with the President in Caracas, while he was trapped here, pathetically weak, said she had more control than the U.S. government had first thought.

He had to make it in her best interest to keep him alive. Blackmail had always done the trick before.

“Then you’re willing to prove that?”

Her brow lifted. He could almost see the thoughts flying through her head. The first of which was, “What will it get me?” He didn’t care. He took her mouth like a starving man.

She fought for control. It was game to her, a play for power, and she was very good at getting it. Her mouth teased him, and he drew her between his thighs. She came willingly, her smile soft in her beautifully elegant face, as his hand swept up the back of her thighs. He’d take back the power, like this, having her. Until his face was destroyed two years ago, he knew women and how to manipulate this one. He sought it for a means of escape, and while she used him, he returned it tenfold, torturing her with the only weapon he had left.

Before she killed him, he thought, as she pulled up her skirt and settled on his lap. He played the role of Latin lover. It wasn’t an easy task, his hands moving slower than his brain. He was grateful for instincts and training, but that his entire life came down to screwing a woman to stay alive, was an incredible irony. She started working open his trousers, her dark eyes glittering with hungry anticipation. But his fingers were already under her clothes, between her thighs, stroking her.

If his behavior wasn’t like her husband’s, he’d tell her something syrupy like his brush with death made him appreciate what he had. She wouldn’t care, distracted by her own desire, yet it would satisfy her ego. As Garcia, he was useful, and when he wasn’t, he’d get a hero’s funeral meant for another man—and destroy America in the process.

That alone was enough to push him to survive.

Logan had flashes of another time halfway around the world as they forced his head under water. Only then, it was into sand. How long had they been at this? It felt like an endless cycle from this room and back to the cell.

His hands bound behind him, he had no leverage, his skull in the bottom of the trough. Pinpricks of light burst behind his eyes, his lungs filled tight and pushing against fresh bruises. He’d reached the point that his body had stopped fighting for clean air, his blood pounding between his ears. He didn’t struggle, didn’t strain to pull upright. It wasted precious air to the brain.

The man yanked him up, Logan’s hair blocking his vision already swimming with stars. I hate this part, he thought, and the soldier with the piercing eyes tipped his head back. In the corner of the room on top of an old refrigerator unit was a camera. Who’s watching, he wondered, and where were his buddies? The last time he’d seen Max or Sebastian, they were face-down in a cell, bleeding.

They dunked him again and Logan wanted to go lax, pretend he was dead, but he was too deep inside for an escape and his buddies weren’t with him. Three more times, the soldier shoved his head under water. Logan felt like he was back on a SERE training op, the instructors torturing them like this to see if they could break them.

Then, as if by mysterious command, it stopped. The soldier pulled him to his feet, and Logan stumbled against his captor, his weight pushing the man against the wall. Logan closed his hand over the man’s knife and when he pushed Logan back, the blade came with him. Attacking was out of the question, but defense was another matter.

With a soldier behind him, Logan left the interrogation room and walked the corridor, his vision blurred from the strain of holding his breath. I really should have cut down on those cigars, he thought, still struggling to breathe easily. As they approached an open door, he glanced and intentionally stumbled to the ground, then pushed the knife into his boot. The soldier grabbed his hair, yanking his head back as he rattled off a few insults to Logan’s mother. But he’d seen enough. More cameras, and in the room the men were tearing at their gear, and not just the load bearing vests, but using a small knife to rip the seams like a dressmaker. They’d come with minimal equipment, yet about ten grand in liquid body armor was now torn and bleeding the plastic mix on the floor. Good thing the GPS locator was in his boot heel. Expensive toys, and not one of them was saving their ass now.

Outside the cell, the soldier cut his bonds and with the cursory shove and kick, Logan staggered in and slid to the ground. He leaned against the stone wall, water dripping off his clothes. His thirst was so great, he let it drip into his mouth, then sucked the fabric of his shirt.

“All around it hasn’t been a productive day, huh?” His head lolled to the side, and he could feel his heart beat in his teeth.

Wrapping his hands around Tessa’s throat would be like morphine right now. She was easy to blame. But this was his fault. If they’d pulled Ramos out of there instantly, it would have been a clean break and they’d have been gone before the guards rotated for shift change. Out through the kitchen, then the laundry; Riley was to make the pickup in the laundry van.

Till Tessa. He didn’t know whether to be happy she was alive or furious that it was all a lie at his expense. He’d mourned her, blamed himself for not keeping her safe, and now to find her still in the spy game and helping Ramos?

He almost couldn’t comprehend it. Not from her.

He worked kinks out of his shoulders, then crawled to Sebastian, rolling him over and cursing the mess of his face. Logan was examining a cut over his eyebrow when he noticed something on the floor. Reaching into the corner piled with dirt, he found a small piece of fabric, a button still attached. He recognized the nonreflective button, then checked his own black clothes for a tear. There wasn’t one and he held it out to Sebastian.

He checked his clothing, then shook his head. “I guess we’re not the first guests.”

Logan glanced around the cell, then gestured to the splatter on the wall. The blood stain was nearly black, old. The first team? Or some poor local?

Max rolled over. “What was I thinking?” he whispered.

“That you should shut the hell up?” Logan pocketed the button, then shifted to him, tipping his head toward the light. They went for the hot spots; nose, eyes and jaw, probably his kidneys, too.

“We aren’t pretty anymore, so I don’t think they plan to parade us for the press.”

It would be a benefit to keep them well fed and clean, Logan thought, and took off his shirt and twisted it, holding the rope of wet cloth over Max. Water dripped, rinsing blood from his eyes, and he opened his mouth to catch some. They’d given them nothing except a good beating since they were captured. He glanced at his watch. Eighteen hours ago.

“God, McGill is going to be so pissed.”

“Oh, he already is,” Logan said. “We were videotaping.”

“Great, a ringside seat to failure.”

Logan pried at his wounds. “You need a couple stitches.”

“How’s Sebastian?”

“Pretty bad. I think they broke his fingers.”

“Just my thumb,” Sebastian said through gritted teeth as he forced himself upright.

Logan twisted the shirt again and gave what little water was left to Sebastian, then used the wet cloth to clean cuts. “They’re looking for something. The troops stripped our gear down to the parts.”

“There goes the budget,” Max said.

“They’re getting orders from someone,” Sebastian said. “They have ear mics.”

“I was so hoping for Third World electronics.” Max finally sat up.

“Not a chance. This place is wired up like the White House.”

Only Logan’s gaze moved, indicating the camera secured to the corners. Their identities were compromised and although it would be very difficult for them to get a face or fingerprint match, parading them before the press was the least of their problems.

If they learned they were Americans, the U.S. was screwed.

Hours later, when the cell door scraped open and the guard held a jangle of leg irons, Logan knew—they were, too.