Читать книгу Peter's Return - Cynthia Cooke - Страница 11

Determination overrode emotion. For three years, Peter had worked hard to establish his cover as small-time drug trafficker Pietro Presti hoping to gain the attention of El Patrón, kingpin of La Mano Oscura. Now was his chance. He was in the perfect position to find out the truth about Baltasar Escalante and his connection to La Mano Oscura. He had to stay focused. He couldn’t afford to let himself wonder about Emily and what his father wanted to tell him about her.

“Mr. Presti, how do you like your quarters?” Baltasar asked as he strolled into the room.

“Very much,” Peter responded. “Thank you for your hospitality and please, my friends call me Pietro.”

“Pietro it is,” Baltasar said, and sat in a teal-and-salmon chair. He rested his long arms against the bamboo trim and watched Peter for a disquieting second. His lips curved into a small, predatory smile. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your phone call?”

Peter forced a casual air. “Not at all, just checking on a few business deals.”

As Baltasar continued to stare at him, Peter hoped the invitation to the compound would turn out to be a friendly one.

“I understand you’ve been having some run-ins with our mutual acquaintance, Domingo,” Baltasar finally said.

Peter held up his hands, palms out, then gave a gentle shake of his head. “I’m just a small-time guy trying to eke out a living in a big-time jungle. Domingo has taken issue with some of my methods.”

Baltasar nodded, his dark eyes narrowing in contemplation. “I understand perfectly. Let’s take a walk,” he said, rising. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Peter followed him out the door, knowing full well when he received Baltasar’s summons it could mean trouble. He’d taken a chance stirring up the pot with Domingo, but he needed to gain Baltasar’s notice. The few days he’d taken to scope out the perimeter of the compound and stash a motorcycle in a strategic location outside the wall could pay off sooner than he’d thought.

In silence, they walked through the gardens on a cobblestone path moving far away from the main house.

“Your estate is incredible,” Peter said truthfully, trying to gauge Baltasar’s mood.

“I enjoy nice things. I work hard to achieve them. You can, too, if you play according to the rules.” Baltasar looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

His gamble with Domingo had been the right one. Now they were getting somewhere. “Rules have never been my strong suit,” Peter said casually, but laced his tone with an edge of steel.

“I’ve noticed. But to succeed in La Mano Oscura, one must never tread too far off the beaten path.”

Peter contemplated his response, but stopped as the snarl of a wild cat pricked the hairs on the nape of his neck. Slowly, he turned toward the tree closest to the path. A midnight-black jaguar with yellow-green eyes watching his every move sat on a low tree branch, its tail twitching, a low growl resonating deep in its chest. Peter’s breath knotted in his throat. He’d seen firsthand what a cat that size could do to a man, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Baltasar approached the cat, reached up and rubbed its head. “Hello, Akisha,” he cooed. He took a napkin out of his pocket, then carefully removed a large piece of raw meat and fed it to the cat. He turned back to Peter. “As I was saying, veering too far off the path might not be a healthy choice.”

Stunned, Peter could only nod as he watched the cat devour his treat. He expelled a relieved breath as they turned and headed back down the path toward the main house. He was still groping to get a handle on whether this visit would be agreeable to him when Baltasar said, “I love Venezuela. My enterprises have taken me many places, Pietro, and yet I always come back home where the colors are vibrant and the smell of the jungle heightens your senses.”

“I believe you have the makings of a poet, Mr. Escalante,” Peter said after a moment’s hesitation.

Baltasar let loose a deep, barrel-chested laugh. “My dear late wife used to say the same thing.” He shook his head. “How I miss her. You married?”

“Once,” Peter answered. “Unfortunately, it didn’t work out.”

“It takes a special kind of woman to be married to men like us.” Baltasar patted him on the back and as they approached the main house he led him through a set of French doors into a comfortable yet masculine office.

Peter casually scanned the room, taking in the deep brown leather sofa flanked by two overstuffed chairs. Against the far wall, but still maintaining the focal point of the room, was a large cherrywood desk and credenza. Everything he would need to unearth Baltasar’s nefarious activities would probably be found in that monstrous desk.

“We can talk privately here,” Baltasar said, and took a seat behind the desk.

Peter viewed this as a good sign. If Baltasar had wanted bloodshed, he wouldn’t have brought him into a room sporting a plush Turkish carpet. And they wouldn’t be alone. Baltasar opened a small humidor sitting atop his desk, pulled out a rich brown cigar, and gestured to Peter.

Peter didn’t care for cigars, but he knew it would be bad form to refuse. He nodded and watched as Baltasar used a stainless steel cutter to neatly snip off the cigar’s end before passing it to him. Peter accepted Baltasar’s offer and held it under his nose, breathing deep its strong aroma, and then waited for the business to begin.

“Along with your aversion to rules,” Baltasar said after lighting and inhaling deeply off his cigar. He rolled the smoke around in his mouth before exhaling and finishing his thought. “Your reputation as an innovator and a man of action precedes you. I can use someone like that in my organization. You interested?”

Peter took a deep drag off the cigar and let Baltasar stew a moment, then said, “Perhaps. Depends on what you have in mind.”

Baltasar held his gaze. “Right now I’m in a position to expand my operations and I need someone in the States to head it up for me. You are an American, sí?”

Peter nodded and gestured with the cigar. “But you already knew that. You see, your reputation precedes you, too, Mr. Escalante, and I know you wouldn’t have brought me here if you didn’t already know everything there was to know about me.”

Baltasar smiled, his expression moving from benign indulgence to sharp respect. “Good, then we can drop the pretenses?”

“Please do.” Peter leaned back in the chair.

“I know you’re good at what you do. I know you’re considered a bit of a hothead. I also know you’re American, and a trip back home might not be such a bad idea, since our mutual friend Domingo isn’t too enamored with you at the moment.”

“Domingo is a fool,” Peter countered. “He doesn’t have the foresight, the imagination, or the guts to run an organization that will have the success and the reputation of La Mano Oscura.”

Baltasar nodded, his fingers coming together to steeple beneath his chin. “I appreciate the compliment.”

Bingo. Baltasar was indeed El Patrón, leader of La Mano Oscura.

“But I didn’t bring you here to hear compliments, Pietro. Personally, I could care less if Domingo hacks you up and feeds you to his beloved crocodiles. But I believe you can help me and if you turn out to be worth my trouble, then you’ll get a free ticket back to Chicago and a piece of the La Mano Oscura pie. You interested?”

“Perhaps. How big a piece?” Peter asked, and couldn’t help flashing a predatory smile of his own.

Baltasar laughed. “I think I could like you, Pietro.” He was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping out a simple beat on his desk. “I know you have a small but well-run organization in Chicago. How would you feel about expanding that operation?”

“Depends if the returns are as big as the risk. I like to stay small because it keeps me under the authority’s radar.”

“It also keeps you living in shacks in the jungle.”

Peter snuffed out his cigar in a crystal ashtray. “You got me there.”

“I’m expecting a large payment soon that will cover all the expenses necessary to set you up properly. I have one thousand kilos of pure powder processed and ready. I can have half that shipment sent to Chicago. Can you handle it?”

“I can, but I’ll have to increase my base.”

“Think you can have it done by the thirteenth?”

Peter nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Good. I’m cutting back on my organization in Colorado. I want to transfer operations to Chicago consecutively.”

Peter schooled his features not to show too much excitement. This was a bigger break than any of them had anticipated. Baltasar must be very unhappy with Barclay to be cutting him out. Either that or he was on to Barclay’s arrest. And if that was the case, this whole conversation could be a setup and Baltasar could have wind of the sting operation the CIA had planned.

Peter’s stomach turned, and it wasn’t just from the cigar.

“All communications will be directly between you and I. You won’t use my name, but will always refer to me as El Patrón. Each month I will send an e-mail communication of when you can expect the next shipment of kilos and where—”

The door burst open and a woman rushed in, her long, flowing wheat-gold hair, bouncing across her shoulders.

Baltasar stood.

The woman stopped dead in her tracks, her arms frozen in midswing, her large hazel eyes staring in widened shock. At him.

Emily.

Peter’s heart slammed into the side of his chest.

A man dressed in the tan uniform of Baltasar’s guards came running up behind her, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her back.

Peter stood, and had to stop himself from rushing forward and ripping the man’s arm off. He must be dreaming. It couldn’t possibly be his Emily standing in Baltasar Escalante’s office being manhandled by a guard.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Escalante,” the guard said. “The señorita is faster than she looks.” His lips quivered in disgust. “I won’t let her get by me again.”

Emily’s shocked gaze hadn’t left Peter’s.

It was her. And if he didn’t do something fast, she would say or do something, and the jig would be up, his cover blown.

“It’s all right, Esteban,” Baltasar said, and walked toward them. “You may leave us.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. The guard nodded and backed out the door. Peter took advantage of Baltasar’s diverted attention and held a forefinger to his lips. For a brief second, Emily’s eyes widened.

Once the door clicked shut, Baltasar turned back to Emily. His Emily. What was she doing there? Why wasn’t she back home in Colorado Springs working at Vance Memorial and raising babies? His mind felt wrapped in several layers of cotton. He forced out three quick breaths, then took a deep one and tried not to think about how fast his heart was beating. He had to calm down. He had to make sure neither one of them gave the game away.

Baltasar turned back to his desk and snuffed out his cigar. “Dr. Armstrong, is everything all right with Marcos?” he asked.

Emily still hadn’t spoken. She just stood there staring, her emotions playing across her face—shock, pain, regret.

Peter held his breath. Come on, Emily. Pull it together. Don’t give me away.

“Dr. Armstrong?” Baltasar said again.

Peter didn’t like the way Baltasar’s gaze kept shifting from her to him then back to her again.

“Is everything all right?” he asked again.

She took a step toward Peter, her mouth opening to speak. He lifted his hand a fraction of an inch, gave a slight shake of his head, and hoped she could still read him as easily as he could still read her.

“Sorry,” she said, regaining her voice, though it was obvious how much of a struggle it was for her.

“Is everything all right with Marcos?” Speculation ran high in Baltasar’s tone.

Peter turned toward the window, breaking their connection before Baltasar’s speculation turned to suspicion.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Emily said, seeming to pull it together. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Marcos is coming down with a cough that we’ll need to keep a close watch on. It seems he’s develoved pneumonia. But he’s been given antibiotics. His spirits are high and he’s resting comfortably.”

Peter sat back in his chair and acted uninterested while watching them out of the corner of his eye. He knew Baltasar’s son was dying of AIDS, which explained why Emily, a pediatric hematologist, would be there, but it certainly didn’t explain how she got there.

“He’s a wonderful little boy,” Emily added.

“Thank you,” Baltasar said softly. “I think so, too.”

She fell silent, her large hazel eyes once again seeking out Peter’s, once again causing a painful lurch in his chest. He tried not to look at her, tried to look back out the window, or at the desk, anywhere, but all the willpower in the world couldn’t pull him away. How he missed her, the sharp pain of it sliced through him.

“Was there something you needed, Dr. Armstrong?”

The abrupt edge to Baltasar’s tone sent a twinge of anxiety rushing through him. They’d have to be careful around this man. From everything Peter had heard and seen, he could play Mr. Charm, but underneath he was a diabolical and ruthless killer.

“Yes,” Emily said, and turned slightly, giving Baltasar her full attention.

That’s it, babe. Don’t let him see you sweat.

“The phones in our wing aren’t working and we need to call the clinic and let them know we’ve arrived safely. It’s been several hours since we were due and we don’t want them to worry.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Dr. Armstrong, but I’ve already contacted the clinic and let them know you’ve been delayed.”

As she hesitated, the pieces clicked into place. Baltasar needed a doctor for his son and he took one, regardless of what she wanted or needed, or who might need her. Come on, baby. Play it cool. This isn’t Mr. Altruistic; this is a monster in disguise.

“And then there’s the matter of Dr. Fletcher’s wife and children. They were expecting to hear from him. They must be worried sick.”

Dr. Fletcher. Peter vaguely recalled that name from Vance Memorial’s Christmas parties.

Baltasar smiled warmly. “Of course they are. We must alleviate their worry. Tell Dr. Fletcher to post a letter and I’ll see it’s mailed immediately. I’m sorry, but our phone service is sporadic at best, and it isn’t working right now. I’ll make sure you and Dr. Fletcher know the minute it comes back on.”

Emily’s shoulders fell with her relief. “Thank you, Mr. Escalante. We really appreciate it.”

“Please, my name is Baltasar. And thank you. There’s no way I could ever express the appreciation I feel toward you and the good Dr. Fletcher. This is the least I can do.” Baltasar turned toward the door and called for Esteban.

The guard stuck his head in the room. “Sí?”

“Please see Dr. Armstrong back to the hospital wing.”

“Yes, sir.” He stepped into the room and took Emily’s arm.

Frustrated by his inability to intercede, Peter opened his mouth to protest, then forced himself to close it again as the guard led her out of the room. A fist of dread grabbed hold of Peter’s solar plexus and gave a firm squeeze. She was a giant monkey wrench that could totally screw up his operation. But didn’t she look good? Better than he remembered. And if he closed his eyes, he was sure he could recall what she smelled like, and how her skin would feel as soft as silk beneath his touch.

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” Baltasar said, shaking his head and sitting back down behind his desk. “My son’s new doctor. I don’t think she heard much, but I do think she’s going to give me trouble.”

Peter raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything, hoping the man would continue, but not wanting to appear too interested.

Baltasar leaned back in his chair and stared at him. “I manage to stay one step ahead of the game by not allowing mistakes or mishaps of any kind. There’s too much at stake here for us to take unnecessary chances or risks.”

Was he talking about Emily or him? Either way wasn’t good. With a modicum of indifference in his tone, Peter asked, “Is the doctor a risk?”

“She has too much backbone for a woman. She’s trouble. I can feel it right here.” With a tight fist, he punched his gut.

The cold ferocity in his gaze sent a sliver of fear arcing through Peter’s mind. He wished he could jump out of his chair, find Emily and get her out of Venezuela. But he couldn’t jeopardize his mission—too much was at stake. Peter forced himself to concentrate on the man, and on his job.

“My associates and I have a network of hotels in Chicago on the river,” Baltasar said, leaning back in his chair and replacing the snubbed out cigar in his mouth. “I will have a shipment of say two hundred kilos divided up and delivered to four hotels at noon tomorrow.” He took out a pad of paper and wrote down the names and addresses of the hotels. “Have your people in place to pick up the shipments. If there’s a problem, or a leak of any kind, I will know it came from your end. Make sure that doesn’t happen, or our relationship will come to an abrupt end and I can assure you it won’t be pretty.”

Peter sucked up a breath and squared his shoulders. “No problem, Mr. Escalante. I don’t do pretty. My people know what’s at stake.”

And so did he. Only now there was a lot more at stake than nailing a drug lord. Now he had to rescue his ex-wife and if he knew Emily, she wouldn’t make it easy.

After leaving Baltasar’s office, Emily tried to walk down the hall as if she didn’t have a thing on her mind other than Marcos, but she was having trouble feeling her legs. Peter was alive and well right there in Venezuela. And looking like a vision out of an action movie.

She wasn’t sure how she’d recognized him with that long, shaggy, dark hair and scruffy morning—no, make that afternoon shadow. Who was she kidding? She would have known those ice-blue eyes anywhere. With one look, they pierced her soul and set her heart on fire.

Peter. His name whispered across her mind. She smiled, her heart filling with hope and anticipation even though Esteban was furiously hissing who-knew-what in Spanish behind her. Suddenly he grabbed her arm. She bit her lip as his long bony fingers dug into her flesh, then cried out as he slammed her against the wall.

“Don’t ever do that to me again, chiquita, or you will be one sorry little lady doctor.” He was too close to her, his raspy, garlic breath fanning her cheek. “Such soft, tender skin, white and fine as porcelain,” he breathed. “The kind of skin that bruises easily.” He ran a calloused finger down her cheek. “Even in places that can’t be seen, eh?”

Nausea turned her stomach, yet she stared him down, wide-eyed and boldly refusing to let him see her fear. He was nothing more than a bully, a low-man-on-the-totem-pole bully who wanted to make her feel afraid. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Without flinching she held his gaze and lifted her chin. “If you don’t mind, Esteban, I need to get back to Marcos. Unless you want me to inform Mr. Escalante how you’ve detained me when I meet him for dinner tonight.”

Esteban’s eyes narrowed, quickening the blood coursing through her body. “Don’t push me, chiquita.”

“What’s going on here?” Snake asked as he rounded the corner.

Emily had never been more relieved to see a thug in her life. “I’m afraid I’ve upset Esteban,” she said, and casually stepped out from the wall and beyond his touch. The look crossing Snake’s face had her clamping down on her jaw to keep her teeth from rattling. Lord, if he wasn’t the scariest man she’d ever met.

“Dr. Armstrong interrupted Mr. Baltasar,” Esteban explained. “She needs to understand she will be punished if she does it again.”

“I’ll walk Dr. Armstrong back to her wing,” Snake said, looking at his watch. “I’m sure she won’t need you again until morning.”

Esteban glared at her, muttered a few more words in Spanish, then disappeared down the hall.

Emily turned to Snake. “Thank you. I’m afraid that man has control issues.”

“Is something wrong with Marcos?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in speculation.

“I wanted to use the phone,” she said, feeling the need to explain herself and not liking it.

He looked at her like she had the brains of a snail. “Make sure you don’t pop in on Mr. Escalante unannounced again. It wouldn’t be healthy,” Snake said evenly. Something in his tone, in his expression, scared her more than the quivering, unhinged Esteban.

“Do you think it’s possible to get someone else to ‘serve’ us other than Esteban?”

“No,” he said, then gestured her forward.

“Great,” she muttered, and let him lead her back down the hall to the hospital wing. Where was she and who exactly was Mr. Baltasar Escalante? And what did he have to do with Peter?

They had been talking quite seriously when she’d walked in, something about kilos. Emily stiffened as the word ran through her mind. She could no longer ignore the trepidation skittering down her spine. There was only one thing she knew of that came in kilos. Drugs.

She stole a glance behind her at Snake. Why hadn’t she seen it before? They weren’t the guests of an eccentric millionaire worried about his son; they were the prisoners of a drug lord. A cold sweat washed over her. What did that say about Peter?

When they reached the hospital wing, Emily sat on the sofa and tried to still her pounding heart. Is this where Peter has been for the past three years? Why hadn’t he called anyone? Why hadn’t he cared that no one had known whether he was dead or alive? Her shoulders sagged as she dropped her face in her hands.

She hadn’t let herself dwell on it, hadn’t wanted to face the implications of such a sustained absence. A part of her hoped he was alive, but she hadn’t known for sure. Now she did. But was he trafficking in drugs?

She thought of all the damage drugs did to the users and their families and all the problems they’d had in Colorado Springs lately—the increase in victims of violence at the Galilee Women’s Shelter and all the overdoses at the hospital. She sighed. No, the Peter she knew could never be involved with drugs. Maybe he was still with the CIA? He could be working undercover, that would explain why no one had heard from him for so long. And why he didn’t want Baltasar to know they knew each other. Either scenario meant he wouldn’t be much help to her and Robert. She would always come second to his job, no matter what it was. She always had.

She thought back to their marriage and how much she’d loved him, and the more she loved him the more afraid she’d grown as he became more and more entranced with his job. She knew it wouldn’t have been long before he’d be working undercover, going on dangerous assignments and getting himself killed. The explosion that put him in the hospital was a real eye-opener for her, and she knew she couldn’t live that way—always wondering, always worrying.

She’d made an impulsive and emotional decision to walk out on their marriage. Then she’d waited for him to come home and tell her how foolish she’d been, to assure her that he’d be fine, that he wouldn’t take unnecessary risks, that he wouldn’t put his job before their marriage. But he never came. He hadn’t loved her enough to fight for her. He accepted her reasons and let her walk away, even though it was the last thing she wanted. Tears stung the back of her eyes. No, as always, she was on her own.

“Emily?”

She opened her eyes to find Robert staring down at her.

“Is everything all right?”

She shook her head, but couldn’t find the words to speak. Peter is here. She wished she could tell him, but she’d been the wife of a CIA agent long enough to know better. She patted the couch next to her. After he sat, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “I believe Escalante is a drug lord.”

“What?”

“I heard him talking about kilos. We have to get out of here.”

“I agree, but how?”

“I don’t know.” Certainly not by counting on Peter. He hadn’t even batted an eye at seeing her again. The tears she’d been trying so desperately to keep at bay flooded her eyes. Peter had been her husband. She should be able to count on his help. She should be able to depend on him.

Robert placed an arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. “It’s going to be all right. God will hear our prayers.”

“I hope so,” she whispered, but somehow she didn’t think He was listening.