Читать книгу Seduced by His Target - Gail Barrett - Страница 13

Chapter 4

Rasheed rode down the trail a short time later, still incredulous at what he’d done. He’d stupidly challenged Amir. He’d nearly blown his cover and given himself away. He’d jeopardized five years of painstaking work, five years spent laboring in the training camps and insinuating himself into the Rising Light hierarchy to stop these murderous thugs. He’d endangered the success of this critical mission, putting the fate of thousands of innocent civilians in doubt.

All because of this insane attraction to his captive, a woman he couldn’t trust.

He shifted in his saddle, trying not to jostle the injured doctor collapsed like deadweight against his back. He eyed Nadira—Nadine, he silently corrected—ahead of him on the trail, her slender shoulders slumped, her slim hips swaying as the mare descended the rocky slope, and knew he’d had no choice. He’d had to intercede. The sight of Amir putting his hands on her had razed his self-control. There’d been no damned way he could stand aside and let him hit her, even on the off chance that it was all a ploy. It went against everything he believed in and who he was.

The problem was that he’d done far worse than defend her. He’d done more than nearly give in to the urge to kiss her and slake his body’s long-dormant needs. He’d come dangerously close to letting her penetrate something inside him, allowing her mesmerizing eyes to crack open the lid on his buried emotions—and tempting him to care.

And that was a danger he couldn’t afford. His work ruled his life now. He couldn’t go back, couldn’t resurrect the man that he once was, no matter how much she appealed to him. That part of him was dead.

To be safe, he had to maintain his distance from her, especially if she was here at her father’s request. Although frankly, the more time he spent around her, the harder that was to believe. Her fierce resistance to any orders, her rush to protect Henry at any cost—even her refusal to use her Jaziirastani birth name—suggested that she was exactly what she seemed: a victim in this affair. Then again, these terrorists were shrewd. He wouldn’t put anything past them in their quest to root out a traitor, especially on a mission this big.

The gelding lurched, and Rasheed adjusted his grip on the doctor’s wrists, trying to keep him from falling off. Regardless of his doubts about Nadine, there was one thing he knew for sure. Henry had nothing to do with the upcoming attack. He was an unlucky bystander, an unfortunate do-gooder whose admirable intentions had placed him in the terrorists’ path. Now Rasheed had to convince these men to leave him behind—or Henry might pay for that generosity with his life.

The horses continued plodding downhill. The creak of the leather saddles, the muffled thud of their hooves broke the silence of the mountain air. Mulling over his course of action, Rasheed glanced at the sheer peaks towering overhead, the rows of cultivated coca now encroaching on the wilderness. A hawk soared silently past, the predator a stark reminder that he had to proceed with care. Manzoor was astute. If he wanted to persuade him to release Henry, he had to be careful not to tip him off.

Manzoor reached a clearing a moment later and drew his horse to a halt. The group straggled to a stop beside him, the buzz of insects loud in the air. Nadine slid off her horse without a word, dropped the reins and staggered off, seeking the privacy of the nearby shrubs.

The other men swung down. Rasheed inhaled and steeled his nerves. This was it. It was time to make his move. He knew he was taking a risk. These terrorists would perceive any concern as weakness—or worse. But he had to do something about Henry. And he had to do it now, before Nadine came back and overheard.

“We have a problem,” he told Manzoor, who was taking a map from his saddlebag. He waited until the leader looked up, then gestured toward the doctor sleeping against his back. “This man isn’t going to make it. His condition is getting worse.”

Manzoor unfolded the map and shrugged. “The woman is a doctor. Let her deal with him.”

“She tried to, but he’s too sick. The ride is making him worse. We need to leave him behind.”

“We can’t.” Clearly dismissing the subject, Manzoor turned his attention to the map.

Rasheed slid a glance at Amir. The terrorist stared back, his eyes simmering with resentment, and Rasheed bit back a curse. He didn’t want to give Amir another reason to suspect him, but for Henry’s sake, he had to persist.

“He’s too weak to ride anymore,” he continued. “He keeps passing out. He can’t be that important to our plans.”

Manzoor raised his head. Annoyance flickered in his black eyes. “He’s not important. But the woman won’t try to escape while he’s along, so he stays.”

Rasheed couldn’t argue with his logic. Nadine obviously cared about the older man. And using him to control her was a surefire way to keep her in line. “I understand that. But I’m telling you, he can’t hold on.”

“So let him fall,” Amir cut in. “That will teach him to pay attention.”

“A fall will kill him.”

“So? Why do you care?”

“I don’t care.” Rasheed chose his words with caution, aware that he was walking a tightrope, and that a slipup would invite more suspicion of him. “He doesn’t matter to me. But I do care about the success of our mission. And the doctor’s a complication we don’t need. He’s only slowing us down.”

Manzoor’s gaze went to the sleeping man. “We only need him until we reach Buena Fortuna. We’ll dispose of him there.”

Rasheed’s heart skipped a beat. Dispose could only mean one thing. If the concussion didn’t kill Henry before they reached the town, Manzoor would. He wouldn’t leave any witnesses behind.

And it made sense. According to his intelligence briefings, Buena Fortuna was the town where the drug plane would pick them up. The plane would fly them to the staging area on San Gabriel, a small, private island controlled by the drug cartel off Colombia’s Caribbean coast. There they’d make their final plans before entering the United States. And it was Rasheed’s last chance to meet with the undercover operative who’d infiltrated the cartel and tell him what he’d learned.

Except he hadn’t learned anything of value yet.

“How far is it to Buena Fortuna?” he asked.

Manzoor looked at the map. “Twenty-five miles. We’ll reach it in the morning if we push through.”

Twenty-five miles! Hell. It was way too soon. He needed more time than that to question Nadine and find out what she knew.

Keeping his voice indifferent, he perservered. “He won’t make it that far. I say we spend the night in a village to let him rest.”

But Manzoor only shook his head. “No, we will ride through the night. We don’t have time to waste.”

Rasheed curbed his frustration, knowing he had to back off. “You’re in charge. But the horses are worn-out. They’ll collapse before then. And the man won’t do us any good if he dies along the way.”

Manzoor only grunted in reply.

Rasheed pulled out his canteen and drank, but his thoughts continued to spin. What a mess. He had to get Henry to safety before his usefulness ended and Manzoor had him killed—assuming the doctor didn’t die before then. And yet, he also needed information about this case, vital information that only Nadine could provide. And as soon as he spirited Henry to safety, she’d try to leave.

But could he justify delaying Henry’s rescue for the mission’s sake? And what about Nadine? If she was as innocent as he strongly suspected, didn’t he have an obligation to help her escape? But could he really trust her? What if he misjudged her? Could he risk making a mistake of that magnitude?

The branches of the dense shrubs moved. Nadine emerged a second later, her head down, her long, black hair spilling over her arms. She walked straight to the mare, her movements stiff, her discolored jaw bearing the imprint of Amir’s fist. Then she glanced at him, her eyes shooting daggers, and his hopes sank.

She’d heard. She now knew they intended to kill Henry when they reached the town. And if he’d learned anything about this woman, it was that she’d never capitulate. She was going to do something reckless to get her companion free.

Swearing at his predicament, he tightened his grip on the reins. He had to stop her. He couldn’t let her risk her life. But if he interfered—even to protect her—she’d trust him even less.

She mounted the mare, her expression hostile—whether from anger or pain, he didn’t know. But he did know one thing. He’d just made this complicated situation even worse. He had to help the injured doctor. He couldn’t tip off the terrorists and ruin his chance to stop the attack. He also had to contend with Amir, a man clearly gunning for revenge.

More importantly, he had to get close to Nadine and find out more about the terrorists’ plans. And he had to do that without giving in to the attraction simmering between them like a cauldron ready to blow.

But if she was the innocent he believed, he’d just guaranteed that she wouldn’t trust him. And yet, if there was any chance she was in league with these terrorists, he couldn’t trust her.

So which was she—her father’s accomplice or a victim?

With time running out, he had to decide on an answer fast.

* * *

The kidnappers were going to kill Henry. She had to get him to safety quickly. And she couldn’t trust Rasheed to help.

That horrible realization had plagued Nadine as they rode down the mountain for the past few hours, fording streams and traversing coca farms, moving relentlessly closer to Buena Fortuna, the town where Henry would die.

That near kiss hadn’t meant anything to Rasheed. The compassion in his eyes wasn’t real. It had only been an illusion, a pathetic fantasy forged by her desperate mind. She was completely on her own here. And even though Manzoor had finally relented, agreeing to stop for the night in this mountain village, she only had hours, maybe a day at most, to help Henry escape.

And she still didn’t know how.

Trying not to panic, she knelt in the hard-packed dirt beside Henry in a hut the terrorists had commandeered. He lay on a sleeping pallet made of straw, an alpaca wool blanket pulled up to his neck, his face almost as gray as the whiskers covering his chin. The wooden door was ajar, the rustles of nocturnal creatures and chirp of crickets filling the night. The thatched roof formed a peak overhead.

“I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble,” he murmured. “I’m a total pain in the ass.”

She studied him in the lantern’s glow. Dark circles underscored his eyes. The pale light wavered, casting shadows over his face, emphasizing the gaunt hollows of his cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not a pain.”

“You could escape without me. I’m slowing you down.”

“No, you’re not. Now stop worrying about it.”

His tired blue eyes met hers. “I’m serious, Nadine. Take one of the horses and ride for help. It’s the only chance we have.”

Her heart skipped. Had he overheard the terrorists’ plan to kill him? But no, they’d been speaking in Jaziirastani. He couldn’t have understood. Thank God.

Because the last thing he needed was a worry like that. She refused to even tell him why the men had kidnapped them. He needed all his strength to get well.

“Would you leave without me?” she countered. When he grimaced, she gave him a pointed look. “Exactly. And I’m not leaving without you, either. We’re in this thing together. Now just concentrate on resting and getting stronger. I’ll think about it tonight, and tomorrow we’ll make our plans.”

He reached out and squeezed her hand. A faint smile reached his eyes, edging out the pain. “You’re a good friend, Nadine.”

Hardly. She’d gotten him into this disaster. He’d been kidnapped because of her. And now his fate was in her hands.

The wooden door creaked, and she turned her head. An old woman came through the door, lugging a pot of food. Barely five feet tall, she wore a thick wool cardigan sweater, several layers of skirts, and the usual tire tread sandals on her swollen feet. Her face was weathered and brown, her hip-length braids threaded with gray, her age somewhere between forty and ninety, impossible to discern.

Nadine rose, towering over the tiny woman, and helped her set the pot on the wooden crate serving as a table beside the bed. “Gracias,” Nadine told her. The woman smiled, revealing gaps in her stained teeth, and murmured something in return. The farmers spoke a variant of Quechua, not Spanish, making communication hard.

Not that they needed words. The terrorists’ guns had made their meaning clear.

But Nadine still wished she could thank her properly. The terrorists had forced the villagers from their beds and demanded food. And while she was glad for Henry’s sake, their strong-arm tactics made her cringe.

“You’d better get some rest,” Henry urged her. “I’ll be okay here.”

“You sure?”

“I’m just glad to get off that damned horse. When we get out of these mountains, I’m never riding again.”

If he got out of these mountains. He might not survive unless she came up with an escape plan fast.

But he was right. A hot meal and a good night’s sleep would help him more than anything she could do right now. She eyed the steaming stew, the mouthwatering scent of chicken reminding her that she hadn’t had a decent meal in days.

“All right,” she said. “But promise me you’ll drink more tea.”

“I will. I’ll even chew those disgusting leaves if you insist.”

“I do.” She crossed the dirt floor to the door, then summoned a smile she didn’t feel. “Don’t worry, Henry. I promise I’ll get us out of this mess.” She refused to fail this man.

She ducked through the low doorway and stepped outside. Then she paused and peered into the darkness, surprised her ever-present guard wasn’t hovering nearby. But the men had pegged her correctly. They knew she wouldn’t leave without Henry. And in his weakened condition, he couldn’t go far.

But there had to be a way to escape. Still thinking that over, she started down the moonlit path between the huts. Calling the settlement a village was an exaggeration. It consisted of half a dozen mud huts perched on the edge of the mountain, surrounded by coca plants. She passed a chicken coop and shed, heard the grunt of a rooting pig. But there was no sign of a road, no other way out that she could see, only this narrow dirt trail through the terraced fields.

She glanced at the low-growing trees silvered with moonlight and sighed. She didn’t blame these farmers for cultivating coca. They lived in houses without windows or lights, with no running water, no schools for their children or health care, just barely scraping by. The profit in coca lay further up the chain with the drug cartels. These poor people were just trying to eke out a living, growing a product that met an insatiable foreign demand.

A minute later she reached the edge of the hamlet. She spotted the horses grazing beside the path, the three captors talking in a moonlit field, and turned around. Not wanting to draw their attention—or worse, reveal that she was plotting an escape route—she followed the scent of wood smoke to the cooking fire instead.

The farmers fell silent as she approached. Too ravenous to care about their disapproval, she beelined to the soup pot, salivating at the tempting scent. A woman filled a large pottery bowl with rice, then dumped a ladleful of stew over top and handed it to her. Nadine shot her a smile of thanks, wove through the sullen men to a log and sat.

The stew was amazing—thick and hot, a delicious blend of potatoes, chicken and peppers, and bursting with seasonings. She’d devoured half the bowl before she could force herself to slow down.

But then Rasheed appeared in the line. He headed her way a moment later, carrying his own big bowl of stew. She tensed as he sat beside her, his nearness scattering her pulse. And suddenly she was far too conscious of his hard thigh resting close to hers, the glint of firelight in his jet-black hair, the warmth emanating from his big frame.

Disgusted at her reaction, she scowled. What was it with this man? So what if he was attractive? So what if he’d saved her from Amir? He wasn’t her ally. She’d overheard what he’d said to the other men, how they planned to dispose of Henry when they reached the town. And while he’d suggested resting overnight, he hadn’t done it out of kindness. He only wanted to expedite their trip so he could hand her over to her father—the man who wanted her dead.

And the disappointment she’d felt when she’d heard his words was beyond absurd. She couldn’t build this man up into some kind of savior just because he’d rescued her. He was still violent. He’d nearly engaged in a knife fight with Amir. If he really cared, if he had any real compassion inside him, he’d let them go.

He turned his head, and his dark gaze stalled on hers. And for an instant she imagined she saw it again, that glimmer of sympathy in his dark eyes.

Which only proved she was losing her mind.

“How’s your face?” he asked.

“It hurts. What do you think?”

His gaze roamed over her jaw, his scrutiny somehow sensual, and her heart fumbled several beats. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Yeah, right.” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.

He angled his head to meet her eyes. “I am sorry. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Sure. That’s why you kidnapped me.”

His strong jaw flexed. “I’ve got a job to do. It’s not something I can talk about. But I don’t wish you any harm.”

“Then let us go.”

“I can’t.” Regret tinged his voice—and damned if he didn’t sound sincere.

She lowered her gaze to her stew, but her appetite had deserted her. And suddenly, she was so tired, so incredibly confused. Who was this man? Why was he bothering to be nice to her? He’d protected her from Amir, risking his life on her behalf. But he’d also captured her and was planning Henry’s death. So which was the real man—the kidnapper or the protector? Did he care, or was he playing some kind of twisted mind game to amuse himself?

She closed her eyes, too tired to figure it out. And for the first time, despair spiraled through her, the terrible dread that she might not survive.

No. She refused to think that way. She’d been in dangerous situations before, and she’d always made it out alive. But what if she didn’t this time? What if she couldn’t save Henry? What if that dear doctor died because of her?

There had to be a way to escape. She had to put her mind to it and come up with a plan, no matter how impossible it seemed. She wasn’t going to let these people win.

Forcing herself to think, she focused on the half a dozen farmers standing around the fire, drinking pisco and coca tea. These men made their living producing coca. They harvested the leaves and converted them to paste, which they sold in the nearest town. To make the paste they needed chemicals, gallons of it— kerosene, gasoline, ammonia—which wouldn’t be easy to transport on these mountain trails.

Unless they had a truck...

That thought gave her pause. She hadn’t seen any signs of a vehicle. She hadn’t even seen a proper road. But if they had one, they’d probably park it near the pit where they made the paste.

Her hopes ticked up. She racked her brains, trying to remember what she’d heard about making paste. First they harvested the leaves and dried them. Then they put them in a pozo, or pit, and added water and kerosene. To avoid hauling water, they’d probably build the pit near a stream.

And if she could find that pit, she could find whatever vehicle they used to transport the chemicals—hopefully, a car or truck.

She stole a glance at Rasheed. He watched her with steady eyes, and her pulse increased its beat. She’d never fool him. He’d never let her out of his sight. Unless... She rose.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She gestured toward the path behind the cooking fire. She’d seen enough villagers come and go while she’d been eating to figure out where it led. “The ditch—or whatever it is they use. Why? Do you want to come with me?”

His gaze stayed on hers for a heartbeat. A long second later, he shook his head. “No, go ahead. But Nadine...don’t try anything rash.”

Not bothering to answer, she returned her bowl to the bucket by the fire. Then she started down the moonlit path leading away from the huts, trying to act nonchalant. But she didn’t have much time. She had to locate the coca pit and hurry back before Rasheed grew suspicious and came to investigate.

The stench told her when she’d reached the right place. But a sudden crackle in the underbrush caught her attention, bringing her to a stop. She held her breath and listened hard, scouring the darkness around the path. Nothing. Probably some nocturnal animal hunting for food.

Still, in case one of the kidnappers was lurking nearby, she slipped behind the wooden screen and used the ditch. Then she took another, narrower path through the woods, following the sound of a rushing stream.

Seconds later, she reached the creek. She washed her hands, the icy water a shock to her nerves. The stream itself wasn’t wide, maybe ten feet across, but it probably flowed straight from the snowcapped peaks. She rose and glanced around, not sure which way to go. But if she were dumping toxic chemicals into the river, she would choose a spot downstream.

Clicking on Henry’s penlight, she headed along the bank. She picked her way through the bushes and rocks, tripping over branches and rotting logs. But several minutes later she stopped. There was still no sign of a pit. For all she knew it could be miles in the other direction. And she was running out of time. If she didn’t head back soon, Rasheed would divine her plan.

Deciding to keep going to the next bend, she continued hiking downstream. The creek twisted and curved, and then she spotted another path, probably leading straight from the coca fields. Her excitement mounting, she picked up her pace. And then she saw it—the pit where they made the paste.

It was literally a hole in the ground lined with a plastic tarp. They’d built a lean-to around it to protect it—a crude, wooden structure with a metal roof. Various supplies were piled outside—barrels containing chemicals, coils of plastic tubing, wooden poles to stir the paste. Hardly a high-tech operation, but it sufficed.

She continued past the pit, and her heart made another leap. A pickup truck. So she’d been right! And there was the road—a rutted tractor trail disappearing into the woods. She could sneak out later with Henry and hightail it to the nearest town.

Thrilled at her discovery, she hurried to the truck. It had a flat rear tire, rusty doors and barrels piled in the bed. But she didn’t care. As long as it ran, she would drive it on the rims.

Assuming she could find the key.

She shone the penlight through the window and looked inside. No key. Damn. One of the villagers must have it. But maybe Henry knew how to hot-wire an engine. She’d go straight to his hut and ask.

But then a twig crackled behind her. Her heart lurching, she whirled around. More branches snapped, and panic jolted her into gear. Someone was following her. Scared now, she darted up the path leading through the coca fields.