Holly looked up. “Watch out, there’s a guy—”
“I took care of him.” Rafe grabbed her arm, right on the bullet wound. Youch. She shrank away. “Are you okay? Merde, the blood...”
“It’s not mine.” She looked down. What color had her T-shirt even been an hour ago? “Well, not much of it.”
“Not much?”
“Just a little, right where you’re...” She glanced at her arm.
He let go abruptly and pulled up her ripped, bloody sleeve. “Gunshot?”
She nodded, unable to take her gaze off his beautiful face. Rafe? Here? Had a bullet hit her and made her delirious—or was this heaven? “I’m guessing it’s not bad. I can’t really feel it. What the hell are you...? How did you...? Are you alone?”
“Yes, unfortunately. But I’m here.” Gently, he touched the skin around her swollen eye. “It’s a long story. I just met your friends—the Cambodians. They nearly blasted me straight to hell, before I talked them down. One of them spoke French, and briefed me.”
“They’re okay?”
He nodded. “They found cable ties on the soldiers and secured them. I disabled the plane and took them to a good hiding place in the jungle, with their captives. For which they kindly gave me a gun.” He raised his shoulder.
“Gabriel and his men—they’re evacuating.”
“I know. And our backup won’t get here in time. I’ll hide you with the women, then I’m going after Theo.”
“I’m not waiting around. I’m coming with you.”
“No. I’ve put you in enough danger. Here.” He pulled a bottle of water from his pocket. “I need to be sure you’re safe.”
“Don’t worry about me, I’m a survivor.” She ripped off the cap and glugged.
“We’re all survivors until we’re not. You are a lost girl looking for a cause, and I like you too much to want to drag you in any further.”
Oh, boy. Here she was fighting for her life and her mind fixed on his “I like you” like a moth at a neon sign. Of course he likes you, you moron. “I know where he’s being kept, and I know how to get there. It’ll save time.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, as he parted them to speak. “Don’t say no, now. I think I’ve proved that two’s better than one. Come on, while my adrenaline’s still pumping.”
“Wow.” He grinned. “I’m glad you’re alive.”
“So am I.”
His eyes drilled into hers. Why was he not moving? He caught her hips and pulled her close, taking her in a blessedly bruising kiss. Yep, she was alive, all right. She planted her hands on his waist, relishing the tautness of the muscle as she hungrily returned the kiss. Touching him again—she could cry, in relief.
He released her abruptly. “Theo—how is he?”
She palmed his cheek. “He’ll be okay now.”
Rafe’s brow creased.
“He’ll be very happy to see you,” she added, slipping her hand down to his stubbly jaw, relishing the rasp against her palm that told her he was real—not even close to an angel. As if she’d ever make it to heaven. “I’m happy to see you, too.” Like you wouldn’t believe.
He grabbed her hand and planted a long kiss on her palm, his eyes tightly closed. Her insides went gooey. Oh yeah, she had it for this guy, bad. Her vision watered. She choked out a sob.
His head snapped up. “What was that? Are you okay? Need more water?”
“I cried, you robot.” She swallowed the urge. It would be so comforting to give in, so easy to dissolve into his strength.
“Oh. Yes. It’s okay, you know, to cry.”
“I’m good. Moment’s over.” Her lip quivered. She clamped her jaw tight.
“I am sorry, Holly, for what you’ve been through because of me.”
“Drop it.” She held up a palm. “Seriously.”
“Drop what?”
“Stop being kind.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Kindness kills me. Be as nasty as you want and I’m okay. But being nice... That makes me weak. You can be kind to me all you like once this is over.” Because—wow—as much as she wanted Theo back with his father, and the women safe, she really didn’t want this...thing...she had with Rafe to end.
He nodded slowly. “I once thought we were so different.” He tilted up her chin. “It’s okay to show weakness with me, princess. Because, believe me, I know you’re not weak. You are the strongest, most loyal, most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”
The kiss came gently, this time. Tears ran down her cheeks. Happy tears? Sad tears? Kissing Rafe wasn’t helping her mental state, but oh, God, her chest was filling with bubbles of goodness. She wound her hands around his neck. She needed him close. If she could fuse herself to him right now, she would.
He released her, all too soon. “I feared for you, Holly.”
Did she detect a waver in his voice? For the first time he seemed less than 200 percent confident, like it cost him something to say that. He traced the path of a tear up her jaw, up her cheek, as if he was putting it back. He probably didn’t understand tears. Hell, she didn’t understand tears. Surely just a normal physical reaction after a stressful twenty-four hours. She’d cried the first night in prison, too. Then, never again—until now.
Truth was, she was terrified. Not of Gabriel—well, yes, she was terrified of Gabriel—but these tears were coming from a different place. She was terrified of this, of the knot in her stomach that wasn’t going to let her ignore the truth anymore—she’d fallen in love, goddammit.
She grabbed his hand and pressed her cheek into it, then her lips. He groaned and pulled her tight. A dozen bruises and other injuries protested, but she clung on, wanting to give as much to him as he gave to her. He’d told her he didn’t have the normal range of emotions, but he was obviously feeling something now. Relief? Or the same cocktail of emotion that churned in her belly?
Something crackled. She flinched. Bandanna Guy’s walkie-talkie. Rafe scaled the bank, gesturing at her to remain silent. A reedy voice trickled out of the unit, in Rafe’s native language. Rafe replied, muffling his voice with his hand, eyeballing her to remind her not to speak—like she needed the warning. A terse reply crackled back. Rafe responded briefly, then flicked a switch and slid it into his waistband.
“It’s safe to talk,” he said, lying flat on the bank and reaching for her.
She took his hands, and clambered up. “What was that about?”
“Gabriel’s men at HQ were wondering why the plane hadn’t taken off. I said we were fixing a maintenance issue, but everything was under control. They seemed to accept it.”
“A maintenance issue. That’s one word for it.”
“At least we know no one managed to raise the alarm. We must go. We have to secure Theo. This will be over soon, princess.”
* * *
Rafe relieved the dead soldier of his M16. Merde, the things Holly had been through. He didn’t want to subject her to anything else, but she was right—he could use her help finding Theo. Then he’d force her to hide while he rescued his boy. He’d tie her to a tree and gag her, if necessary.
Theo. He was so close.
He passed the rifle to her. At least the militia could be relied on to keep their weapons in working order.
She raised her palms. “I have no idea how to use that.”
“They don’t need to know that. Use it as a decoy.”
“Wouldn’t it make them more likely to shoot me, if I’m aiming a gun at them? I’d rather take my chances with my right hook.”
She had a point. And she wouldn’t be facing the enemy at all, if he could help it. He pocketed the magazine, dumped the rifle and searched the guy’s pockets, commandeering a packet of cable ties. They crept through the jungle, quietly swapping accounts of the last twenty-four hours and talking scenarios and tactics for freeing Theo, their voices hidden beneath the cicada screeches. The gunshots had scared off the macaques, at least.
The airstrip was silent and still. Rafe scanned the patch of jungle he’d led the women through. No sign of anyone, and he’d made sure they’d left no tracks. Flynn would find them right away, using the coordinates Rafe had texted him, but the militia would have to do a time-consuming grid search, once they’d even figured out there was a problem.
If, as Holly said, Gabriel had around two dozen soldiers at the compound, they’d immobilized four so far. It would help to get that number down further.
“Is it okay if I retrieve your knife? I’d feel better if you had it, if you don’t want to use a gun.”
She winced. “If it makes you feel better.”
He jogged to Chamuel’s body, twisted the blade out of the guy’s clamped hand, and wiped it on the grass. If anyone deserved to rot, that fils de pute did. He checked that his walkie-talkie was switched off, as he had with the other soldiers. It was a matter of time before Gabriel became suspicious about that, but what else could he do? He dragged the body into the foliage. The longer the militia puzzled over what happened here, the better.
“Could we take that?” Holly said as he returned, jerking her head toward a quad bike parked beside the wire fence.
“Noise would be risky. Our best advantage is surprise.” Our only advantage. “Can your knee handle it? You’ve been favoring it.”
She nodded. “It’s wobbly, but working.”
He slashed the vehicle’s tires and handed her the knife. She zipped it into her pocket. Her other pocket bulged with something heavy.
She stared at the plane. “Should we check on the women?”
“Believe me, princess, they are well in control of that situation.”
They slipped through the open gate and splashed through the stream bed, taking refuge in the tree line. Once he was satisfied there were no immediate threats, they jogged along the rough road, ready to dive into thick cover at a second’s notice.
It was the fence next to the airstrip that had first assured Rafe he was in the right place. Why would a rustic surfing lodge need a four-meter fence topped with barbed wire? Then gunshots had ripped out, and he’d sprinted and found the plane and the women. Figuring out who they were, he’d approached with his hands up.
The news that Holly had been shot had driven a dagger through his heart. Then another woman, the one who spoke French, hugged him, crying about Theo and how she’d comforted him as best she could. That he was grateful for.
“Water,” said Holly, breathlessly, after about twenty minutes of jogging.
Ducking under the canopy, he handed her a bottle. Her face was flushed, the pink sheen from the heat and effort mixing with bruises in shades of red, purple and green. Her black eye was bloodshot, half-closed and rimmed with red, and her arms and legs were washed pink and brown with dirt, blood and sweat. And still she was beautiful as heaven—nothing short of an IED would rob her of that. “I don’t think I’d recognize you without your bruises.”
She touched her puffy eye. “I must look like a zombie.”
“You look very much alive to me.” So alive that she was prompting all kinds of reactions in him that didn’t befit a man of his rank on an operation.
“That’s encouraging. I can’t wait to throw these clothes away.”
He caught her waist in both hands. “I can’t wait for that either.” A lightness came over him whenever he looked at her, despite the fear he held for Theo. He wanted to kiss her again. He clamped his lips together. He’d been overcome with relief earlier. This time he would control himself.
She rolled the one eye she could fully open. “I meant get changed into something that isn’t soaked with blood. Like, I don’t know, a dress. I haven’t worn a dress in six years. I’d very much like to get that chance again.”
“I’d like to see that.”
She frowned. He let his hands slip from her waist. He shouldn’t confuse things between them. He was fooling himself that a future lay ahead in which he’d see her in a dress, or see her at all. There could be no future for him with any woman, no matter how tough she was, no matter how she appeared to be capable of handling the danger he posed. Not when he didn’t trust himself to control the fire that burned in him. He’d messed with her life enough.
“You can email me a photo,” he said, “in the dress.”
She smiled, and handed back the water. “A photo. Sure. I’ll do that.” The phone in his pocket vibrated. A text from Flynn. He was at least two hours away. Merde. Gabriel could be on another continent by then.
They continued in silence. The air was marginally cooler on the track than in the greenhouse of the jungle, but his skin dripped, and sweat trickled into his eyes. Behind him, Holly panted rhythmically as she ran—a now-familiar sound he didn’t want to think too carefully about. As they came to a corner, she tugged at his T-shirt. He stopped.
“I recognize this place, from being on the truck,” she whispered. “The hut where they were holding the women is about a half mile from here.”
He switched on the walkie-talkie at minimal volume and listened for chatter. Some logistical talk about moving out, but nothing to suggest any suspicions. He switched it off.
They resumed at a quick walk, following the tree line. As they neared the hut, voices filtered up the track. They came to a stop near a clearing, ducking behind undergrowth. The stench of chlorine bleach blasted him. Two soldiers stood outside a dirty concrete hut, smoking and talking, no weapons in view. The older one looked familiar. Scratches and thuds came from inside. A small truck waited out front, parked parallel to the hut.
“Can you hear what they’re saying?” she whispered.
He placed a finger on her lips. He could have removed it—should have removed it—but he let it linger a bit. For several minutes they watched and listened. A man stepped out of the hut, shouting. The soldiers lazily stubbed out their cigarettes and disappeared into the back of the truck. They returned carrying dive tanks, which they heaved inside.
Rafe leaned toward her ear. “They’re in a hurry. The guy who was inside is worried they’ll hold up the boat. Another boat has already left. Gabriel’s taking the helicopter—with Theo, I imagine. I haven’t heard it, so it must be still here.”
“They’re cleaning up and clearing out. Making it look like a storeroom.”
“How far away is Gabriel’s compound?”
“Maybe another half mile, possibly less.”
So he couldn’t risk opening fire. “Stay here.”
“What are you...?”
He held up a finger. “And I mean it.”
He sprinted to the near side of the truck and sheltered behind it. He chanced a glance into the back. Diving and surfing equipment. They’d be unloading it awhile. Voices approached. He flattened against the side. Two guys came and went. A minute later, more footfalls closed in—a man on his own. The truck shifted as he stepped into the back. Rafe slipped his M16 from his shoulder and crept to the corner of the vehicle, giving the guy a chance to load his arms with tanks. As the guy backed out onto the dirt, Rafe stepped out and spoke a quiet, casual greeting.
The guy swung around, frowning. Rafe rammed the rifle butt into his forehead. He crumpled, out cold. Rafe caught the tanks and stashed them back in the truck. Boots thunked on the veranda of the hut. He dragged the guy out of sight, behind the truck, and raised his weapon, steadying his breath.
“Remiel?” one of the soldiers called. “Where did he go?”
“To have a wank. Lazy pig.”
The pair loaded up with more tanks. Once they were back in the hut, Rafe threw the man over his shoulder and ran into the trees. He gagged him with his own shirt, and tied his arms and feet. This was Remiel? Little trace of the boy Rafe remembered. A year or two younger than Rafe, he’d killed his own sister during his Lost Boys induction. Rafe looped him to a tree trunk with a series of cable ties. He caught movement in the jungle—Holly, creeping his way. He lowered the M16.
“I told you to stay put,” he hissed. “I might have shot you.”
“I’m not good at following directions. What are we doing with the other two?”
“You are doing nothing.”
She crossed her arms. “You don’t have a lot of respect for me, do you?”
“I have too much respect for you—that’s why I want you safe. This kind of thing—it’s what I do for a living. Just sit back and enjoy the show, princess.” He took her elbow and spun her around. “From a safe distance. Pretend it’s one of the movies you like so much.” He gently pushed her lower back.
She slung a backward glance at him, then retreated, shaking her head. Mon Dieu. He was used to people following his orders.
He planted his spine behind a large tree and bided his time until one of the men stood alone by the truck. Muffling his voice in his palm, he called out.
“Remiel?” the soldier replied.
“Come,” said Rafe, quietly. “I’ve found something.”
“Where are you?”
Rafe reached a hand out and flicked it, hoping the militia still used the same signals.
Apparently, they did. The man approached, and Rafe dispensed with him as cleanly as the last. Gripping his weapon, he ran back to the side of the truck. As the third soldier rounded the back, he leaped in his path, barrel aimed.
“Arms in the air, turn slowly.”
The guy blinked, evidently as surprised to hear a stranger speak his language as he was to come face-to-face with a gun barrel.
“Do it, or I shoot.”
He complied. Rafe yanked his wrists together and clicked on a tie. His forearm was branded with a G. The new generation.
“Stop. Lay down your weapon,” said a deep voice behind him.
Putain. Where had a fourth guy come from? In front of him, yet another soldier stepped into view, from around the other corner of the truck. He wore a green beret and gripped an M16 like he knew how to use it. Surrounded. The cable-tied guy slunk to the side. How had Rafe missed two men approaching? A recruit’s error.
“Gabriel sends orders,” Rafe said, hoping confusion would buy him time. With one in front of him and one behind, neither could fire yet—the downside of flanking an opponent. “Hurry it up.”
“Who are you?” said the beret guy.
“Reinforcements.”
“He is Raphael. Shoot him,” said the guy behind Rafe, his footfalls indicating he was moving aside. Giving his friend a clean shot.
By the time Rafe lifted his weapon, he’d be dead.