Double Cross (Hard Target Book 1) (12 page)

CORY HUDDLED on the bench seat of the military truck doing her best not to bounce off either the driver or the stone-faced officer sitting on her other side. She couldn’t believe this was happening again. When her cousin Gerald first contacted her about joining a medical task force, she never dreamed she’d be sent to Guayana City, Venezuela.

She was an idiot. A complete and total idiot. She should have known better when the Venezuelan Army lieutenant knocked on her hotel door. Should have realized there was something off when he asked her to pack her suitcase and come with him. Oh, he’d been official enough, but she’d studied the region and the political situation. She was aware of the depth of corruption and should have seen the man for what he was.

A particularly vicious pothole in the road sent her careening into the driver. He offered her a vile leer that made her want to cross her arms over her breasts. Shrinking away from him, she still managed to flash him an arrogant sneer. The lieutenant who’d kidnapped her chuckled and patted his lap, offering in Spanish to let her sit there. She ignored him.

After three hours, the truck turned off the main road and climbed a series of switchbacks along a rutted, dirt road. She caught a glimpse of a magnificent house high on top of the hill. When the vehicle rolled through an electronic gate set in a tall wood and adobe fence with barbed concertina wire strung across the top, Cory knew she was in serious trouble.

Just like before, there would be no rescue because no one knew she’d been kidnapped or where she’d been taken. She clasped her hands together so the soldiers wouldn’t see them tremble. For the past few months, she’d second-guessed herself over the night she spent with Duke. Now, knowing she’d never see him again, she didn’t regret a thing. Even terrified, heat flashed just under her skin, tightening her breasts and making her insides go squirrelly. No matter what happened to her now, she would have the memory of their night together, of the way he’d dominated her and turned her into a giant puddle of turned-on goo.

The description almost made her laugh, and she would have if her situation wasn’t so serious.
Distraction
. That’s what she told herself. She needed the distraction, and remembering what they did together, how Duke Reagan made her feel, was just what the doctor ordered.

She was such an imbecile, pretending they meant something to each other, that he reciprocated her feelings. The scientific, rational part of her brain poked fun at her. Hero worship. Wistful thinking. Schoolgirl crush. But her heart? Her heart was a romantic and believed in love at first sight, in heroes, and in happy ever afters. As a result, her heart refused to let him go.

The truck rolled to a stop, along with the other trucks in the convoy that had accompanied them. She didn’t want to think about the cargo they carried, fearing other women had been taken also. As the lieutenant lifted her down, she caught a glimpse inside the truck in front of her. Crates. As she stood there, men swarmed and began to unload. Some of the crates appeared to contain liquor. Others luxury goods according to the markings stamped on them. And one broke when it fell off the truck. It held bricks of white powder. Cocaine.

“Buenos dias, señorita.”

Cory whipped around. A man stood in the arched entryway, both sides of the wooden double door flung wide. Of medium height, he sported slicked-back brown hair and a precisely trimmed mustache. His dark eyes watched her like a snake with a mouse in his sights.

“I demand you release me immediately.”

“Por favor, señorita. I apologize if my men gave you the impression that you are a prisoner. Did they not bring your luggage? Have they mistreated you in any way?”

There was intimidation and there was assault. His men were guilty of the former, if not the latter. The man knew he had her.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Philippe Morales. Welcome to my home, Señorita Prince.”

“Doctor.”

“Perdóname,
doctor.
I meant no offense. You are a beautiful woman, and I forget that you are also so well-educated.”

Cory pushed her sunglasses back up to the bridge of her nose. Beautiful? Ha. She didn’t know what he hoped to achieve by flattering her but she knew what she looked like and beautiful was not the adjective she would use. At least she wasn’t filthy as opposed to the last time she’d been kidnapped. She watched the driver pull her two pieces of luggage from the rear of the truck. The lieutenant held her purse. She reached for it, but he jerked it away.

Glancing back at the colonel, Cory assumed her haughtiest expression—the one learned at her mother’s command, the one that eased her through her medical boards, internship, and residency. “If I am not a prisoner,
colonel
, why is your man keeping my property?”

The colonel ripped off a string of rapid-fire Spanish, though she managed to translate most of it. The officer with her purse opened it and dug through it with such insolence Cory wanted to slap his face. When he pulled out a pouch and looked inside, only to blanch, she wanted to fist pump.

“Feminine hygiene products, lieutenant. Are you familiar with their use?”

He flushed and bared his teeth at her, his comments in Spanish very uncomplimentary. She simply stared at him, arrogant mask in place, extended her hand in a haughty gesture.

“My bag, if you please.”

The soldier threw it at her. She caught it and managed not to spill anything. Draping it over her shoulder and feeling a little emboldened, she faced down the colonel. “Since I’m not a prisoner, you will arrange for me to contact the American embassy in Caracas and ensure that I am returned there immediately.”

“My apologies again, Dr. Prince, but that will not be possible. You will remain here as my…
guest.
”

Cory liked neither the colonel’s tone nor the implications. He ordered the driver to take her luggage to a bedroom in the villa, but she received the distinct impression there was something sinister about that particular room assignment.

Morales took her arm and tugged her inside. With a firm grip just above her elbow, he steered her on a short tour of the house. His descriptions were perfunctory, and the presence of at least one guard in each public room was frightening. This wasn’t a guided tour for a guest but a blunt statement to a prisoner. There would be no escape.

After a quick-march circuit of the lower floor, he urged her upstairs. Cory choked back her panic as he pushed into what was obviously the master suite. Her suitcases sat on a bench at the foot of the bed.

“I trust you find these accommodations satisfactory, señorita?”

“I trust you will be sleeping elsewhere?” She crossed her arms over her chest and stabbed him with her most imperious stare. The back of her neck prickled, like someone was watching her. She had an urgent need to look around but understood Morales would take her shift in focus as a sign of weakness.

The colonel stalked around her in a circle. She shifted to keep him in front of her at all times. He stopped with his back to the French doors opening onto a veranda. Beyond the balcony, the view opened onto hills covered in the deep green of equatorial foliage and trees.

“I
will
tame you, little doctor. You will learn to come to my hand for both punishment and praise. I will teach you to enjoy both.”

Cory couldn’t control her instinctive reaction. She blanched and her eyes widened in fear. Morales saw and smiled. He stretched his hand and stroked her cheek with two fingers. She fought the urge to either run or slap him. In the end, she just stood there as Morales laughed and walked out, locking the door behind him.

Sinking to the bench beside her luggage, Cory gave in to the urge to cry. What sort of bad karma had she garnered to end up in this sort of situation for the second time? A slightly hysterical giggle escaped.

In Africa, she’d thought about selling her soul for a hot shower, clean clothes, and sheets on a real bed. Here she was—in captivity again. With a bed, an en-suite bath, and her clean clothes folded neatly in the suitcase she never had a chance to unpack.

Only this time, it just might be her soul that was in danger. Morales didn’t want to kill her. He wanted to humiliate her. She wrapped her arms around herself and refused to give in to the shakes threatening to make her teeth chatter.

She glanced out through the doors and realized there were no curtains. Any guard—and she knew they’d be out there—could watch whatever Morales did—or would attempt to do—to her. God, did the man like an audience? She shuddered again.

Cory was alone. She’d have to rescue herself because lightning would
not
strike her twice. Duke lived in Key West. Retired, she supposed, or whatever the Navy did to SEALs horribly injured in the line of duty. His team was dead, Duke the only survivor.

The State Department had no idea something had happened to her. She didn’t think to call the embassy to check the lieutenant’s credentials before accompanying him. The colonel had her cell phone and her passport, though she’d been left her wallet after all the money and cards were removed. Her captor could spend the money easily, but credit card use would alert the authorities to her location. They’d most likely be discarded.

They didn’t know about the extra money hidden in the toes of her hiking boots, and the debit card. If she could get out of the house, she damn sure would walk back to civilization. And if she couldn’t? Better to get eaten by some creepy-crawly critter than submit to Colonel Morales.

Because after that night with Duke? There was only one man she’d ever submit to, and it surely wasn’t a sleazy, popinjay of a Venezuelan Army officer turned drug lord.

DUKE LOWERED his head to the sniper scope. And swore. Just like the last time he’d sighted in on that face. Then, the background had been mud huts and the African savanna. Now he was in the freaking equatorial jungle spying on a multi-million dollar villa built on the side of a hill. And just like last time, the face in the crosshairs was the same. She’d changed slightly in the last eighteen months—her face fuller, and her curves. And she wasn’t covered in gore.

This was the face that haunted his dreams, leaving him awake and aching, so hard and wanting her so much no cold shower could dent his need. And he’d never even fucked her. What the hell was up with that? Only one time in recent memory had he reacted to a woman with the same enthusiasm. His one-night stand from the bar. Part of him still thought his imagination had conjured her, but Dalton insisted he’d seen her leaving the house.

Shifting to give his damn unwieldy hard-on extra room, Duke checked the scene again. It was impossible. Or at least highly improbable that Dr. Cory Prince was here in Venezuela. Why the hell
would
she be here? At the mansion of a fuckin’ drug lord. In his gawdamn bedroom. Then again, why was he surprised? After all, the first time he’d seen her, she’d been in the company of an African warlord.

His conscience kicked him in the ass. Africa hadn’t really been her fault. She never should have been there to get kidnapped in the first place. The woman obviously had no sense of self-preservation. She needed a keeper, but he wasn’t volunteering for the job. Oh, hell no.

Fraser Kincaid snaked up beside him, but didn’t speak. Despite having worked—however briefly—with the former Army SpecOps guys collectively known as the Wolves, Duke got slightly twitchy that the guy could turn furry in the blink of an eye. The non-Wolf members of Hard Target had watched Kin and Loch shift often enough, knew how the basic process worked. Still, the whole thing was sort of disturbing and he hoped the Wolves never went furry all over his ass because they were hellacious special operators no matter their form.

Duke continued to watch the compound across the valley. “We have a complication.”

“Aye. Seems the colonel has a little side piece. She’s American.” A Scottish burr smudged Kin’s reply. “That said I suspect from the way you’re scowling there’s a bit more to the story.”

More? Hell yeah there was more. He’d made her kill that warlord, right after his whole SEAL team had been blown to shit, and he’d lost his eyesight. He didn’t explain any of that to Kin, saying only, “I’ve run into her before.”

Which was the world’s biggest understatement. Eye glued to the sniper scope, Duke glared at the woman who’d proven his nemesis every time their paths crossed. Her eyes remained the clear blue he remembered, but he was shocked to discover her hair was red. In his dreams, her hair was brown. Or blonde. Even black. Never red.

He had a thing for women with red hair. Hated them. Completely and absolutely. He’d dated one redhead who pretty much ruined his life at the ripe old age of eighteen and now here was Dr. Cory Prince, with her long legs, lush curves—she’d put on weight since Africa—and that deer-in-headlights expression he recognized. Could Fate fuck with him any more?

The odds of finding her here in the Venezuelan jungle at the house of the man they’d been sent to destroy were a little too pat for him; the current mission a little too similar to the situation in Africa to be coincidence.

“When did she get here?”

“That last convoy we tracked this morning. If it makes a difference, the lass was under guard. And, she’s got a temper t’match all that bonnie red hair. The poor wanker what unloaded her got an earful. Seems she was sent by your State Department or some such.”

“State Department? Why the fuck would they send a kid’s doctor into a drug lord’s territory?”

Kin gave him a look. “Kid doctor, yeah?” When Duke didn’t elaborate, the Wolf continued. “T’is your government, mate. I don’t know shite and plan t’keep it that way. If ya like, Loch n’me can manage t’get ears on the place. At the very least, we need t’decide whether t’blow the main house like we planned.” He glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the team. “Your call, mate.”

Yeah. His call. He was the damn mission boss. Part of him wanted to put a bullet in her brain to put her out of
his
misery. The rest wanted to strip her down and fuck her until neither of them could breathe. Decisions, decisions. Being an intelligent man, he decided this was above his pay grade.

“Call Mother. She needs to know Dr. Prince is here.”

His men’s eyes focused on him then Tank and Dalton exchanged a look. Yeah, they weren’t feeling the love either. Uri hunkered down next to the compact radio unit. Moments later, Mother’s voice crackled from the speaker.

“We’ve got a situation,” Duke started.

Mother cut him off. “Did you get her?”

The men exchanged uneasy glances and Duke snarled. “You wanna explain what’s going on, Mother?

“Take out the top levels of the effing cartel, Duke. Bring the little bird home. We’ll talk then.”

He counted to ten—about a hundred times. “You knew she was here?”

“I knew she was taken this morning. Figured she might end up there when I heard it was an army officer who took her. Two birds, one stone. Or bullet. Same outcome. Everybody gets what they want.”

“What is it you want, Mother?”

“What I want isn’t in the mix, Duke. Shit rolls downhill. You know that as well as anybody.”

Dammit. He was not going to fuck up this mission, would not sacrifice these men who were now as much his as SEAL Team Atlantis had been.

“Is this a set up, Mother?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? I have a thing about ambushes.”

“Would I do that to you?” She paused a beat before continuing. “Don’t answer that. If I want your ass, I’ll kick it myself.” She huffed out a breath. “Duke, I know the history here. I wasn’t aware of Dr. Prince’s situation until an hour ago, long after Hard Target had already been deployed. I don’t play those kinds of games, and my bosses know it. Your team is not compromised.”

“Excuse my paranoia, but are you positive?”

“You’ll just have to trust me. I have you covered. All of you. Get this done, Duke, and come home.” The radio hummed to silence.

He dipped his head back to the scope, stared into frightened, and red-rimmed, blue eyes, and wondered just where home might be. This wasn’t about him, or the princess. This was about the mission. All the personal shit could wait. He inhaled. Exhaled. Gave the order.

“Extract her before we blow the villa, Kin.”

“I’ll retrieve her then. What is it American cowboys say? Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers?”

“No, that would be John McClane, the cop character in the Die Hard movies.” And didn’t that just sum up his personal hell. Duke scrubbed at his forehead. The team was out of options. They had to cut the head off the cartel, and no matter how much part of him might want to leave Dr. Cory Prince behind to suffer the consequences of her actions, he couldn’t do it. Not and face himself in the mirror every morning for the rest of his life. “Get her out, Kin. We’ll cover your six.”

“My arse appreciates that, Duke.” The cocky Scot gave him a one-fingered salute before disappearing into the jungle foliage.

“It’s time to party.” He muttered the words, but Tank heard them. So did Dalton, Uri, and Lochlan.

“Fitting, since the gang’s all here.” Tank nudged his hip with a boot. “Like old times.”

“Speak for yourself.” Duke settled back into his firing position, doing his best to ignore the smirks and snickers from his teammates. He knew what they suspected, though they’d be wrong. Every last one of them was a hound dog when it came to the ladies. He wasn’t. Not anymore. And so what if he didn’t partake? So what if his fucking dick had developed a mind of its own when it came to fucking. And the fucker had just decided it liked fucking redheads.

Uri, with Moshe and Golda, and Tank slipped off to follow Kin while Lochlan hunkered down to stick fuses into prepared explosive charges. Mother was serious when she said she wanted the cartel to go boom. The team could arrange that.

Dalton set a spotter’s scope beside Duke and dropped down to spread out his lanky frame. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Duke finally broke it.

“What?”

“I’ve done some checking.”

“On what?”

“Her.”

“Fuck off, Dalton. It doesn’t concern you.”

“Wrong. If it messes up your head, Duke, it concerns all of us. Trust me when I say this bimbo has you fucked up nine ways from Sunday.”

“Don’t call her a bimbo.”

“Would you rather I call her a bitch?”

Before Duke realized what he was doing, he had Dalton pinned to the ground, his hand fisting the other man’s shirt. “I told you to stay the fuck out of it, Dalton.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” He pried Duke’s fingers loose and pushed him off. Resuming his former position—belly down, eye to the spotter scope—Dalton continued. “You dream about her, Duke. I hear you talking in your sleep.
When
you sleep.”

Duke gritted his teeth. He wasn’t going to ask, wouldn’t pry, didn’t give a rat’s ass about her.

“What did you find out?” Fuck. So much for his vaunted self-control.

“I think someone is trying to kill her. Or get her out of the way.”

“You mean besides me?” Duke switched to binoculars to scan the compound below them.

“I’m serious, Duke.”

“So am I.”

“Fine. Walk away. Be an asshole.” Dalton’s frustration and worry leaked across Duke’s anger. “I know what she did to you. I know what you did to her. You two have history. I get that. But just like the crap that led us to being set up in Africa, there’s something going on with her. Something beneath the surface. So I looked into things. DICA didn’t then and still doesn’t send doctors into hot zones. She should never have been closer to a rebel warlord than Cairo or Johannesburg. Something’s not right, Duke.”

“Then lay it out.” Duke listened with half his attention. Dalton had always had a heart as soft as his head.

“One, she’s put in the middle of a political nightmare where the government troops are almost as bad as the rebel warlords. Two, her alleged guards cut and run at the first sign of trouble, including three highly-paid mercs. Three, she didn’t expect a ransom, figuring her family would leave her flapping in the wind.”

Dalton paused as he focused on something in the villa below. He tapped the tiny microphone near his mouth. “Heads up, kids. Change of guards.”

Duke watched through his own scope, noting the slim shadow moving around in the bedroom beyond the French doors. Occasionally, Cory passed into view, and it appeared she’d changed clothes.

Once Kin, Tank, and Uri acknowledged, Dalton continued. “Where was I?”

“Four?”

“Yeah, four. There’s a huge family trust fund. She’s the main beneficiary, but she’s got cousins lurking in the shadows.”

“That all you got?”

“Nope. The male cousin who has power of attorney works for State.”

“The State Department?” Huh. What were the odds?

“Yep. Some special assistant to the fifth special undersecretary for special foreign projects at the State Department. It’s just too
special
for words.”

Duke lowered the binoculars and turned his head to stare at Dalton. He read sincere concern on his friend’s face. “You’re serious.”

He sat up and rocked back on his heels, considering for the first time that Cory might be in danger from something besides her own naïveté. Who had it in for the doctor so bad they wanted her dead—or worse? And why?

Granted, the woman was completely maddening. He’d happily strangle her with his own hands—but only because the other alternative was to fuck her blind. No. That was wrong. He wanted to make love to her. All night long. Had since the moment almost two years ago when she’d stepped out of that mud hut covered in blood.

“Fuck.”

“My sentiments exactly, Duke.”