Show No Fear (18 page)

“Venezuelan Elite Guard,” he corroborated.

Lucy’s blood flashed from hot to cold. In her mind’s eye the lieutenant’s fist slammed into her face, making her flinch.

“Luce, I think you should leave the mountain,” he added flatly. “We can’t risk you running into these guys.”

“What? No, I’m not going to leave.” The idea was unacceptable, regardless of the fear chasing through her.

“Listen to me. What if we run into these guys and one of them recognizes you? What then?”

“That’s not going to happen,” she hissed. “The last thing the FARC want is for our UN team to discover who’s aiding them.”

“We can’t take the chance.”

“No!” She shoved at his chest, pushing him onto his back as she straddled him, asserting her dominance. “I won’t let you do
that.”

“I already made the call,” he retorted grimly. “My guys are clearing it with the station chief.”

Lucy glared down at him. “You did that without asking me?” she breathed, outraged but at the same time painfully aware of
his naked body trapped between her thighs.

In the cubby next to theirs, Carlos hushed them.

They both froze, dismayed to have been overheard. Catching Lucy’s face in his hands, Gus pulled her ear to his mouth. “If
anything happens to you, Luce, I’ll never forgive myself.”

It was hard to cling to her anger in the face of such loyalty. Teamwork was clearly serious business. “Nothing’s going to
happen,” she reassured him. “How would you explain my sudden departure? It’s not like I can just hop on the next bus out of
here,” she added hoarsely. “This isn’t about me. It’s about Jay and Mike.” If she ran away like a coward, she would never
get her courage back. She’d be all washed up. “Don’t you see?”

The hands on her face slid through the skeins of her hair, over the tops of her shoulders and lower to cup her breasts with
reverence. “I
want
to see,” he murmured convincingly.

Beneath her bra and T-shirt, Lucy’s nipples pearled with a sudden stab of desire. She wasn’t above persuading him to get what
she wanted. In this position, she had all the influence she needed. “You would keep me safe,” she avowed, lowering her lips
to bestow on him a toe-curling, promising kiss. “Wouldn’t you?” she demanded, rubbing herself enticingly against him.

His breath caught. “Yes,” he admitted hoarsely.

Sitting up, she stripped off her T-shirt and bra, leaving her nearly as naked as he was. “You wouldn’t let anything happen
to me,” she whispered in his ear, nipping his earlobe before offering him her breasts.

As he licked and suckled them, she reveled in the silken heat rising between her thighs. With an overwhelming desire to seduce
him, she scooted back on her knees, clasped his turgid length, and pleasured him until a helpless shudder racked his frame.

There would be no gentleness this time, she assured herself, no danger of disgrace, no recalling another lifetime, another
place.

She worked him over till his breath grew ragged, his muscles convulsed.
Not yet, big boy.
Slipping off her panties, she climbed the length of his body to assuage the hunger building inside her. Swallowing a moan,
she sheathed him fully, then she rode him hard, taking what his body offered to find fulfillment.

“Kiss me,” he urged, but she refused, wary of the tenderness his kisses evoked.

But she couldn’t prevent him from rolling her nipples gently. He slicked his thumb into the sensitive folds spread wide to
him, finding with unerring accuracy the center of her pleasure, speeding her heart rate, spurring her toward her release.

Just as she approached the point of crisis, he jerked to a sitting position, pulled her hips to his, and delved his tongue
into her mouth, prompting the wave to crash over her. She came violently and helplessly, moaning into his mouth as he convulsed
deep within her, mirroring her pleasure.

Keeping their bodies joined, he rolled her under him, put his mouth to her ear, and whispered without rancor, “You can’t manipulate
me like some stranger, Luce. I’m your partner. I know you too well.”

And there it was, laid bare. Her stock in trade was lies and subterfuge, but Gus would accept nothing less than who she
really
was. No agendas, no plots, no secrets.

Relief she didn’t understand rose up within her, bringing a flood of tears to her eyes.
Oh, God, not again.
She squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to acknowledge that his words had such a strange and powerful effect on her.

For a long moment, he simply held her, gazing down at her as she fought to keep her tears from escaping, scarcely daring to
breathe as he painted invisible lines upon her face.

“Okay,” he admitted gruffly, at last. “You can stay,” he added, “if the station chief allows it.”

Lucy snatched her eyes open, hoping the dark would conceal the moisture in them. “Promise?” she asked, transported by a sense
of gratitude and belonging, feelings she hadn’t felt in so long.

He took his time answering as he settled down beside her. “I promise,” he finally replied, pulling her into the circle of
his arms. Only he didn’t sound too happy with his decision.

CHAPTER 11
      

T
he cry of a masked mountain tanager snatched David’s head off the pile of sandbags. The rain had passed, leaving him shivering
under a plastic tarp, sitting on a stool in a puddle of mud.

Bleary-eyed, he watched the iridescent blue bird shoot through rays of sunlight combing through the trees. Wiping drool from
the corner of his mouth, he shook off the tarp and cut a surreptitious glance toward the quiet camp, hoping no one had caught
him sleeping.

Up into the hours of dawn, David had debated whether or not to share his observations with the deputy. Buitre was ten years
his senior, with combat experience that made him dangerous, quick to pull the trigger. Yet they had shared confidences before.
Six months ago, Buitre explained to David how the FARC intended to make a comeback. They had offered the Venezuelans their
remaining coca processing plants in exchange for military training and supplies. From that point forward, the FARC’s focus
had shifted from profit to revolt.

David’s dream of an honorable revolution seemed to be taking shape before his very eyes.

A flash of movement up the trail caught his notice, and he called the standard warning, relieved to hear Buitre’s reply. The
deputy strode into view, pulling Carmen, Maife, and Petra behind him, strung together by a rope.

The girls kept their eyes downcast, their shoulders bowed. David took one look at them and wavered. Could he trust the judgment
of a man as unfeeling as Buitre? He liked Luna and Gustavo. He didn’t want to see them tortured or killed. He certainly didn’t
want to see them taken hostage, for that was a tactic of the FARC that he abhorred as much as the selling of cocaine.

On the other hand, he had a dream, a vision that Colombia would, in his lifetime, be ruled by a just Marxist government, one
that made no distinction between Indian or
blanco.
He could not allow any outsiders to interfere. “Deputy Buitre,” he called, summoning his superior.

Freeing the women, Buitre altered course to cast his shadow over him. “What is it, Squad Commander?”

David’s mouth turned dry. For a second, he questioned his suspicions. But then, he was certain of what he’d seen and heard.
“It’s the couple on the UN team, sir. I think you were right to say they are different than the others.”

Buitre frowned. “Go on,” he urged as David dug for courage.

“I’ve overheard them speaking English—twice. American English,” he qualified.

The deputy’s eyes narrowed into dark, suspicious slits. “Are you certain?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir. There were Americans at my university. I used to practice English with them.”

“What else?” Buitre snapped, guessing that there was more.

David’s heart beat uncomfortably fast. He hated telling tales, and yet…He had his dream to protect. “I caught the woman leaving
your quarters at dawn the other day, soon after you left to meet with the Venezuelans. She claimed the older lady was sick
and she was looking for the medicine you took from her backpack.”

Buitre’s scar paled. His fists curled. “How long was she in my quarters?” he asked, flashing a malignant look at the bungalow.

“I don’t know, sir,” David answered. “When I saw her, she had just stepped out.”

“Did she take anything?”

“I saw nothing in her hands.”

With an angry growl, and not a single word of thanks, Buitre turned and stalked to the little shelter. David winced as he
made to kick a wandering chicken from his path, only the bird scuttled wisely out of harm’s way.

A knot of anxiety coiled in David’s gut. What now? He had every right to protect his dream, especially now with the revolution
to be waged in more honorable ways. Yet he feared Buitre’s temper would cloud his judgment and the Americans—if that was what
they were—would pay with their lives.

B
UITRE FLIPPED THE SWITCH
on his generator, shattering the camp’s peaceful quiet. Normally, he roused the troops at dawn with a harsh call for muster,
but David’s confession had fixed his thoughts on the possibility Luna and Gustavo were spies. He pushed into his quarters,
peering suspiciously around the cramped, musty space.

If Luna was a spy, what could she have found that would undermine the rebel cause? He had carried his radio with him that
morning. The only other source of information was the officer’s log.

He snatched it up, flipping through the yellowed pages, seeing nothing amiss. Snapping on the light, he sat down for a closer
look, sifting carefully through the pages. He paused, turned back, noting a discrepancy in the dates. There was a page missing.
Running a finger along the bend of the spine, he felt the neatly torn edge.

“
¡Puta!
” he whispered.
Whore.
She had stolen a page out of the log! But which page? What information was she privy to?

He backed up a page or two, reading laboriously, trying to picture the pages, the sequence of events. Hadn’t there been a
map among these pages, telling the location, in code, of the four main camps on the mountain?

His heart seemed to stop beating when he realized it was gone.

Marquez had entrusted him with the camp’s security. It was his duty to update and secure the log. But he’d been sloppy. Not
only had he left the camp to cavort with the Venezuelans—warriors who inspired him with their expertise—but he’d left the
officers’ quarters unlocked. There was nothing of value to steal, he’d reasoned. None of the soldiers but David even knew
how to read. He’d never conceived that the members of the negotiating team might be a threat.

But why not? Spies had been trying for decades to infiltrate the FARC.

He dared not tell Marquez about the missing map, especially when its absence could be blamed on his negligence. He would have
to rouse his commander’s suspicions with news that the couple had been caught speaking English.

Perhaps Marquez would let him torture them for information. He would enjoy humiliating the bitch who’d shamed him before his
men. That was when she’d called him
chamo.

The Venezuelan slang word gave him pause. It made him wonder whether she knew about the FARC’s alliance with the Venezuelans.

His radio crackled suddenly and he snatched it off his hip, answering Marquez’s salutation.

“The Argentine and I are on our way,” the commander huffed. “You may expect us by noon.”

“Sir,” Buitre interrupted, “I have reason to believe two of the UN team members are American spies. I have overheard them
speaking English,” he added, giving himself credit for vigilance.

Marquez did not reply.

“Did you hear me,
comandante?
The younger woman and her husband may be spies. I would like permission to question them.”

“No,” Marquez growled, bringing a scowl to Buitre’s face. “You are hasty in your suppositions. That couple works at the United
Nations in New York City. Of course they speak English.”

“But
comandante,
” he protested, devastated not to be able to lay his hands on them at once.

“The Europeans are our guests, Buitre. You presume too much to know whether they are spies or not.”

“Then let me question them. I will know within hours if they speak the truth!”

“No,” Marquez repeated implacably. “We are only steps away from coming to an agreement.”

Agreement? Stunned, Buitre held his tongue for a moment. “Then Commander Gitano will be returned to us,” he guessed with an
abrupt lifting of his spirits, only to have them dashed by Marquez’s next words.

“No. Commander Rojas has decided to accept the Frenchman’s offer. We will surrender the surviving hostage and the dead one
in return for ten of our captured
compañeros.
”

Buitre choked on his denial. “No!” he growled in protest. “Why would we settle for such a small ransom? We need more than
men. We need leadership!”

“The Elite Guard will lead us. What we need now is for these strangers to leave the mountain before they learn too much. Enough,”
Marquez bit out. “I have explained the situation. You will follow my orders and treat the UN team with every bit of respect.
This is not their war.”