Show No Fear (5 page)
Dear God.
“How was your flight?” Carlos added as the taxi rumbled along boulevards of hand-laid brick.
“Good,” said Gus, shaking off his backpack and digging out a small, oddly shaped cell phone. Lucy recognized it as the device
he would hide inside his hiking boots. The heels of both boots were hollow, allowing him to stow his phone in one, a spare
battery in the other. She watched him dial a lengthy number with quick thumb work. Leaning toward him, she hoped to overhear
snatches of his conversation.
“
Buenas tardes,
” Gus casually greeted the man who answered. “We’re here. Do you see us?” he asked in Spanish.
One of his buddies, already situated at the Joint Intelligence Center within the U.S. embassy, answered with an affirmative.
Their microchips were working. Gus murmured that they’d arrived on time to make their appointment that afternoon. Then he
dropped the phone into his shirt pocket.
Everything was going as planned. The knowledge eased Lucy’s agitation, giving her assurance that she would soon regain her
equilibrium. She would be exactly as she was before—composed and fearless.
The vision of the queen-sized bed as she entered their hotel room minutes later brought her up short. Considering Gus’s broad
shoulders, sleeping together on a bed, even that size, was going to resemble a contact sport. Remembering the spark that their
kiss had ignited, she couldn’t help but imagine that sex would be devastating. Only she would never get that carried away.
Fraternization was discouraged by the CIA. Sexual involvement tended to dull awareness and cloud judgment.
“Nice room,” said Gus, tossing his backpack on the luggage rack. He sent her a nonverbal cue to help him sweep it for bugs.
The methodical procedure focused Lucy’s scattered thoughts. “Clear,” she declared, sinking into the overstuffed chair by the
window. The answering twinge in her right hip made her wince.
Gus saw her do it. He froze, his eyebrows sinking slowly together as he glared at her. “What was that?” he demanded in English.
“What was what?” she said, going with denial.
“Your incision is bothering you,” he guessed, pitching his voice low in deference to the thin walls.
“It’s fine,” she insisted. “I’m a little sore, that’s all.”
“Maybe it’s infected,” he persisted, folding his arms across his chest.
“How can it be infected? I’m popping doxycycline. That’s an antibiotic, right?”
He stepped over to her chair. “Stand up,” he ordered. “Let me look.”
“No!” The last thing she wanted was for him to force her off the assignment because of a little cut in her hip. She bolted
out of the chair, dodging past him to race into the marbled bathroom, where she promptly locked the door.
With a calming breath, Lucy turned three quarters and peeled back the waistline of her European-style slacks to survey the
damage.
Damn. Maybe she shouldn’t have run again last night. The Band-Aid she’d stuck on her this morning was blood-soaked. She snatched
it off to eye the small, gaping cut with foreboding. Yanking toilet paper from the roll, she dabbed at the wound, rolled her
slacks over the tissue, and opened the door again, running straight into Gus.
“Do not,” she warned, her temper flaring, “get in the habit of standing outside the bathroom door.”
“No problem,” he said easily. “There are no bathrooms in the jungle.”
She pushed past him to get to her backpack.
“It’s bleeding,” he guessed as she upended her bag, shaking the contents onto the bed.
Band-Aids, check.
She snatched one up, circling him as he stepped into her path, and headed back into the bathroom.
Flashing out a hand, he caught her back, his grip unbreakable. Lucy tugged uselessly, annoyed by the realization that he could
overpower her with embarrassing ease. “Listen to me,” he said, his gentle tone oddly menacing when paired with his steely
grasp. “Even the smallest sore will fester in the jungle if it isn’t treated. I can’t let you proceed with this assignment.”
“I’ll be fine,” Lucy insisted, tempted to stamp a foot. “What are you going to do, call Gordon and tell him I’ve got a little
cut? I’ve also got a hangnail,” she quipped, shoving a finger under his nose—her middle one. “Does that disqualify me, too?”
“I have a new word for your vocabulary,” he continued, seeming to change the subject while tightening his grip as she struggled
once again. “Teamwork,” he articulated. “That’s how Navy SEALs operate. That’s why our casualty rate is as low as it is. We
watch each other’s backs. Now, I know you like to work alone. You made that pretty clear. But now we’re partners, Luce. If
you’re going to wind up dead over an infection, then I have a right to know.”
She had to admit his argument was reasonable. “Fine,” she conceded, ceasing to struggle. “Whatever. I’ll show you the cut
and you’ll see that it’s nothing.”
With a nod and a grimace of apology, he released her.
Lucy planted herself before the mirror, glanced quickly at her pink-cheeked reflection, then looked away, rolling her slacks
down a scant inch for him to see.
As Gus stepped into the little room, the walls seemed to shrink inward. Their gazes briefly met, sparking heat and sexual
awareness. With her heart pumping fast, she turned so he could see the slit. “See?” she said, “No big deal.”
He bent over, depressing the soft skin around the incision as he inspected it. “You weren’t supposed to run last night,” he
chided. “You tore the stitches open or rubbed them off or something.”
How could he know she’d run last night, or was that just a good guess? “My bad,” she apologized, every nerve in her body screaming
in awareness of him.
“Do you have any antibacterial ointment?” he asked, all seriousness.
“No,” she admitted, watching breathlessly as he ran a wash cloth under steaming water and pressed it to the wound.
She tried not to flinch as he pressed it to her hip. It would take more than an itty bitty cut to slow her down.
“Now,” he said, dabbing her hip dry with a second cloth. “No more running. I want a good scab on this cut before you step
foot in the jungle.”
“Hooyah.” She tossed off a mock salute, snatching the Band-Aid from his hand before he put it on her.
His touch was unsettling enough. She didn’t need him coddling her. All that did was feed the little seed of doubt sprouting
roots in her mind.
Lucy Donovan didn’t do helpless. She could damn well put on her own Band-Aid. A knock at the door startled them both, making
them realize they’d both been speaking English, and none too quietly, either.
Gus went to answer it while Lucy bandaged her hip and scrounged up her composure.
“Carlos, come in,” Gus said in Spanish.
Adjusting her clothing, Lucy trailed them toward the window.
“I just checked the arrival times of the others,” said the Spaniard, his gaze touching on her flushed face. “Fournier the
Frenchman and Bellini, the Italian, will arrive this afternoon. The Turkish woman comes this evening,” he added, looking back
at Gus. “As long as you return from your meeting by six o’clock, no one will notice your absence. If someone shows up early,
I’ll tell them you’re out sightseeing.”
“Sounds good,” said Gus.
“The safe house is ten blocks from here. I scoped it out this morning. You can either take a taxi or the Trans-Milieno,” he
added.
“We’ll see how we feel,” Gus replied with a shrug.
“Fournier will want all of us to dine together this evening, so don’t get lost,” cautioned Carlos. “Besides, you don’t want
to be out after dark in Bogotá,” he added with a wink at Lucy. He headed toward the door. “Be safe.”
Lucy couldn’t help but reflect that
safe
was clearly a relative term. While she doubted harm would befall her with a Navy SEAL for protection, their chemistry was
proving explosive enough to make any situation volatile.
I
t’s about a three-mile walk,” Gus pointed out as they stepped out of a fire-escape exit to avoid being noticed by the valets
guarding the hotel’s main entrance. “You want to take a taxi, or the TransMilieno like Carlos said?”
“And risk my life for nothing?” Lucy retorted, pulling up the hood over her waterproof jacket while sweeping a practiced eye
up and down the tree-lined boulevard.
The falling temperatures and light drizzle left her feeling chilled. How much worse would it feel in the jungle without any
type of real shelter?
“It might aggravate your incision to walk that far,” Gus pointed out.
“Three miles isn’t far,” retorted Lucy. “Besides, I want to see the city. I’ve heard it’s beautiful. Which way do we go?”
“North,” he said, glancing at his watch. Realizing it had a compass on it, Lucy had to smile. James had always loved his gadgets.
What a shame he would have to leave this one behind. “This way,” he added, throwing a casual arm around her and steering down
a brick-laid boulevard.
Awareness shot through Lucy as their hips collided. It was proving all too easy to play the role of Gus’s bride. On an instinctive
level, she was comfortable with him. Why wouldn’t she be when, at one time, they’d been inseparable, two peas in a pod? But
just as he had back in college, Gus knew how to push her buttons, how to infuriate her, how to arouse her. And when he did
either, she lost focus. On an assignment as dangerous as theirs, that could be deadly.
Fortunately, things hadn’t gotten dangerous yet. The only thing his hand at the small of her back distracted her from was
a city that blended old-world charm with glittering skyscrapers. Caught up in Bogotá’s allure, she led him away from the brick-lined
avenues to the smaller streets to enjoy the capital’s true flavor by mingling with the locals.
Many minutes later, she caught Gus glancing at his watch again.
“We’re going to be late,” she guessed, trying to gauge where they were.
“This way,” he said. “There’s the Museo de Oro.”
The museum’s golden dome was a landmark for the safe house. Once beyond its doors, they came to a residential neighborhood
where middle-class houses hid behind walls topped with broken glass. “This is it,” he added, pausing by a pedestrian gate
at number 733. He depressed the intercom button.
“
¿Sí?
” asked a gruff male voice.
Gus announced them in Spanish, and the lock buzzed, allowing them to push their way inside. They crossed a pebbled courtyard
to be greeted by a stern-faced American wearing a white Guayabera shirt. “John Whiteside, station chief,” he introduced himself
shortly. “Come in.”
As they traversed a narrow hallway, Lucy realized Gus wasn’t touching her anymore. She felt suddenly wet and chilled.
They stepped into a tiled living space, stuffed with chairs and buff-looking men in civilian clothing. Lucy counted eight
of them as they scrambled to their feet at her and Gus’s entry. “Evening, sir!” chorused several of them, but all had eyes
for just Lucy.
She was used to the attention; she would admit she even exploited it. When men made fools of themselves, that just made her
own job easier.
Gus drew her front and center. “Guys, this is Lucy Donovan. Some of you helped extract her from a warehouse in Maiquetía,
Venezuela, last year.”
He just had to bring that up.
Lucy mustered a smile for the men she recognized, greeting them by name. “Vinny, how are you?” she said, extending a hand
at the Al Pacino look-alike, a Special Operations medic. “Harley, right?” she added, turning to the blue-eyed chief who kept
his head as shiny and bald as a billiard cue.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Harley, looking impressed.
“And, Haiku?”
“Yes, ma’am,” beamed the Japanese American, his dark eyes sparkling. He was obviously thrilled to be remembered.
“This is Lieutenant Lindstrom, the officer in charge,” Gus added, turning her toward the SEAL who towered over the others
and bore a striking resemblance to a former professional football player.
“Call me Luther,” he said. His hand engulfed hers while dark blue eyes took stock of her.
“Did you used to play football?”
“Yes, I did,” he admitted modestly.
And he’d given up all that money to become a Navy SEAL?
“This is Teddy Brewbaker, our explosives expert,” Gus added, pulling her from her starstruck stare to introduce her to the
only black man.
“My friends call me Bear,” Teddy boomed, flashing the gap between his front teeth.
Gus introduced her to three more men: Gibbons, their spindly point man, Swanson, rear security, and finally the assistant
OIC, Lieutenant Casey. By the time she’d shaken every man’s hand, her knuckles ached.
“Let’s get down to business,” interrupted the station chief with an impatient nod at the OIC’s laptop humming quietly on the
coffee table.
There weren’t enough seats for everyone. Five SEALs offered to surrender their chairs to Lucy, who accepted Vinny’s offer
since it gave her the clearest view of the laptop. Harley gave up his seat to Gus, who sat beside her.
