insects. Swatting at a winged critter in a particularly virulent shade of orange, Cari climbed out of her seat and followed Mac to the hatch.
“I’ll bring out the two Americans,” he told her. “You stay with Pegasus.”
She swallowed her instinctive protest. With her craft secured and on dry land, the baton had passed. She was no longer in command. From now until Mac returned with the missionaries, this was his show.
Feeling a little deflated, she watched as he hunkered down on his heels and dug through his pack. A few, quick smears decorated his face in shades of green and black. Thin black gloves covered his hands. He performed a radio check, chambered a round in his assault rifle, and slung the weapon over his shoulder. His gray-green eyes lasered into her as he confirmed their communications pattern.
“I’ll signal you at half-hour intervals. If I miss one signal, wait another half hour. If I miss two, get the hell out of Dodge. Understand?”
“Yes.”
His gaze speared into her. “I mean it, Dunn. No stupid heroics. They could get us both killed.”
He was right. She knew he was right. Yet her throat closed at the thought of leaving him in this smothering heat and darkness.
“Two missed signals and you’re gone. Got that, Lieutenant?”
She gave a tight nod. He returned it with a jerk of his chin and started off. He took two steps, only two, and swung back.
“What the hell.”
The muttered oath had Cari blinking in surprise. She blinked again when he strode back to her and caught her chin in his hand.
“Mac, what are—?”
His mouth came down on hers, hard and hot and hungry. Stunned, she stood stiff as an engine blade while his lips moved over hers. A moment later, he faded into the jungle. She was left with the tang of camouflage face paint in her nostrils and the taste of Mac on her lips.
Chapter 3
“That was smart, McIver. Really smart.”
Thoroughly disgusted with himself, Mac moved through the dense undergrowth. He’d made some questionable moves in his life. Tangling with the senator’s wife had been one of them. Laying that kiss on Caroline Dunn was another. What was this thing he had for married—or almost married—women?
Calling himself an idiot one more time, Mac forced his thoughts away from the woman, the kiss and the heat that brief contact had sent spearing right through his belly.
The mission lay some three kilometers from the river. Five or six kilometers beyond that Second Recon had run smack into a heavily armed rebel force. The marines had said they’d fall back and draw the rebels away from the mission, but Mac wasn’t taking any chances. He kept his tread light on the damp, spongy earth and his assault weapon at the ready as he pushed through the giant ferns.
Once away from the river, the ferns thinned and the going got easier. The overhead canopy was so thick only the occasional stray sunbeam could penetrate. It was like moving through a dim, cavernous cathedral with tall columns of trees spearing straight up to support the vaulted ceiling. The deep shadows provided excellent concealment for him and, unfortunately, for potential enemies.
He pushed on, using the GPS built into his handheld digital radio to check his position and send Cari a silent signal at the prearranged times. With each step, his jumpy nerves steadied and his concentration narrowed until there was only Mac, his weapon and the gloom ahead.
As swift and stealthy as a panther, he cut through the jungle. Every sense had moved to full alert, every flutter of an orange-winged butterfly and slither of a spotted lizard sent a message. So did the sudden, raucous screech of a parrot.
Mac spun to his right, dropped into a crouch, and caught a flash of scarlet as the bird took wing. Peering into the gloom, Mac tried to see what had spooked it. Nothing else moved. No leafy ferns swayed.
Forcing the knotted muscles at the base of his skull to relax, Mac came out of the crouch. Without warning, something hard and sharp smacked into his forehead just above his right eyebrow.
Cursing, he ignored the blood pouring into his eye and aimed his assault rifle at the base of a hollow-trunked strangler fig. When the shadows moved, his finger went tight on the trigger.
“Whoever’s in there better show yourself. Now!”
He repeated the warning in Spanish and was searching for the few words of Caribe he’d memorized when another missile came zinging at him. This one he managed to dodge. It ricocheted off the tree behind him and landed at his feet.
A rock! Mac saw in disgust. Damned if he’d hadn’t taken a direct hit from a rock.
“You’ve got five seconds to show yourself,” he shouted, blinking away the blood. “Four, three, two…”
The shadow burst out of the tree trunk. With a frightened look at the gun aimed at his chest, the attacker whirled and ran.
With another muttered curse, Mac eased the pressure on the trigger. His assailant was a kid. A scrawny, barefooted kid in a Spider-Man T-shirt, of all things. Judging by his size, the runt couldn’t be more than six or seven.
“Hey! Hold on! I won’t hurt you!”
Fumbling for the Spanish phrases, he hotfooted it after the kid. He couldn’t have him spreading the word that there was an armed Americano roaming loose in the neighborhood. Not until after Mac had departed the scene with the two missionaries, anyway.
His longer legs ate up the ground. He caught the kid by the back of his ragged shirt and swung him around. The little stinker put up a heck of a fight, grunting and kicking and jabbing with his bony elbows. Keeping well clear of those sharp elbows, Mac held him at arm’s length.
“I’m a friend. Amigo.”
The kid twisted frantically. He wasn’t buying the friend bit. Considering the violence now ripping his country apart, Mac couldn’t exactly blame him. He gave the boy a quick little shake.
“Where’s your village? ¿Dónde está su, uh, casa?”
Still the youngster wouldn’t answer. His lower lip jutted out and his black eyes shot daggers at the marine, but he refused to speak so much as a word. Instead, he made some motion with his hand that Mac strongly suspected was the Caribe version of buzz off, pal.
“Stubborn little devil, aren’t you?”
Well, no matter. He had to be from the village where the Americans had set up their mission. It was the only settlement in this vicinity.
Bunching his fist, Mac kept a firm grip on the boy’s shirt with one hand while he slung his weapon over his shoulder and probed the cut above his eye with the other. The skin was tender and already rising to a good-sized lump, but the blood had slowed to a trickle. He’d clean the cut when he got to the village. Unless the navigational finder in his radio was sending faulty signals, it couldn’t be much farther.
It wasn’t.
Another ten minutes brought Mac and his
