Lorimer said, twisting in his chair. “They’re no longer there.”
McGill’s features tightened. “Then where?” He looked at the screen as the satellite imagery peeled back layers, narrowing to the ground.
“Heading toward the jungle.”
For no other reason than execution.
Tessa stopped the car on the side of the road, and let traffic pass by her. It shouldn’t be this crowded, she thought, and left the car, moving to the front of the VW. She slipped her pack-turned-bag on her shoulder, then popped the hood, glancing up the road before she pulled out the tire and propped it against the car. She left the hood up and peered around it as the van came into view, a black earthworm on the long, sandy road. This was one of her dumber moves, but she had to help. It wasn’t her fault they were caught and she escaped, but when the van started to head toward the Amazon, it scared her. There were undiscovered ruins all over this country. They could be executed in the jungle and never found.
Bending, she rolled the tire on the shoulder, away from the road. She was banking a lot on Logan because she could get the truck to stop, but overtaking soldiers with guns? Not up her alley. She didn’t want to fight anyone. Logan was the strategy-first kind of guy. Tessa just did it. Right now, she felt stupid being out on the road this time of night and, despite the late hour, the air didn’t move, the heat cloying. A cloud of gnats hovered under the single streetlight a good hundred yards away.
She tugged at the hem of her shorts, and damn if the little—preshrunk, my ass—things wouldn’t get longer. She held the jack, prayed this worked and waited for the van.
She didn’t get a chance to scream, the jack flying from her grasp when a gloved palm closed over her mouth.
The small jolts over the road made the ride painful. Woken after midnight and forced into the van, Logan had found small pleasure in just being still. There was some payback coming, he thought, and studied his surroundings. Three rows of seats in the van were separated by a narrow corridor between the chairs. Iron leg shackles were anchored to the floor, the chains jingling with the ride. The windows were painted black, and beyond the prisoner seats was a metal screen separating them from the driver and his backup.
Logan looked over at Max, who had an odd expression on his face, almost peaceful. A total lie, since he was concentrating. Logan didn’t know if he was counting tire revolutions or if it had something to do with that quick glance at the sky before they climbed in, but there were times when Logan thought Max had memorized the Earth. He just waited.
“We’re going away from the city.”
“That can’t be good.”
Max stared up at the ceiling as if stargazing. “Orinoco,” he said under his breath, then nudged the air with his chin. “Toward the river.”
A soldier whipped around, and from the passenger seat aimed a gun and warned them to shut up. Logan nodded and shifted, using one toe to push the knife deeper into his boot. He tried not to rattle the shackles, bristling in the cuffs that were chained to his waist. The knife was useless if he couldn’t wield it.
A fracture of light glinted off something and he glanced. Max held a pen and he quickly broke it apart.
Now we were getting somewhere.
Salazar sped up the recording, freezing it on the woman again. He ran his finger down the hazy silhouette of her body on the screen, but she was hooded. He hit PLAY and saw her pull it off, yet she remained in the shadows, her body turned just so. He tried another camera, on the far side of the room, the zoom-in distorting the picture. He worked the keyboard, cropping the photo, cleaning out the shadows and lighting her features.
He saw jawbone and her lips, but it was still unclear other than she had long hair. Lovely, he thought, though he didn’t need to know why she was with his Vice President. Only that he wasn’t surprised to see her. After that, the lenses went black.
She was gone, that much he accepted. He leaned in the chair and pulled up another stream of video. Part of him loathed himself for watching, for enjoying her abandon. She was straddling him on the sofa, bare to the waist, and the same skirt she’d smoothed over her knees earlier today was hiked high, exposing her. He watched, her hips gyrating and breasts bouncing.
His phone hummed against his chest and he answered it.
“We have a problem.”
Salazar turned away from the console. “I’m listening.”
He catalogued his orders, already mentally breaking them down, but what surprised him was who was giving them.
“I want to be certain we’re clear on the next steps.”
He glanced at the video, smiling to himself. “You want them to disappear. They already have. To the hacienda.”
Over the phone, he heard her soft intake of breath.
“I can work better there. In private.”
“I cannot hear the details,” she said sharply, then softer, “Get it back, Diego.”
His name sounded good on her lips. “I will.”
His gaze was still on the video and his body clenched when she tipped her head back and looked directly into the camera as she climaxed.
Beautiful.
He closed the phone, slipped it inside his tailored jacket and stood. Salazar understood his position, what was afforded him because he kept out of sight, and all confidences. Most didn’t know he existed except by name. He preferred to watch, and slipped the CD from the security system, then erased any copy. He was keeping her privacy, he told himself, though few knew of this room’s existence. It gave him delicious anonymity, kept any trail to him hidden and ensured his position in this administration. Beyond that, he’d follow the money, the power. As long as he was paid, he would do as ordered.
He opened his hand radio and contacted the driver. When there was no answer, he tried another frequency. He tapped the door. It sprang open and Salazar slipped out, then down the back staircase while demanding a response from the van of his prisoners. He hated repeating himself and changed frequencies.
Quickening his steps, he ordered the helicopter to the lawn.
Logan stared out the windshield at the woman in the middle of the road. The driver slammed on the brakes, throwing them forward. For several heartbeats, the guards just stared, then made a couple rude comments about the crazy woman, yet when a man followed after her, limping really, the guards left the truck, weapons drawn. Max immediately popped apart the pen and used the parts to work the locks.
“Was that Riley?” Sebastian asked, sitting forward.
“And Tessa.” Chained, they could only watch.
She ran back, playing the role of hysterical female rather well, and neither guard noticed the nunchucks in her hand. She spun the wooden rods so quickly, Logan saw only the results. A crack to the head, the back slashes to the other’s chin. Like glass, they broke and fell to the ground.
“Clearly, the woman is skilled,” Sebastian said.
She
