“Archer!” The short man chuckled, and they embraced roughly. “Damn, but I’m glad to see you, even under the circumstances. No sweat, amigo—we’ll get Martina out of there. Apollo came like a shot when I told him what was on.”
“How are you, First Shirt?” J.D. replied. “You’ve lost weight, I see.”
“Well, I’m not exactly in the right profession for getting lazy, am I, boss?” he asked Laremos, who agreed readily enough.
“Laremos said Apollo and Drago were here, but how about Chen?” J.D. asked.
The short man sighed. “He bought it in the Middle East, amigo.” He shrugged. “That’s the way of it.” His eyes were sad and had a faraway look. “It was how he’d have wanted it.”
“Tough,” J.D. said, agreeing. “Maps and radios, Shirt—we’ll need those.”
“All taken care of. Plus about twenty vaqueros for backup—the boss’s men, and I trained ’em,” he added with quiet pride.
“That’s good enough for me.”
“Shall we get under way?” Laremos asked, helping Gabby into a large car. He stood back to let J.D. slide in after her. They were joined by First Shirt, who drove, and another man with a rifle.
The topography was interesting. It reminded Gabby of photos of Caribbean islands, very lush and tropical and studded with palm trees. But after they drove for a while, it began to be mountainous. They passed a burned-out shell of what must have been a house, and Gabby shuddered.
“Diego,” she said quietly, nodding toward the ruin, “the owners—did they escape?”
“No, señorita,” he said.
She wrapped her arms around herself. J.D., noticing the gesture, pulled her closer. She let her head fall onto his shoulder quite naturally and closed her eyes while the men talked.
Laremos’s finca was situated in a valley. The house seemed to be adobe or stucco, with large arches and an airy porch. It was only one story, and it spread out into a garden lush with tropical vegetation. She fell in love with it at first sight.
“You approve?” Laremos smiled, watching her with his dark, lazy eyes. “My father built it many years ago. The servants in the house are the children and grandchildren of those who came here with him, like most of my employees. The big landowners who hold the fincas provide employment for many people, and it is not so temporary as jobs in your country. Here the laborers serve the same household for generations.”
She hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the drive except that the small, dark man beside First Shirt had his rifle in his lap and kept watching the countryside. Now he stood beside the car, rifle ready, while the others went into the house.
It was dark for a moment until her eyes adjusted; then she began to see its interior. There were tiny statuettes, obviously Mayan, along with bowls of cacti, heavy wood furniture, and Indian blankets all around the big living room.
“Coffee?” Laremos asked. He clapped his hands and a small woman about First Shirt’s age came running with a smile on her face. “Café, por favor, Carisa,” he told the woman in rapid-fire Spanish.
She nodded and rushed away.
“Brandy, Archer?” he asked J.D.
“I don’t drink these days,” J.D. replied, dropping onto the comfortable sofa beside Gabby. “First Shirt, have you been able to get any intelligence out of the other camp?”
“Enough.” The short, sandy-haired man nodded, also refusing the offer of brandy. “She isn’t being mistreated, not yet, at least,” he said, watching the younger man relax just a little. “They’re holding her in the remains of a bunkhouse on a finca about six clicks away. They aren’t well armed—just some rifles and grenades, no RPGs or other heavy stuff.”
“What is a click? And what’s an RPG?” Gabby asked.
“A click is a kilometer. An RPG is a rocket launcher,” J.D. explained. “It makes big holes in things.”
“Like tanks and aircraft and buildings,” First Shirt added. “You must be Gabby. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
She was taken aback. Everybody seemed to know about her, but she’d never heard of any of these people. She glanced at J.D.
“So I brag about you a little,” he said defensively.
“To everybody but me,” she returned. “You never even pat me on the head and tell me I’ve done a good job.”
“Remind me later,” he said with a slow smile.
“Could I freshen up?” Gabby asked.
“Of course! Carisa!” Laremos called.
The Latin woman entered with a tray of coffee, and he spoke to her again in Spanish.
“Sí, señor,” Carisa murmured.
“I’ve asked her to show you your room,” Laremos explained. “Archer, you might like to take the bags and go with them. Then we can talk.”
“Suits me.” J.D. picked up the cases and followed Gabby and the serving woman down the hall.
The room had a huge double bed. It was the first thing Gabby noticed, and she felt herself go hot all over, especially when Carisa left and she was alone with J.D.
He closed the door deliberately and watched her fiddle with her cosmetic case as she set it down on the dresser.
“Gabby.”
She put down a bottle of makeup and turned.
He moved just in front of her and framed her small face in his hands. “I don’t want you out of my sight any more than you have to be. Laremos is charming, but there are things about him you don’t know. About all these men.”
“Including you, Mr. Brettman?” she asked gently, searching his eyes. “Especially you?”
He drew in a slow breath. “What do you want to know?”
“You were one of them, weren’t you, J.D.?” she asked quietly. “They’re more than old friends. They’re old comrades-in-arms.”
“I wondered when you’d guess,” he murmured. His eyes darkened. “Does it matter?”
She frowned. “I don’t understand. Why should the fact that you served in the Special Forces with them matter?”
He seemed torn between speech and silence. He drew in a breath and rammed his hands in his pockets. “You don’t know about the years before you met me, Gabby.”
“Nobody does. It has something to do with trust, doesn’t it?”
He met her searching green eyes squarely. “Yes. A lot. I’ve lived by hard rules for a long time. I’ve trusted no one, because
