Gideon Read online

  Riva went hunting.

  In the end, the weapons were the easiest to come by. She overpowered three guards, one by strangling and breaking his neck, another by stabbing him in the jugular before cutting his throat, the third with a swift thrust between the ribs as her hand came over his mouth.

  She dragged the bodies into the concealing shrubbery just as the third sentry came at her from the side as she was dragging his buddy into the shrubbery. Deflecting a punch to the side of her head, Riva grabbed him by the muzzle of his sub machine gun, surprising the hell out of him as she used it as a fulcrum and swung him around. The minute he went down, she was on him. A knee to the temple, and on her feet to punch down with her heel on his balls. When he doubled over, she grabbed his hair, and used her newly acquired knife to cut his throat.

  Sweating, breath heaving, she dragged his dead ass into the thicket as well.

  She made good on a small haul of weapons. Two AKs, three ankle knives, thank you very much, and a hybrid semiauto Riva figured would be risky to attempt firing while she was in camp. She wasn’t about to make any noise to attract attention.

  With weapons came three pairs of boots. Riva immediately kicked off the too big boots and shoved her feet into a better fitting pair. She also scored three large canteens filled with water.

  She had to kill the cook in the mess hall when he showed up too soon and spotted her in his storeroom grabbing what she considered food to go. Employing the small knife she’d used on the sentry just minutes earlier, she stabbed him up high in the kidneys. He didn’t make a sound as he dropped. Riva hauled him into the storeroom.

  Another pair of boots. Crouching, she swore under her breath as she struggled to quickly untie the stiff, wet laces.

  Buzzing, high on adrenaline, Riva grabbed protein bars, ripping one open and shoving it in her mouth as she grabbed apples and some unpleasant-smelling cake thing that was rock hard. Whatever it was, she snagged a lot of it, and stuffed everything—weapons and shoes included—in a filthy, mud-colored knapsack she found by the back door. Under the backpack, quite conveniently, hung a small, metal first-aid box. She rattled it. Whatever was inside was what she had. It would have to do.

  She had no idea how long she had before the darkness gave way to dawn, and decided to take no more than fifteen minutes to break the hostages free and send them on their way if any of them had a prayer of not getting caught.

  She made her way back to the prisoners’ building and unlocked the door.

  “Por favor. Water.”

  Riva pulled the door almost closed behind her in case anyone wandered by. “Shut up, Sol, and listen up. Here, drink this while I talk.” She shoved a flask at an elderly man leaning against the wall by the door. He grabbed it. “I know you’re thirsty, but sip it slowly or you’ll just puke it up.” He was pretty much just a vague outline; she could only tell he was elderly by his voice.

  In the far eastern corner of the hut, a young woman whimpered quietly. She’d been doing it a long time. Months in fact.

  Riva waited while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. “How many of you are in here?” There should be five. She saw four figures. Two men, and two women.

  “Fi— Four,” the woman who’d spoken early said quietly. “Sonia Henderson died half an hour ago.”

  “Sol,” Riva said firmly, “hand the lady your flask, you’re done for now. Who’s in charge here?”

  A younger male answered rapidly. “No one. Some of us have been here for months, Sol and Denise were delivered three weeks ago.”

  “Pick someone to be your leader, because once you’re out there, someone’s word better be law. I have some supplies, protein bars, fruit. Guns, some ammo, and one water flask. Everyone come over here and grab a pair of boots. I don’t care if you have to cut off your toes, or stuff leaves in them to make them fit. Everyone needs something on their feet out there.” She took out the boots and handed them over. If they had mismatched pairs, they could figure it out on the run. “Is everyone ambulatory? Say yes, because whoever isn’t, if the rest of you can’t carry them, will be staying behind.”

  “We can all walk,” the woman, Denise, told her firmly.

  “Good.” Riva shoved the heavy sack at the woman’s chest. “You’re in charge. Santa de Porres is due south from here.” Unfortunately, Riva had no idea how damn far away it was. “The jungle is filled with armed guerrillas. There’s a flashlight in there. Try to hide during the day and walk at night. Fill the canteen wherever you find running water, and keep moving until you hit the city.”

  “Who are you?” the younger man asked.

  “The person getting you out of here.” Riva could practically hear the clock ticking in her head. Every second she spent chit-chatting with the hostages was another second closer to getting caught herself. “When I open the door, run, don’t walk, across to the other side of the road, and get into the trees. You’ll be heading south. That way.” Riva pointed in the general direction. The best she could do. “Move as quickly and quietly as you can and put as much space between this camp and yourself as you can. It’ll be scary as hell out there. Don’t think about it. Just think about being home, sleeping in your own beds after a hot shower, and enjoying a thick juicy steak. Give me your names. If I can, I’ll contact your families to let them know I saw you alive, so they can come and look for you.”

  Denise Karlins, Sol Bergman, Eric Reiman, and the crier was Eric’s wife Tonya. As they each called out their name, Riva knew the chances of the four making it through a predator-infested jungle alive were pretty much slim to none. But she couldn’t leave them here. At least out there they had a chance. Some of them would make it.

  “Oh, God…” Denise’s voice cracked. “Come with us. At least you know how—”

  “I’m opening the door now. Run as if your lives depend on it, because they do. And for God’s sake, shut the fuck up. Be quiet. Go!”

  Riva slipped out after them, locked the door, then repocketed the key as she watched for a moment. She didn’t have time to make sure they were safely tucked into the jungle before she darted around the back of their little prison. She’d sent them south, and high above the black treetops off to the east, a flickering spiral of sparks and smoke indicated where the chopper had crashed.

  That was her first stop. Hopefully somewhere in the wreckage she’d find one of the booster tracking devices. Contact with her team was imperative.

  She had to move fast, and— Hello. What do we have here?

  She’d almost slammed into a large metal structure. Five feet high, by five wide, it appeared to be a large generator/electrical box.

  Perhaps today was her lucky day after all. Which would only be justice because yesterday sure as hell hadn’t been. Circling it, and keeping her eyes moving for imminent danger, Riva found the door. Yanking it open, she saw wires and circuits. Not giving a damn what anything was, she reached in to disconnect whatever she could. If nothing else, it would slow them down or disable whatever warning system they had in place.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The silky, annoyingly familiar voice came from directly behind her, stopping her with a fistful of wires clutched in her hands. “Shouldn’t you be running away rather than playing electrician?”

  Riva spun around to see Sin Diaz leaning against a nearby tree, a small submachine gun pointed at her heart. He was as stealthy, sneaky, and lethal as a jaguar. There was just enough light from the pilot light on the electrical unit to see him. Which she’d prefer not doing. He should be somewhere else. Somewhere far the hell away from her when she was this freaking close to escape.

  He’d pulled a camo flak vest over his impressive naked chest and tied his hair back in a stubby tail. Booted feet spread, he held the weapon with familiar ease. She read his face and body language. He wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.

  “I see you’ve helped yourself to my clothes. Too bad, I like you better out of them.” He gave her a steely look. “Take out the gun. Slowly, and with two fingers
.”

  Arrogant, reptilian slimebucket, was enjoying this. See how you like the blade of my hand slicing your trachea, asshole. A bullet directly into his eye would be faster… Heart tripping, Riva calculated her chances of getting off a shot before he did. Not great. Her pilfered weapon was tucked down the too-big pants in the small of her back. Did he have X-ray eyes, for God’s sake? How did he know she had a gun?

  His was firmly in his large, rock-steady hands. At this range, seventy-five percent chance he’d shoot her before she could fish out her weapon. Ninety-eight percent odds his shot, wherever it hit, would be fatal, especially out here hell and gone from decent medical care.

  She wasn’t going to do T-FLAC any good dead, and she wasn’t stupid enough to underestimate Diaz. With one hand up so he could see it was weapon-free, she put her other hand down the back of the loose pants. She was lucky the damn gun was still there. Taking it out between two fingers, she palmed out the clip and tossed both it and the weapon to the ground between them, keeping her hands where he could see them. Wishing for more light so she could read the microexpressions on his face was a waste of time. His body language said he was not dicking around. He was big, bad, and annoyed as hell that she wasn’t where he’d left her.

  “Now my clothes.”

  Riva grit her teeth. Bastard. She toed off the too big boots.

  “And the pants.”

  No way out of it. Stoically, she yanked the utility pants off her hips and let them drop to her ankles. Not like much had been there to hold them in place anyway. At least the T-shirt was long enough to skim midway down her thighs.

  The sneaky, self-satisfied look on his face irritated the hell out of her. The pistol in his hand didn’t waver. “Now the shirt.”

  “Absolutely not.” Riva folded her arms over her chest and glared at him as a large, winged insect dive-bombed her head, then circled her face like a plane coming into LaGuardia. Spreading her feet to center herself, she gave him a stony look. She was not stripping down to nothing and not going back to his hovel. Not going to freaking happen.

  “Haven’t you heard of the Geneva convention?” she asked. “Let me paraphrase the protocols for you. They’re at the core of international humanitarian law, the body of international law that regulates the conduct of armed conflict and seeks to limit its effects. It specifically protects people who are not taking part in the hostilities. You know, like civilians, health workers, and aid workers? Of which I’m one. If you want me naked again, you’ll have to shoot me.”

  “You think I won’t?” His eyes grew dark and intense. “I left you naked and tied up earlier, and you still escaped. I underestimated you.” His gaze dropped to her swollen lips, then back to meet hers. Not a jot of sympathy for her poor abused mouth to be seen. “I won’t make that mistake twice. And I don’t give a fuck about the Geneva convention. Shirt. Off.”

  And just like that, her lucky day took a nosedive.

  Riva pulled at the hem of the shirt and yanked it up and over her head, the smell of him invading her airspace as she did so. Her skin, already adjusted to the meager warmth of the clothing, tightened, her nipples turning hard.

  “There’s your damn shirt.” Bare-assed naked again, she flung the wadded cloth in his general direction, taking the huge bug with it. The corner of his mouth lifted as he caught the shirt out of the air one-handed.

  A shuffle of feet approaching made him frown, his penetrating gaze darting for a moment to the source of the sound before landing squarely back on her. “On second thought, perhaps for the moment, the shirt might be a good idea.” He chucked his shirt back at her. Riva didn’t ask questions. Pulling it over her head, she covered her body just before a group of armed men rounded the nearby building.

  She was doubly screwed.

  Stepping into her, Sin grabbed her upper arm, fingers like steel bands on her bare skin. “Don’t do or say anything stupid. Understand?” he whispered almost soundlessly in her ear, his breath hot on her cheek. He spoke English.

  The tone of his voice, urgent, commanding, but with a note of oh-fuck worry that seemed out of place, given everything she knew about him, made Riva wonder who was the bigger threat—Sin Diaz or whoever was coming around that corner.

  Accompanied by four of her lieutenants, Mama came into view, fire in her eyes. Shit. Barely five feet in heavy boots, she put the fear of God into every man in camp with just a single glance from those soulless black eyes. Any one of his men could physically crush her with one hand, yet they didn’t dare. Tiny of stature, she wielded her power like a titanium hand in a graphene glove.

  A cigarette, the end glowing red, hung from her mouth and her favorite AK-47 was cradled like a beloved child in her arms. She was damn good with a gun, and at this range, she wouldn’t miss.

  Sin’s gut tightened and his heartbeat accelerated.

  Beside him, Riva whispered, “Crap.”

  She had no fucking idea.

  “No time to sleep?” he asked his mother when she stopped several yards in front of them. He’d left her not six hours earlier; what the hell was she doing up and patrolling now?

  With an irrational need to protect his prisoner from his mother, he instinctively stepped between the two women. He was fucking done with Mama barging in.

  By the way her dark eyes flashed with annoyance, it was clear his presence irritated her as much as hers pissed him off. There was a massive disconnect. Since Sin had stopped taking the vile concoction she made for him in the hope it would restore his full memories, Mama was becoming more and more of a pain in his ass. Even when he’d been taking the nasty-tasting brew, he’d sensed no maternal warmth from her and none of the love that a son should have for his mother.

  He had zero familial sentiment for her. Honest to God, for all the connection he felt, he could just as easily have crossed paths with her going into the mail room.

  What mail room?

  How the hell did he even know what a goddamned mail room was? He had memories of things he couldn’t know anything about, and knew nothing about things he should remember. He started to lift his hand to rub at the sharp pain at his temples, then dropped it. Mama was the last person to whom he wanted to show any weakness.

  The possibility that she’d been drugging him had crossed his mind more than once. Another reason for the solo trip into town. He had a flask of the shit she’d been giving him. He wanted it analyzed.

  Cold and calculating, and far from rash, he never turned his back on his mother. He didn’t now. He knew she wanted to interrogate the young woman he’d rescued. She couldn’t have her. He wouldn’t back down. Neither would she. They were at an impasse. There was a strong possibility that one of them would end up dead.

  Mama spread her feet.

  “Don’t,” he warned his prisoner under his breath as she shifted beside him.

  He’d tossed the get out of my clothes dare to see how far she was willing to go, and test her level of fear. She had none. Her eyes had shouted fuck you as clearly as if she’d said it out loud. Too fucking bad Mama had almost caught her naked out here in the middle of the clearing. This was a dangerous situation. Like Mama, he had to discover Riva Rimaldi’s purpose, yet more time to convince her to talk had just been yanked from his control.

  Taking a drag of her cigarette, Mama gave him a hard look. “Why did you not send for me when you returned?” She exhaled a plume of smoke, then spat in the dirt.

  “Jesus. I just got here. And there was no need anyway. I have the situation under control.”

  “What is the perra doing out here?” she snapped, as she gave him an accusatory glare. “It’s too soon to give her to the men. Bring her to my quarters. I’ll interrogate her myself.”

  Yeah, Sin knew how that would go. Mama would crush the young woman with the fuck-you eyes beneath her boot heel until there was nothing left. He gave her a cold look. “Do not question my authority, woman. I questioned her already. She has nothing to offer. She’s an aid worker. That’s it. She’s no
use to us. I’ll send her to Santa de Porres, and we’ll be rid of her.”

  “Are you mad?” she snapped. “She’s of value to someone. Who is that someone if not Maza? We first need to know who she is to know her value. Can you tell me that? No, I think you cannot. And if you’re thinking of jeopardizing our safety by using the helicopter to get her there, while our enemy’s men patrol our turf, you’re a fool.”

  Hidden four clicks away was a small four-seater helicopter. They hadn’t taken the Hummingbird up to go to the city in weeks because they didn’t want what had happened to Maza’s chopper to happen to theirs.

  “Who said anything about using the chopper? I’ll have her walked in.” Two or three days. She’d be lucky to make it, in the already hostile environment. Sin reminded himself he wasn’t responsible for her safety or well-being. And just because he felt an unaccustomed need to assume such, didn’t mean he wouldn’t interrogate her, then drop her lifeless body somewhere conspicuous for Maza to find later. She wasn’t his responsibility.

  “She was on Maza’s chopper.” Mama kept her eyes fixed on Riva, exhaling a cloud of noxious cigarette smoke as she stepped closer. She gave the barrel of her gun a hard jerk, indicating he should move aside. “She works for him. Since when has he ever brought in an aid worker? He does nothing that doesn’t directly benefit himself.”

  As did the ANLF, Sin acknowledged, standing his ground. If he were Maza, why would he bring in an aid worker? He wouldn’t. He felt the prisoner’s hot breath on the back of his arm, felt the heat of her body down the length of his back. “If he brought her here for another purpose, I’ll find out what that is.”

  Yeah, Sin was pretty damn well positive Riva Rimaldi worked for his enemy. He didn’t want Mama to interrogate her with that assumption. “She doesn’t speak Spanish, and she doesn’t know anything useful. Martillar en hierro frio.” Pretty much stop flogging a dead horse.

  “You’re acting the fool over a fuck.”