The Captive's Return (Wingmen Warriors 10)

He'd trained his Uzi on her and led her to the bunker where they'd hidden through the night. He recognized the survivor spirit in her, stirring unwilling respect. The woman was toned, young and fit, a long-legged blonde in running shorts and a black T-shirt. Barefoot. But that wouldn't pose a problem as long as his stored Jeep started.

Still, she needed to be ready to run on his order. Reaching under the backseat, he unearthed the duffel stored for just such an emergency. He unzipped, not even needing to check the inventory—a change of clothes, dried food, water purification tablets. A knife and gun.

He passed her an oversize pair of sandals. "Do you have a name?" he finally thought to ask, not that it mattered.

She was simply a means to an end, Padilla's whore, willingly or not. Although she didn't look abused. Health hummed from her.

Her lips pursed so tightly he wondered if she would answer, found that anger seethed within him in spite of his resolution to stay numb and in control. He thought about slapping her—but knew his rage was misdirected, and he prided himself on being fair.

She reached for the shoes, careful not to touch him. "Nola."

"All right, Nola. Do what I say and you will live. Hesitate for even a second and you will die. Is that understood?"

She nodded, taking the shoes and following his every move with those wide wary eyes. Again he studied her flawless skin. He'd seen Padilla's handiwork before. The man enjoyed pain, knives, cigars.

Padilla also used electrodes, which left no marks.

Ramon swallowed down rage, and even relief that his family hadn't been captured. He couldn't think over-long about Sarafina or he would go insane. Financing her expensive, difficult pregnancy had delayed work completing his compound for almost six months, a sacrifice he would make again and again to save a woman who was like family to him. He couldn't let her and Lucia suffer for his sake now.

"Get in the Jeep." He hauled himself into the driver's seat. "Buckle up. The ride will be bumpy."

Once she settled inside, he tugged a bandanna from the bag and tied her wrists to the armrest, tight. She didn't even wince. Her submissiveness spooked him. He had women of his own, always willing and never mistreated beyond a simple slap if they forgot their place. He was better than Padilla after all.

He considered telling the woman she was safe with him, but then fear could keep her docile. Best to let her wonder.

Cranking the ignition, he pumped the gas pedal until the vehicle roared to life. He wouldn't resort to rape. He'd never needed to, and right now with the grief and loss surging through him, sex was the last thing on his mind.

Midway through the night he'd realized survival and revenge weren't enough. He owed it to his country to regain power. He had money stashed away. As long as some of his troops escaped, they could lead additional fighters he would hire. He had a two-way radio to use when the time was right.

First, he had to find Sarafina and Lucia.

That old book was right about the whole "best of times, worst of times" dichotomy.

Lucas hitched the wriggling kid higher on his back and tried not to think too much about their "family" conversation earlier. He'd officially taken on the role as the father of the restless human backpack currently drooling through the shoulder of his flight suit.

Like a little more moisture even mattered after the morning of tropical rain showers.

The makeshift kiddie carrier from his survival vest helped distribute her weight better and when she slept, he didn't have to worry about her sliding off. Blisters on his shoulders from the vines were a small price to pay for keeping the kid happy.

Once he'd let Sara tell Lucia he was her father, that was it. No going back, because there wasn't a chance in hell he would damage a child's trust that way. There was also the possibility Sara was telling the truth.

Stop thinking, damn it.

A fat striped snake slithered under a rotting log and into the stream alongside them. He needed to focus on getting out of the jungle alive. They still had at least one more night in the elements before they reached the CIA safe house. Once they were in the States, he could deal with the rest.

On the positive side, the gunfire had stopped. But that could also be bad news if Chavez was now free to roam.

One hurdle at a time. They had to get through today first and by the looks of Sara, he could be carrying her before much longer.

She'd refused to let him cart her backpack as well as Lucia because of his arm. While she was on a bushes break, he'd taken the water bottles out of her sack and shoved them inside his vest. When she'd confronted him, he'd dared her to fish inside his soaking wet clothes to get them back. Her smile would have made him grin, too—if the curve of her mouth hadn't been so weak.

Maybe he could set Lucia down to skip along for a while and carry the backpack. The kid could use some exercise and he would put his arm around Sara's waist, her pride be damned.

Lucia wriggled again, clamping for balance on his injured arm—holy crap!

He bit back a longer stream of crewdog-worthy curses. "Try to be still. Okay?"

"I don't wanna walk anymore," she whined.