The Captive's Return (Wingmen Warriors 10)

Finding them was the only thing that had kept him from eating the Uzi slung over his shoulder. He couldn't leave them to Padilla's beasts. He eyed the crumbled stone boundary, a heap of rubble from grenade attacks.

One last dash from tree to tree took him to the far western wall, the last place Sarafina and Lucia had been seen on surveillance tapes. Hopefully he would find footprints, anything to give him a clue before troops trampled through. He could hide out in the nearby bunker until the gunfire waned, then slip away in the hidden Jeep to track them.

Darting behind the piled chunks of wall, he paused. A wicker handle poked from the crushed stone and mortar. It couldn't be. He tore through the rubble, shards slicing his hands until finally he uncovered a mangled picnic basket. Sarafina's.

But no bodies, and no time for relief. Where were they?

He stepped over the low remaining barrier, inspected the ground, resurrecting skills that had kept him alive during his guerrilla days. The soft, mulchy earth bore three sets of footprints—child size, another size up and finally a large set deeply pressed.

An adult male.

Padilla's men had gotten to her first.

All the tamped-down emotions threatened to boil. Sarafina was as much his daughter as his own, little Lucia a granddaughter. His hands shook with a burning drive for revenge—slow, painful vengeance.

A rustling sounded from the bushes.

Hope kicked hard inside his chest. Still, he couldn't be certain. Anyone could be lurking back there. He eased his gun from his shoulder, aiming it toward the shifting spray of red-and-orange orchids

He wasn't the twenty-year-old freedom fighter anymore. Now he spent more time ruling from his office than a tent in the jungle. But his reflexes were sharp, thanks to hours with his trainer and a determination not to go soft.

"Agotarse." Come out, he ordered, his voice hoarse from shouting when he watched helplessly as his quarters exploded, his family trapped inside the tunnels.

The palms parted to reveal...

A woman's face. Not Sarafina, too pale and tall. He suppressed a roar of frustration as he aimed at the young woman around thirty, with short blond hair and wary eyes.

"Help me," she pleaded in flawless English. "Please don't let Hector Padilla take me again."

Chapter 4

Sara broke off another waxy palm leaf that Lucas swore he could somehow weave into a shelter for the night. Sleep with Lucas again?

The sun was sinking faster than her boundaries.

Of course she'd known since the bridge blew that they would spend the night in the jungle, probably more than one. But looking at that tiny lean-to framed with three large branches resting in the crook of a tree, she realized she would rest curled up against him.

She could swear her stomach was full of those bubbles she used to love blowing.

Not that anything could actually happen since they had Lucia to look after, even if their daughter was already curled up snoozing on a mossy bed with her head on the backpack, an abandoned banana peel next to her. The darkness held too many dangers in the jungle to be anything but alert to the threat of spiders, snakes, dart frogs. All poisonous.

So since they wouldn't be having sex, and since she was fairly certain she wouldn't be able to sleep, they would have nothing to do but talk about subjects they'd avoided all day. Their relationship, or lack thereof.

And Lucia. That would make for a big enough discussion to eclipse the rest.

Silently, Lucas draped the mosquito netting from her backpack over the branches before gathering a stack of the palm leaves. Starting at ground level, he lined them along the bottom in a row, then lined up the next layer, and the next. He'd told her that by beginning low and building up, water from any surprise rain showers would sheet off, rather than in.

Echoing in the distance, gunfire popped from the continued battle, reminding her of mortality. She couldn't ignore the possibility that they may not make it through the night to finish their discussions and find the answers she craved.

First and foremost, were her feelings for Lucas still there, nestled deep somewhere in her bruised soul? Certainly the attraction thrived as strong as ever. But beyond the physical, she yearned for some sign of tenderness from him after so long alone, a fanciful notion when she should focus on getting out of the jungle and out of the country alive.>What would have happened to them without Lucas? She shivered thinking of how close she'd come to being alone with her child out here.

She still couldn't believe he was actually with her, an amazing gift that stole the humid air from her lungs. Theirs hadn't been the tearful reunion she may have once dreamed of on days she dared allow herself to believe he might be alive after all. But they were running for their lives.

Lucas had barely spoken more than a handful of words to her, each one about making their way to safety. She needed his strength more than sappy words. How ironic that all her reasons for turning down his proposals before made for the very traits that would save her and her child now.

She might not need romantic words, but she did need to hear the familiar sound of his voice after so long without him. "Lucas, are you able to talk, or does your arm hurt too much?"

Without breaking stride, he checked the setting sun, then his watch. "Arm's fine, so feel free to ask whatever you need," his bass rumbled low and soft.