The Captive's Return (Wingmen Warriors 10)

She couldn't miss the pain in his voice, the proof that he had cared. She'd hurt him, used him, and he'd deserved so much better from her. At that time in her selfish little world, she'd justified holding back from him because he wasn't giving his all. She now wondered if—for him—he'd given so much more.

Lucas looked away, up at the sky, sunset splashing tequila hues through tiny holes in the jungle canopy. Fading light and the seclusion fuzzed out the rest of the world until she could only see the strong column of his neck she'd once taken delight in kissing in a path to his surprisingly and wonderfully full bottom lip.

She had no business thinking about her heart or tender reunions. Hadn't she sworn to herself she was a more practical woman now?

Shifting his attention back to her, he reached behind to secure groggy Lucia and extended his other hand.

Toward her.

The hard planes of his handsome face went tight, as close to hurting as a man like him would ever show. She held her breath. He plucked something from her hair, a flower, orange spiky leaves drifting to the ground as he flicked it aside without moving away. In spite of wiser intentions, she waited.

Wanted.

"Lucas?" Was that shaky voice really hers?

His throat moved in a long, slow swallow that begged her to taste his neck again. "Time to stop for the night."

Ramon Chavez had survived for fifty-two years by knowing when to abandon ship. And this was one of those times.

Taking cover in the dusky shadows of sunset, he crouched low, sprinting around sprays of palms toward the outer wall of the compound. Gunfire stuttered behind him, screams, explosions that blasted away everything he'd built.

The escape tunnel inside his casa had collapsed, which meant someone had sold him out. With luck— Dios he could use some—the camouflaged bunker with a Jeep and supplies remained a secret.

Padilla's men had the place surrounded, outnumbering Chavez's troops two to one. A few months ago with the help of his cousin Aliesandro Aragon, he could have fought off the bastard.

But not now that the idealists in the Cartinian government had taken out Aliesandro, a pampered mama's boy who couldn't hold on to what his father had built with strength, blood and sweat.

There was sweat and blood to spare now, caked to the camouflage he'd donned for battle. His sweat. His men's blood.

Why couldn't the officials in place see the value of his brand of leadership steeped in generations of tradition? Like an iron fist in a velvet glove, he nurtured and protected his people from Padilla's cruelty, as well as from the rampant anarchy his government wanted to institute.

Or he had.

Bitter defeat threatened to slow his steps. He could simply let the rat, tat, tat of the battle cut him in half. His children and his grandchildren were gone, dead in the collapse of the exit tunnels. He'd told his troops to scatter. Some listened, some suicidal fools refused to surrender, their to-the-death resistance echoing futilely as the sun sank.

He was beyond grief. Beyond rage or desperation. Numb and focused on only one goal, one reason to live.

Where were Sarafina and Lucia?

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