Where There's Smoke

Key cut his eyes to Lara. She sat unmoving and silent. He admired her stoicism. This sideshow was for their benefit, but, like him, she refused to give El Corazón the satisfaction of seeing her react with revulsion and fear.

I might be next, Key thought, but the tightassed little bastard won’t see me on my knees begging for my life.

A hush of expectation fell over the camp. Activity was suspended. Key guessed that the anticipation had nothing to do with the two grisly corpses being dragged away, but rather with what would be his and Lara’s fate. Executions of enemies and traitors like those they’d just witnessed were probably commonplace, daily occurrences to enforce discipline and discourage disobedience. The camp followers, even the children, were inured to them. But having two American citizens to punish was a unique diversion that had captured everyone’s imagination.

It was Lara, however, who began the offensive.

“You were an intelligent young man, Emilio Sánchez Perón.” Her voice was soft with fatigue, but it carried to every ear in the camp. “You could have become a great man, an excellent leader, the leader who could have boosted Montesangre out of its rut of poverty and antiquity and into the twenty-first century. Instead you have regressed to what you accused me of being—a child. A petulant, cowardly, self-serving brat.

“You talk about freedom from oppression,” she continued. Scornfully her eyes swept the camp. “This community is the most oppressed I’ve seen in Montesangre. You aren’t a leader, you’re a bully. One of these days one of your followers is going to tire of your bullying and show you no mercy. You’re not to be feared but pitied.”

Those who understood English gasped at her temerity. Those who didn’t could accurately interpret the expression on El Corazón’s face. It became suffused with color. His eyes glinted malevolently.

“I am not a coward,” he said stiffly. “I killed General Pérez because his resolve was weakening.”

“I’ll be damned,” Key whispered. Sánchez was the usurper to whom Father Geraldo had referred. He was the soldier who’d murdered his own commander in order to seize control of the rebel forces.

“Yes, Mrs. Porter,” Sánchez was saying. “I see you are surprised. I want you to understand how determined I am to become the undisputed leader of my country. I will do whatever is necessary, although sometimes the tasks are unpleasant.” He glanced down at the fresh blood drying in the sun.

“Like shooting your own man point-blank?”

“Yes.” He broke into a smile that was so confident, so smug, that it was actually more bone-chilling than the brutal act had been. “Like that. And like organizing the ambush on Ambassador Porter’s car.”

Lara’s body jerked. She blanched. Even her lips turned white. “You?”

“Under General Pérez’s orders I coordinated the operation because I was familiar with the ambassador’s agenda. You were not scheduled to attend the birthday party. You and Ambassador Porter quarreled over it. He insisted that you go with him.

“You should have followed your instincts and refused. He was our target, not you. If you had stayed at the embassy I might possibly have sneaked you out before it was attacked. As it turned out, my hands were tied. It was too late to call off the ambush.”

“Ashley.”

Key didn’t actually hear her speak the name, but he saw her lips form it.

“Ashley.” As the implications sank in, her voice gained strength and she screamed, “You killed my daughter!”

“I did no such thing,” he said. “She was an unfortunate casualty of war. Actually I was rather fond of the child.”

His cavalier dismissal of her daughter’s violent death sent Lara into a frenzy. Suddenly she spun into motion, transforming into a whirling, ducking, rolling blur of limbs. The violent conversion was so instantaneous that it caught even her guards unaware. When they regained their wits, they naturally expected her to rush forward, toward Sánchez. They weren’t prepared for her to move backward.

By the time she stopped moving, the contents of the camera bag had been dumped into the dirt and she was aiming the Magnum revolver at Sánchez. At least two dozen rifles and pistols were cocked and aimed at her.

“No!”

Key leaped to his feet and threw a body tackle at Lara, knocking her to the ground. The searing pain in his ribs almost caused him to black out, but he held on to her, trying to restrain her thrashing arms and gain possession of the weapon. Cruel irony that it was, Sánchez was their only hope of survival. If Lara killed him, they would be as good as dead, too. As long as they remained alive, there was hope of their getting out of Montesangre.

With surprising strength, she fought like a hellcat. “Let me go! I’ll kill him!”

Several of the soldiers had joined the melee. Key was pulled away fro

m her. He didn’t know why the guerrillas hadn’t opened fire on the two of them and dispatched the threat to El Corazón. Not until he saw him calmly approaching did Key realize that he was probably protected by a bulletproof vest. And, it seemed, unless the camp was under direct attack, no one fired a single round without a direct order from him.

“Release her.”

At the sound of his voice, the guerrillas released Lara and backed away from her. She surged to her feet and, holding the Magnum in remarkably steady hands, pointed it at Sánchez.

“Lara, no!” Key hissed. He struggled with his captors, but to no avail. “Don’t do it. For God’s sake, don’t.”

“She will not kill me, Mr. Tackett.” Although he was speaking to Key, Sánchez’s eyes were fastened to Lara’s.