Saint (15 page)

So he left his cot and in the darkness felt
around until he found her arm and pulled her into a sitting position. Lowering
himself beside her on her cot, he drew her trembling, petite form against him.

If Will wasn’t already dead he’d fucking
kill him for this.

“Go ahead, let it out,” he said. “It’s a
wonder you’ve held up this long.” He tightened his hold on her when she tried
to break away. Then all pretense flew out the window and she was all over him,
clutching at him, crawling into his lap, wetting his shirt with her silent
tears. And he was thrust into the tenth level of hell as memories of that
tortuous week six years ago rushed in on him.

The rage and anguish of losing his wife to
the perverse, warped psyche of Benito’s father had sent him over the edge of
insanity, made him so crazy with grief that he’d gone on a merciless rampage of
death and destruction.

The insanity hadn’t brought Carolyn back.
Instead, he’d been left with the madness and the rage until eventually those
things had waned and the numbness set in. He’d prayed for the numbness,
welcomed it, because anything was better than the savage, sickening ache that
made his chest hurt so fucking bad he thought he’d die. He’d wanted to die.
Went days at a time without eating. When that didn’t work he drank. And
finally, after all was said and done, he’d lost the ability to feel or care
about himself or the world around him.

But now…with Maria… His chest tightened
. Carolyn, I don’t want to do this. I can’t go through that
again.

That week was the first time in his
military career that he had enjoyed the killing. It was the reason he could
never again get involved in any situation concerning the Juarez family.The
reason he couldn’t let himself soften toward Maria Carvania—and why Will had known
he would.

The shaking finally began to subside and
she curled into the natural body warmth he offered. He ran his palm in slow
circles up and down her back, was amazed at the softness of her hair. More and
more he seemed to have to fight off the urge to tangle his fingers into the
mess of ringlets. He didn’t want to be so aware of her body against his, but
what choice did he have when she clung to him like this? Not that there wasn’t
a perfectly logical reason for it. For the moment he had the power to hold the
world at bay. There was no Juarez breathing down her neck. No need to learn the
knife, or the stance, or jog through the chilly morning air. No pushups or pull-ups
until she was too exhausted to do more than fall into bed at night.

Here, there was no gunfire or
earth-shattering explosions. Just her and him. And too damn much of that.

“I’m sorry your house was blown up,” she
sniffed against his shirt.

“Houses can be rebuilt.” Unlike hearts and
damaged souls.

“But if I hadn’t been there—”

“I hate to tell you this, but you don’t and
never did have any control over what Juarez does. Think you can sleep now?”

She planted a palm on his chest and pushed
up, squirming to hold herself at the odd angle. He wished to God she’d stop. “I’m
trying to apologize.”

“Don’t. I expected worse. They arrived a
little sooner than I’d estimated but it’s nothing we can’t deal with.”

“Is Will going to hide out until the trial?
Did you tell him about Hocksteder?”

“Will’s dead.”

Chapter Seven

She was going to be sick.

Her stomach heaved. The taste of bile rose
up in the back of her throat. Only with tremendous effort did she manage to
force it down. “Dead…”

Maria slammed her fist into the rock wall
of Harris’ chest, pushing, needing to be free of his hold so she could breathe.
He was too close and it was too much. Did he always have to be so bloody cold
and emotionless about death?

“Stop,” he said, holding onto her. “Maria…”

By the time he let go she was half wild to
put distance between them, scrambling in any direction that seemed open. But she
moved too swiftly, and because it was pitch black and she was more focused on
getting free than on what she was doing, the cot tipped. His hands
automatically came out to catch her, attempting, in vain, to center the
unexpected weight of both of them in motion.

They landed sprawled in a heap of blankets
on the packed dirt floor. He rolled, pinning her beneath him. “Calm down.”

“When were you going to tell me?” she
demanded, feeling her chest squeeze painfully. How long had he known? “Or were
you going to tell me? Maybe you were just going to let me think he was still
alive all the way up until the trial.”

“I would’ve told you eventually.”

Eventually… She rammed her knee into his
stomach but the damage was minimal. He only grunted. “You and that hit squad of
yours take pleasure in keeping information from me. Francis, with his maneuvers
and self-defense exercises. Gabriel, with his knife, and…and Joan with his Uzi.”
She didn’t know what an Uzi was, exactly, other than a weapon of some kind. But
considering the wall of mass destruction here in the bunker, it couldn’t be
good.

“Joan let you see his Uzi?”

In a flurry of arms, legs and blankets, she
bucked and squirmed, trying to dislodge him from atop her. It was wasted
effort, of course, because he was so much bigger than her. He easily checked her
movements by throwing his leg over her.

“Stop, before you hurt yourself.”

“They call me by every cliché, ridiculous
nickname they can think of,” she snarled. “Honey, ma’am, little gal, sister.
I’m sick of it! My name is Maria and that’s what I want to be called.”

“You forgot Angelface.”

When had he gone from being pissed to being
amused at the situation? “It beats ‘hey lady’,” she gritted out.

“It isn’t about you and the slights aren’t
intended as insults. They can’t afford to get personal. It affects their
judgment in a crisis situation. They have to see you as an object, a package to
be delivered, not a person.”

Francis had said something to that effect,
but seeing as she was getting thrown on her ass at the time, she hadn’t been
paying much attention.

Her took her silence as acknowledgement, if
nothing else, and continued. “If they connect with you, they act on emotion
instead of on instinct, which could cost them their lives, not to mention
yours. It might seem like a small concession to you, but to them it’s a major
hurdle. It also keeps them from crossing the line.”

She felt the flash of heat as his hips made
solid, brief contact with hers before he pushed to his feet. “What line? The
one between basic common courtesy and antagonism?”

He took hold of her hand and pulled up,
along with the tangle of blankets. “The very thin one between admiration and
lust,” he replied flatly. “Once they cross it, I have dissension in the ranks—something
I don’t allow, from myself or them.”

She crawled back onto her cot and continued
to lie there, concentrating on not panicking over the fact Will was dead. She
still couldn’t believe it. Just another notch on Benito Juarez’s holster, like
she’d almost been a few hours ago. How many more would die before it was over?

* * * * *

Breakfast consisted of rations and canned
juice. Neither of them mentioned last night or the way she’d clung to him in
her moment of weakness. Nor did Maria want to think about how it felt to be
held by him. During the night, however, while she’d lain awake thinking about
her situation, she’d made a decision. No one, not Seth Harris and his band of
merry men, nor Benito Juarez, nor the DEA was going to dictate her moves from
here on out. She’d gone along with their plans—both voluntarily and
involuntarily—and look where she was. Trapped in an underground bunker with a
man who scared the hell out of her on both a visceral and controversial level.

Since they were here, however, where he
couldn’t walk away from her, maybe she could get some answers to the questions
she still had. Dipping a spoonful of fruit from the tin can he’d opened and
handed to her, she said, “You didn’t…they’re not going to…” How did you ask
such an immoral question without it sounding tactless?

She suspected he knew what she was trying
to say, but didn’t offer help or an answer. Quickly, before she could change
her mind, she blurted out, “Are they going to kill that hotel clerk?”

“If they kill him they can’t question him,
now can they?”

If that was supposed to make her feel
better, it didn’t. “Three to one sounds more like enemy interrogation.”

“Either way, I’ll have some answers.”

As usual, conversation with Harris was like
having your teeth pulled. And when he was done discussing a topic, you knew it.
So she switched subjects. “How do you know for sure Will’s dead?”

“Because I found him. And trust me, you
don’t want details.”

He was right, she didn’t. But she did want
to know where they stood now that Will was out of the picture permanently.

Luckily, for her, it was something he was
willing to discuss. “When Will didn’t call in to verify your whereabouts
Hocksteder put the word out he’d turned rogue. The evidence Will collected and
turned over has been labeled bogus and unreliable. Inter-agency speculation is
running toward him being on the take. On the surface you were his
responsibility and he was doing his job—except Juarez always managed to find
you. In truth, the whole thing was nothing more than a controlled manhunt. Will
never had a chance. His partner, Dave Smith, is on suspended leave, pending
investigation, to keep him from sticking his nose in too far. Hocksteder
announced he’d be taking over the case personally. That works out good for him
because if things blow up in his face, he can blame a dead man.”

He’d found out all that on the trip to
D.C.? “So what happens now?”

He chewed, swallowed, took his time
answering. “We stay here until Francis and the boys get back. It’s too
dangerous to move now. We’re safe here. Juarez’s men won’t be able to find this
bunker without knowing exactly where it is. But they’ll probably make a few
passes overhead, maybe even send in a search team.”

The possibility of Juarez’s men walking
around on top of them, literally, didn’t do much to calm the thoughts racing
through her head. “Can they track us here from the cabin?”

“Possibly,” he allowed. “Joan covered what
he could. But like I said, they won’t find anything.”

“B-but what if they do?”

“Relax. They won’t.”

Relax, sure, like she hadn’t spent the last
six months being assured she was safe. Sooner or later her luck was going to run
out.

He saw her open her mouth and cut her off,
“There’s a tunnel exit, for God’s sake. You think I’d bring you down here if
the only way out was up? Don’t answer that.”

She didn’t, but was breathing easier now
that she knew she had options. The problem was that she didn’t always like
them. Letting her gaze roam the war wall, with its array of guns and equipment,
she said, “Please tell me you’re a collector and not one of those crazy people
who holes up underground waiting for a foreign invasion.” On second thought,
maybe that wasn’t such a dumb thing to do.

“You never know when something might come
up. Like you,” he added.

“Yeah, and you never know when you’ll have
to climb a tree. What is all this stuff?”

The tree comment had his forehead
wrinkling. “Mostly gear used during Desert Storm and the Gulf War. Some of it’s
vintage, not regular issue anymore. Special Forces uses equipment from all
branches, plus they have their own gear engineered to fit their particular
needs.”

Since they were on a roll—and he was
actually talking for a change—she debated her next question carefully. He’d
spent a good deal of last night tossing and turning. The debate lasted about
two seconds before she blurted out, “Who’s Carolyn?”

He froze in taking a bite of fruit, and for
an instant a flinty hardness and shadows of pain appeared in his blue eyes
before the shutter came down again.

Oh well, she already had one foot in the
water. “You said her name last night. In your sleep.”

“I don’t talk in my sleep,” he stated
blandly. “Talking in your sleep could get you killed.”

“Then I guess I didn’t hear you call her
name. Twice.”

He gathered up the empty tins and headed to
the other end of the bunker, squatting down to scrub them in a bucket of sand
kept on hand. Apparently, even empty food tins were reusable. Who knew? “I’m
sending you back with Joan. He’ll keep you until the trial.”

“What?”
That
she hadn’t been expecting. “No!”

He finished with the tins and stood, facing
her. “You don’t get a choice this time. Nobody gets past Joan without major
damage to vital body parts and organs.”

“My biggest mistake was letting Will have
the reins and going along with his orders and suggestions without question. I
thought he had my best interests at heart. He didn’t. I thought he wanted to
see justice done. Maybe he did, in the beginning, but the pressure got to him
and he took what he thought was the easy way out. Frankly, where Juarez is
concerned, it smells like everyone has their own agenda. And the issue of my
safety—or lack of it—has become nothing more than a convenient excuse to dress
up extermination so it looks like justice.”