Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) (21 page)

"
Jerónimo
," Craterfaced called him, modifying Jeremiah's name so he could pronounce it. "
Eres médico, eh?
"

Jeremiah nodded. "
Sí
."

"Ju haf no bank card,
ninguna tarjeta de crédito?
"

He shook his head. "No, I left them on the ship."

"Hmph. Who will pay
el rescate
for you?"

"My father," Jeremiah said, drawing a sidelong glance from Emma, who knew his parents owned a horse farm in Loudon County. Though he was certain his folks would happily part with fifty grand to secure his release, he wouldn't dream of putting them in that position.

"
Escribe su
email," Craterface ordered, gesturing for Emma to give him the pen.

Bending over the list, he saw that Emma had put down a Google address for Juliet. In crisp, clear script, he wrote down Master Chief Kuzinsky's private email, with its "NeverForget" alias. If Craterface sent out ransom emails on the laptop in front of him, maybe the Navy could trace them straight to this building using the IP address. The thought heartened him.

"
Mira
."

As he put the pen down, Craterface directed his attention to the man who'd shot himself in the foot the day before. That morning, he lay groaning in his hammock with his bloody sneaker propped up on one end.

"
Es mi hermano
," Craterface admitted, watching Jeremiah for a trace of comprehension. "My brother, Sergio. If ju e-fix his foot, I no kill ju today."

Emma's sharp inhale told him she believed the leader's threat.

The injured man spoke up from across the room. "
Me va a operar hoy, César?
"

Without meaning to, Sergio had just given up his brother's name. Jeremiah squeezed Emma's hand reassuringly. "I can help him," he said.

"
Ahora,
" César declared, shutting his laptop with a snap and pushing back his chair.

"Right now?" Jeremiah asked.

"
Sí, ahora,
" the man repeated. "
Vete, mujer,
" he added waving Emma back up the stairs.

She started to turn away. Then, to Jeremiah's astonishment, swung back around and planted a fervent kiss on his lips, her eyes wide open and staring into his.

Oh, wow. Okay
.

He would have given anything just then to explore the frightened but fiercely loyal look in her eyes. But she whirled away and ran up the stairs without a backward glance.

He turned with reluctance toward the matter at hand. Saving a murderous
narco
from dying of his self-inflicted wounds wasn't exactly his cup of tea. The threat of being killed by Craterface, aka César, if he didn't save Sergio was his only incentive. But returning to Emma so he could nurture the feelings he'd seen in her eyes—that was his real motivation.

He had pulled more shrapnel out of his teammates than he cared to remember.
Easy day
, he assured himself.

Chapter 13

Sitting in the passenger seat of the car they'd rented, Juliet craned her neck to better view the speedometer.

Tristan kept the accelerator pressed to the floor. A wilderness of thorny trees and sandy soil streamed past them, keeping her from relaxing. The road snaking through
El Parque National de Quintana Roo
was riddled with potholes, making it less than safe for travel. But it was still the fastest way to hit the highway to Mérida.

"You're going a hundred and twenty," she protested.

His baritone laughter eased a portion of her tension.

"
Kilometers
per hour, honey," he corrected her. "We're only going about seventy."

Oh.
She eased her grip on the armrest and reassessed their speed. Maybe this wasn't as dangerous as it felt. Tristan avoided the potholes with ease. He'd even swerved around the armadillo that scuttled into their path as if it was nothing.

"Please don't call me 'honey,'" she heard herself say.

In her peripheral vision, she saw him slide her a wounded look. "Not even after last night?"

Her eyes sank shut. He
would
bring that up. The memory of what they'd shared sent a tide of bliss rolling through her.

"Last night doesn't count," she insisted. "I was out of my mind with worry. I needed a distraction."

The silence that followed drew her gaze to his somber profile. She realized she didn't like the fact that she'd caused the downturn in his mood.

"So that's what I am." He nodded several times.

"That's not what I meant." Turning slightly toward him, she spent a moment contemplating his splendid arresting profile—the high forehead, Greek nose, sensually shaped lips, and strong jaw. "You're incredible," she admitted, causing him to glance at her briefly, a spark of optimism in his eyes. "I can't imagine going through this without you. But last night should not have happened." She forced herself to be honest with him. "I can't
be
in a relationship, Tristan. I'm not that kind of girl. I need my space. Plus, you just got out of a relationship. I told you, I'm not interested in being your rebound lover."

A humorless smile touched his lips. He nodded as if agreeing with her. "Well, you can't blame me for trying," he said, surprising her with his easy acceptance. "But don't let my history and your own prickly nature blind you to what we have now."

"And what's that?" She didn't bother to conceal her skepticism. "Chemistry? A common bond born out of a scary and tragic situation?"

Her edginess seemed to have no effect on him. He darted her an admonishing look. "You keep forgetting something, honey. We're a team. When we work together, we get better results. Don't sabotage that."

His patient reprimand had her swallowing a retort. For the time being, he was right. What had started out as a joint effort to throw Emma and Bullfrog together had morphed, out of necessity, into a partnership of sorts. Right now, she needed him for his level-headedness and his connection to the SEALs. He needed her because Detective Canché couldn't go with them to Mérida, and she knew how to hunt down missing people.

"I said not to call me that. And there's the ramp to the highway," she said, catching sight of it up ahead.

"Yep."

They would be in Mérida in two hours, about three o'clock in the afternoon. And then what? Would the GPS in Bullfrog's watch lead them straight to their loved ones? How long before the SEALs could enact a rescue?

The thought of enduring another nerve-fraying night alone with Tristan prompted Juliet to gnaw on the inside of her lip. She could not claim the man as a mere distraction for a second night in a row. That wasn't fair to either of them.

But the flames of their passion still lingered, heating her from the inside out. Of their own accord, her eyes strayed to Tristan's competent grip on the steering wheel as he swung them up the ramp. Just the sight of his hands, with their handsome knuckles and long dexterous fingers, excited her like no man's hands had done before. Recalling how skillfully his fingers had coaxed her toward climax, her hidden muscles clenched with the desire to do it all again.

Stop it!

The sex had been amazing—so what? Repeating the experience would only affirm in Tristan's mind that they were a couple now—which they weren't. They were simply teammates, like he'd said—colleagues of a sort. And she never, ever dallied with a colleague. One night stands with friends of friends—that was her modus operandi. It kept her independent and unattached, and that was how she intended to stay.

Just keep telling yourself that, she thought with a bitter grimace. No, better to tell
him
.

"Look. We're not going to have sex again," she stated—more to convince herself than for any other reason.

He shot her an inscrutable glance, saying nothing.

"I mean it," she added more firmly. "That was a one-off for me."

He kept silent a minute longer, shrugged carelessly and said, "I got you. No worries." He paused, then he added. "Technically, we did it twice, or was it three times?" Then he chuckled.

Suspicious of his indifference, she studied him out of the corner of her eye. Did he really not even care one way or another? Unexpected hurt stitched through her.

"Good," she said, looking away to conceal her sudden misgivings. Maybe he was used to amazing sex. Maybe last night hadn't been anything special. Hell, he might have had it better with Mariah than with her. The thought soured her stomach.

See, that's why one didn't jump in as someone's rebound, she scolded herself.

Anyway, she would never have to worry about that for another moment because it wasn't going to happen again. Whatever the circumstances in Mérida, she was going to cope on her own without turning to Tristan for distraction—because, in spite of her assurances to the contrary, that
was
all he'd been and all he was ever going to be.

* * *

"
Aquí,
" Craterface said, swiping an arm across a table at the front of the room. Chicken bones, a plastic ashtray, and several paper cups fell to the floor.

With an inward shudder, Jeremiah realized this was going to be the operating table.

"
Agua?
" He made washing motions with his hands—although with the table already a breeding ground for bacteria, what difference would it make if he disinfected first or not?

The leader ignored him, going to help his brother from the hammock. Sergio had roused himself and was tossing a handful of pills into his mouth. Grimacing at the taste, he chased down the narcotics with a swig of tequila.

Jeremiah sent a considering glance at the pill bottle. Were these men trafficking pills, heroin, cocaine, or all of the above?

César put an arm around his brother and helped him lie back onto the makeshift operating table. Bringing over an old carpetbag, he gestured for Jeremiah to help himself.

Inside it, he found an assortment of first-aid supplies, a bottle of peroxide, a dull scalpel, needles and thread, and a pair of dirty tweezers. With a wave of longing, he thought of his medic's kit back home.

"Towels?" he inquired, and another man went to look for some.

César barked at him to get it over with. Sergio, whose eyes were rolling back in his head, was clearly succumbing to the narcotic cocktail he'd consumed.

Jeremiah inhaled deeply then slowly exhaled to center himself. Tackling the laces on Sergio's ruined tennis shoe, he pulled it gently off his injured foot. The smell of infected flesh layered over the stink of unwashed socks had him holding his breath. He removed the sock next, snipping off bits of thread coated in blood and stuck to Sergio's wound.

With the sock finally off, he assessed the damage. A chunk of metal had embedded itself in the
narco
's big toe. It had gone straight through the toenail and might have broken the bone, but in itself, it wasn't a lethal injury.

The infection that ballooned the toe with pus and turned his whole foot an angry shade of red might yet kill him, however. Karma was unforgiving, Jeremiah thought, recalling how this man had slaughtered the foreigners on the bus then doused them in gasoline and lit them on fire.

He deserved to die a slow and painful death.

But with his own life on the line, it fell to Jeremiah to keep Sergio alive a little longer. With the remaining
narcos
looking on, he bathed the wound in hydrogen peroxide, drained about 60 ccs of pus from the toe, and set about removing shrapnel.

Practice under fire kept his hands steady. César's unblinking scrutiny offered testimony that the leader wasn't squeamish either, which meant he'd probably seen more gore than an emergency-room doctor.

Not a good sign, Jeremiah considered.

Twenty minutes later, without a peep from Sergio, the metallic souvenirs from the bus had all been removed. Jeremiah sewed the wound as cleanly as he could, given the thickness of needle and thread. He then wrapped the toe in gauze and secured it with electrical tape, which was all anyone could find.

Wiping his sticky hands on the grimy towel he'd been given, he spoke directly to the leader.

"His toe is still badly infected. Without antibiotics, your brother could die."

César lifted dark eyes at him. "
Antibióticos?
"