Flash Fire Page 23

  She didn’t know what to say to that. She extricated herself from the situation and moved to a parallel branch.

  “I scared you last night in the well,” he said, his expression somber, his eyes filled with regret. “I’m sorry.”

  He had scared her. And he’d certainly made her see the truth. “We should go.”

  He nodded. “I’ll go first. Watch what I do and step where I step.”

  She did, carefully holding on to the wet branches, catching herself every time her boots slipped.

  Then they were almost all the way down finally, and Walker jumped from the lowest branch to the ground. He held out his arms. “I’ll catch you.”

  She hesitated, but then let go. Walker breaking her fall was better than falling on her face.

  He caught her. He checked her over. Then he quickly set her on her feet, respecting that she needed space.

  “Anything hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “Feel up to walking out of the jungle?”

  “Try to hold me back.”

  He offered a ghost of a smile. “You’re pretty tough for a civilian.”

  “I’m a DOD investigator.”

  The smile turned real, even if his eyes still held regret. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What? No Detective Cupcake?”

  “I was just trying to get under your skin with that,” he admitted. “Some cupcake detective wouldn’t have survived the Tamchén well. I’m going to have to start calling you The Indomitable Investigator.”

  That almost made her smile as she followed him down a barely visible game trail.

  Since she was stiff, and sore everywhere, she slowed him down considerably. After a while, she gave up worrying about it. It couldn’t be helped.

  They reached a road midmorning, caught a ride with a priest who was headed to Mercita. He was an older, local man who’d seen a lot of things come out of the jungle in his long life. He didn’t ask them any questions, just let them out at the edge of town as they requested.

  “I need a shower with soap, possibly bleach,” was the first thing Clara said when they reached Brunhilda’s.

  The house stood quiet, everybody asleep.

  Walker pulled out his cell phone. Pushed buttons. Shook his head. “Looks like it survived the well but couldn’t take the rain on top of that.” He moved toward the front door. “I need to make a phone call.”

  “Who are you calling?” She went in with him.

  His expression said, That’s in the when-I-want-you-to-know-something-I’ll-tell-you column.

  She rolled her eyes then headed for the nearest bathroom. But then she stopped to look back at him. “So if the Tamchén don’t have Rosita, where do you think she is? I really thought this was it.”

  “My best guess is that she’s dead.” He reached up and rubbed his fingers over the stubble on his chin. Regret sat in his gaze. “I think she was gone before you ever got down here.”

  “I need proof.”

  He shook his head. “I need to make a call. Then we’ll talk,” he told her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Walker had two days left.

  “I found your shipment,” he said into the wall phone downstairs at Brunhilda’s.

  “Where?” Santiago asked on the other end, his voice sharp and demanding.

  Walker had a feeling that if they were in the same room, he would have the guy’s hands around his neck right now, amigo or no amigo. The feeling was mutual. Cold fury pooled in his gut at the sound of Santiago’s voice.

  “At the Tamchén.” He paused for effect. “I was thinking where Pedro could have put it, since it wasn’t found in Furino. I figured Pedro passed it on already, so I went looking for it.”

  “How the hell did you get in?”

  “I did a small job for them back when. One of the guys knows me. I pretended I was looking for more work.”

  “Are you sure it was my shipment?”

  “They were talking about it. They were unpacking it in the hangar. I took a picture, but my phone didn’t make it.” Maybe it’d work again when it dried out.

  Walker waited a few beats, as if he was struggling with what he was about to say next. “I want to come on board.”

  Santiago didn’t immediately respond. He took time to process the request. “Why now?”

  “They caught me looking. I took a dip in the well. I barely broke loose. I shot a couple of grunts on my way out.”

  “No shit?” Santiago gave a startled laugh. “So you need protection?”

  “It’s time I clearly belonged to one side or the other. Makes things easier.” Walker made it sound as if it was a simple matter of convenience. Santiago wouldn’t respect a guy who admitted to needing anything. “Carlos around yet?”

  “Yeah. But don’t worry about it, all right? I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  “Thanks, amigo. I appreciate it.”

  “Just come around when you’re ready.”

  “I brought a small souvenir for you from the Tamchén. I’ll be there later today,” Walker said before he hung up. He couldn’t go right away. War was about to break out. He wanted to get Clara out of town first.

  If Rosita had been with the Tamchén, Walker would have returned to spirit the girl out. For Clara. But Rosita hadn’t been there, and conditions were growing more dangerous by the minute—time for Clara to leave.

  He filled his lungs. Shoved his hands into his pockets. Fuck.

  She was scared of him.

  She hadn’t looked at him the same way since the well. He wished he hadn’t taken her to the Tamchén. Not something he could change now.

  He’d had no choice about the noseless man. He needed the information right then and there, no way to get the guy out of camp without drawing attention.

  He’d promised Sister Sak Ch’up he wouldn’t harm the guy unless absolutely necessary. In Walker’s judgment, it’d been necessary.

  But his broken word to the nun wasn’t what bothered him the most.

  Clara had seen him for who he was. And she’d recoiled. From the very beginning, he had tried to scare her. Now he’d finally succeeded, and he hated it.

  She was right, of course. He was a dark-hearted, conscienceless bastard. But for some reason his chest felt even more hollow than usual at the thought of her loathing him.

  Because he finally admitted to himself that he was falling for her—possibly the stupidest thing he’d ever done, and he’d done a couple of doozies.

  He had feelings for DOD Investigator Clara Roberts.

  The thought sent him reeling. How could something like that happen this fast?

  Then again, what did he know about falling in love? He didn’t have any previous experience.

  Maybe it was always like this—a torpedo out of the blue, blowing you out of the water.

  Jesus, she was magnificent. Tough and honest, and funny. Stood right up to him, something even rough men only did with extreme care. If ever.

  Walker clenched his jaw. In the well, there’d been a moment of decision, whether to interrogate the noseless man or let go of the past, let go of his revenge, and maybe try to be the kind of man who could have a place in Clara’s heart.

  He’d made his decision. There was no going back.

  He swallowed regret—more bitter than the shaman’s boiled beetles—as he moved toward the stairs.

  Clara had gone into the bathroom on the first floor, so he went up to the second floor and used the bathroom up there, stripped out of his clothes, washed off the stench of the well and the dirt of the jungle.

  The rain had helped, but it hadn’t been nearly enough. He used up half a bar of soap by the time he felt clean on the outside. On the inside… He was pretty sure he was past the point where he’d ever feel clean or whole again.

  Clara deserved better. Letting her go, not starting anything with her, was his only way of loving her. Sometimes love was sending the one you loved toward something better.

  He grabbed
a bottle of iodine and a box of bandages from the bathroom cabinet and didn’t bother going back down and around. He walked through Carmen’s room—she was sleeping soundly in her bed—out the window, then up the fire stairs, wearing nothing but the towel wrapped around his waist, carrying his boots in his other hand, his gun inside one boot, his phone in the other.

  Clara was already up in the attic and dressed, in a pair of old cargo pants and a black T-shirt from his stash. The pants were a little long, the shirt too wide in the shoulders. She had her arms up, drying her hair with a towel. The soft, worn material of the shirt clung to her uplifted breasts.

  And just like that, a wave of instant lust cleared all other thought from his mind.

  No bra.

  She’d probably washed the one she’d had on. Her utilitarian sports bra was probably drying in the bathroom downstairs. Next to her utilitarian cotton panties, he’d bet.

  Which meant she was naked under her clothes. His body tightened.

  Then he thought, she was technically naked under his clothes. The idea that he was never going to see those breasts naked, let alone touch them, drove him a little crazy. He mumbled, “Lucky clothes,” under his breath as he dropped his boots to the floor.

  He wanted to make love to her more than he wanted to draw his next breath.

  She blinked at him. “What? Do you mind? I didn’t have anything.”

  He shook his head. “You’re welcome to borrow whatever you need.”

  He sat on the mattress and placed the bottle of iodine on the floor next to him. He gathered up all the self-control he had. “Let me see your wound.”

  She hesitated. Just for a second, but that second killed him. Then she came over. She smelled faintly of papayas, probably from the scented soap in the bathroom. After another brief pause, she pulled up her—his—shirt.

  The paste Baku had applied was brownish and viscous enough to stick, still covering her entire injury.

  “I wasn’t sure if I should rub off Baku’s concoction in the shower,” she said. “I didn’t.”

  The wound looked no worse than it should have, no apparent sign of infection. He didn’t reach for the iodine. “The paste looks to be an efficient barrier. I don’t know if we should mess with Baku’s work. How about if I put a bandage over the injury and leave it at that?”

  The less he touched her, the better.

  She nodded without looking at him, her head turned to the side.

  Were things so bad that she couldn’t even bear looking at him now?

  He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you had to see what you saw in the well.”

  “Do you regret doing it?”

  He owed her the truth. “No.”

  “So you’re going to kill this guy, Santiago, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow, if all goes well. He’s Carlos Petranos’s second in command.”

  She turned back to him, her gaze filled with sadness. “You took out Pedro. You took out the noseless guy. You said you shot some people in a clearing.” She paused. “Did you have anything to do with the massacre in Furino?”

  He hated the disappointment in her voice. He would have preferred if she railed at him, punched him, anything but this. “I set up the hit.”

  She flinched. “When will Ben be avenged? When is the killing enough? Do you think this is the life Ben would want for you? If the tables were turned, is this the life you would want for him? A suicide mission for revenge?”

  He didn’t want to think about it. “I’ve gone too far to turn back now.”

  “What anger wants, it buys at the price of soul,” she told him. “Heraclitus said that back in ancient Greece.”

  Wise words from a smart woman. Her brain was one of the things he most loved about her. He said, “I guess the more men change, the more they stay the same.”

  She shifted back from him.

  He hated even that small distance. He was going to hate her leaving even more, but there was no help for it.

  He tamped down the strange ache growing in the middle of his chest. “I know the things I’ve done are not something you can look past. I don’t expect you to understand. But just don’t be afraid of me, okay? I would never hurt you.”

  She watched his eyes. “Not even if I got in the way of your mission?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Not even then.”

  She nodded. “I guess I knew that.”

  She did? Some of the tension in his shoulders eased. For the longest time, he’d thought nothing would ever come before his mission. But the truth was, he’d been adjusting his plans to keep Clara safe from the moment she’d shown up in his life. And there were other hard truths here. That he was in love with her, and he was going to let her go, regardless.

  “It’s not that I don’t understand why you’re doing what you’re doing,” she said, “but it’s still wrong.”

  “This is who I am.”

  “I know,” she told him softly, as softly as if her heart was breaking. For him.

  They stayed like that, immobile, inches apart, gazes locked.

  Then Clara finally asked, “When can we go back to the guesthouse in Furino? I still don’t have my suitcase. I’d like my passport and my wallet, at least.”

  He gave it to her straight as he moved to put on the gauze, then the tape. “Never. I’ve been seen there. And after last night, I’m a wanted man. The Tamchén probably has a price on my head. I don’t want to bring trouble to Consuela’s door. She doesn’t need a shootout. I can’t go there, and you shouldn’t go there either. You’ve been seen with me. They’d grab you just to draw me out.”

  Clara’s expression grew thoughtful as she lowered her arms and the shirt. “What will we do?”

  “I’ll be going to the Xibalba. I’ll take you to the airport first. How about this?” He grasped at straws. “When I go to the Xibalba, if I see Rosita there, I’ll get her out and drive her to the US embassy myself. Maybe she’s just hanging out with her brother.”

  Clara’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

  He fully expected her to argue. But after drawing a deep breath, she said, “Okay. I’ll go. But you don’t have to take me to the airport. I can rent another car.”

  He nodded, relieved and pained at the same time. He was glad she was listening to reason at last and would be soon safe, but having to send her away just about killed him.

  He wished they’d met under different circumstances. Hell, he wished for a lot of things. But she was out of his league. The plain truth was, she deserved better than him.

  “I need to make a few more calls,” he told her.

  “I’d like to make some too,” she said. “Then we should probably go to bed. Neither of us got much sleep last night. You shouldn’t go to battle tired.”

  He was tired. But he found the idea of him and Clara in bed was an instant stimulant. Not that he was going to take advantage of her.

  One more night. He just had to keep her safe for one more night, and that included keeping her safe from himself.

  * * *

  Once Walker returned from making his calls, Clara went downstairs to make her own. She called her father first. Her initial anger at him had lessened. Okay, he’d made a mistake. A huge mistake. But he was still her father. And he was dying.

  The time she’d spent in Chiapas had driven home the point that life was incredibly fragile and fleeting. She needed to forgive him.

  “Is everything okay?” was her father’s first question.

  “You first.”

  “I’m fine. I only had one chemo treatment so far. It’s early in the game, and I’m a tough old buzzard.”

  “And don’t you forget it. I don’t care what the doctor says. I expect you to beat this thing.”

  “Hey, who’s the general in the family? Who gives the orders here?”

  Her lips tugged into a smile at their familiar banter. But then as she thought of what she needed to tell him, she winced. She hated
to disappoint him.

  “I don’t think I can bring this mission to a successful conclusion. Things are getting complicated down here.”

  “Dangerous?” he asked, his voice immediately filling with concern.

  “Rosita is Carlos Petranos’s half sister.”

  Silence stretched on the line. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “I want you to come home right away.”

  “I’ll be leaving in the morning. Walker is going to see if he can track down the girl, although he thinks she might be dead already.” She paused. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Just come home on the first flight. That’s all I ask.” She could hear him drawing a long breath. Then he said, “I’m ashamed to have asked you to go down there in the first place. I shouldn’t have involved you in this. I love you more than I can say. I hate that I caused you pain and let you down like this.”

  She drew a long breath too. “I love you anyway.” Her throat tightened. “We’ll talk when I get back home, okay?”

  “Okay. Until then, you make sure you stay safe.”

  “Yes, sir.” Then she asked, “Is Mom home?”

  “At a meeting with some nonprofit.”

  “Okay. Just tell her I’m on my way.” She deliberated for a moment whether to say what she wanted to say next, but then she went ahead with it. “I think you should take some time off from work.”

  “I can’t right now.” He paused. “I’ll talk to Milo again.” His tone said: but I can’t make him do something he doesn’t want to do.

  Milo would have been the perfect replacement. He’d been with the department from day one. Everybody liked him and respected him. He had an incredibly fast mind and could make connections everybody else missed. But he didn’t want a desk job.

  In his midforties, tall, wide-shouldered, skin the color of coffee, he’d been part of the FBI team that sorted clues prior to 9-11. He’d noticed some strange patterns and written a report, warned of imminent attacks. But the FBI had never passed on his report to the CIA. And Milo felt that he should have done more, should have raised holy hell.

  Now, with the general’s team, he was determined to save one life for each that had been lost in the attacks he couldn’t prevent. He’d go into any hellhole, do anything at all, to bring Americans back home from danger. He was pretty much a legend in DC, and completely oblivious to it, too focused on the job to notice. Like he was too focused on the job to notice that Elaine, the office manager, had been in love with him from the moment they’d met.