issues getting in the way, she thought. But all she said was, “Besides a couple of minor personnel issues, everything’s fine.”
“Why don’t you take a break and grab a bite? I’ve got some crostini broiling, and was gonna throw together some angel hair, plum tomatoes and a bit of pesto and white wine.”
The mere mention of food made Kate’s stomach growl, reminding her she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. In fact, she hadn’t left the office area in almost eleven hours.
“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea. Besides, you can catch me up on the latest episode of
“Ooh, you’ll love this one. Two gangbangers in Phoenix went at it in a drive-by, and—”
Kate kept one ear on Mindy’s play-by-play as she got up, leaving her empty chair spinning in her wake. She followed the younger woman out the door.
Jonas didn’t like waiting. While he recognized it as a necessary part of his job, that never made the time spent anticipat-ing his opponent’s next move any more pleasant. It was all too easy to overanalyze a situation, to spin wilder and wilder hypotheses about what might happen until an operative could think himself into freezing at a critical moment, or miss that crucial piece of data that meant the difference between completing a mission successfully or watching it get blown wide-open.
But for Jonas, waiting for Castilo to call meant that he had nothing to do at the moment but ponder the past, and what might have been.
JONAS LAY on the ground, covered by palm fronds, scope to his eye, pistol in his other hand. He was not only watching for Marisa, but any patrolling Cuban soldiers. He didn’t want to risk bringing the entire unit running with a shot. If he had to take one down, he’d figure out a way to do it as silently as possible. The pistol would be a last resort.
Every minute that ticked away made him more nervous.
He kept expecting to hear a shout of alarm from one of the soldiers—or even worse, a scream from Marisa. The jungle’s heat and the horde of insects marching over him didn’t improve the situation any, either.
A minute rustle in the brush to his right made him slowly swivel the long night-vision scope that way. A hunched-over form crept through the foliage toward him. Jonas kept his hand on his weapon and didn’t move from cover, not until he was sure.
“Psst. Karl?” It could have been a man or a woman hissing his name. Jonas trained the scope on the person’s face, revealing Marisa’s attractive features. Jonas didn’t move until she came within three feet, as he was still watching the brush behind her, making sure she wasn’t flushing him right into an ambush. She came closer, two feet, one foot, right in front of him.
Setting the scope down, Jonas rose and wrapped her up in his arms, one hand going over her mouth. She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, not even making a peep.
“For god’s sake, don’t ever do that again!” he hissed. “If you had been discovered—”
Marisa bit down on his fingers, surprising Jonas so much that he whipped his hand away. “If I had been discovered, I would have been a girl lost in the woods. But if you had been discovered, you would be dead. It was the simplest way to get the information we need,” Marisa said.
“Why didn’t you let me know first, instead of just running off into the forest? I could have shot you when you returned, you know.”
He swore he heard the smile in her voice. “I didn’t discuss it with you because you would have said no, and there wasn’t time to argue. And you wouldn’t have shot me because the noise would bring the soldiers. You had to do exactly what you did—take me by surprise, and, I hope, realize that I am anything but a man when you did.”
She pressed against him to emphasize her point, and for a moment, Jonas was stunned by the thought that she might be flirting with him. Dismissing the ridiculous idea, he grudgingly conceded her point. “Very well, what did you find out?”
“The truck is about forty yards to the east-southeast, concealed at the side of the trail. The two men guarding it are under radio silence and are not even allowed to use any lights. They appear to be the point guards, who are supposed to let the others know your team is approaching, then slam the back door shut on them.”
“A simple, if effective, trap.” Jonas tried putting weight on his injured foot, wincing at the stab of pain. “We need to eliminate them without allowing either to contact the others.
Take me there.”
He sank to the ground again, packed up his equipment and weapons, took back his machete and crawled after her to the overgrown road. Marisa crouched next to him while he got out the scope and examined the truck. It was tucked into a niche at the side of the trail and masked by cut saplings and brush. It was an early 1960s Russian- built, three-and-a-half ton Zil, with the back converted from a flatbed into a troop carrier by adding rough sidewalls. Although Marisa had said the two men were supposed to be under lights-out, he saw the glow of lit cigarettes from inside the cab. The green-white pinpoints of light were like miniature stars in the scope’s eyepiece. He shook his head in disgust—that security lapse would have gotten any member of his team kicked out of the unit.
They pulled back into the trees again. Jonas put the scope away and closed his eyes, trying to regain his night vision.
He put his lips close to Marisa’s ear. “Have you ever killed a man?”
She tensed for a moment, then shook her head.
“Can you? And be honest, I cannot have you freeze at a critical moment,” Jonas whispered.
Again she paused, then nodded.
“All right, here’s how we’ll do it. You will approach the passenger side. I will take the driver. You
Do you understand?”
Marisa nodded.
“Again, do not move until I do—you’ll know when.
When we separate, begin counting to five hundred, and be in position by the time you reach the end. When I’ve finished my count, I’ll take out the driver right away, and you must be close to the truck and ready to go by then.”
She nodded again.
“Good luck.” Jonas released her and Marisa vanished into the black jungle again. Jonas gave her twenty seconds, then crawled slowly forward, parallel to the front of the truck, keeping the silent count in his head all the while.
About ten yards past the vehicle, he crept to the edge of the road and peeked out, making sure he hadn’t attracted any attention. He put an arm into the overgrown path and held it there. No reaction came from the truck. Jonas put his other arm out. His internal count hit two hundred. He slid his right leg out, then his left. Still nothing. Moving one limb at a time, Jonas crawled across the knee-high grass, slipping into and out of the deep ruts in the road. His foot throbbed, his hands and knees ached and he was being bitten all over his face, neck and fingers. But he ignored all of that, focusing every bit of willpower he possessed on getting back into cover so he could get to the truck.
Step by step, he covered the few yards from one side of the road to the other, always keeping an eye on the two soldiers.
He crawled into the foliage as his internal count edged past three hundred. He was still fifteen yards away from the truck, and had to be even more cautious. Squirming through the brush on his belly, placing every hand and knee with care, he slithered through the tall grass and bushes until, as his count approached five hundred, he saw the truck’s rear tire through the brush.
Jonas heard the squeak of an opening door, then the rustle of boots crushing grass as someone walked toward him. He froze, his hand inching toward his sheathed machete as the steps grew louder, then stopped right in front of where he was hidden.
