Alexa waited for his sarcasm. When she got nothing except for a cloud of insects that buzzed her face, she settled back and dialed into her surroundings. Eerie sounds echoed through the jungle, the life-and-death struggle for survival. The ground smelled of decay, wet wood, and damp rich earth, a primeval odor that was all too familiar. And in the distance she heard the birds in the trees and the flutter of wings as they flew. Without opening her eyes, she pictured them from her memory and their sounds—brightly colored parrots, finches, and hummingbirds that hung motionless in the air.
When she slowed her heartbeat to doze in the heat, she heard Kinkaid’s breathing. His easy rhythm signaled he’d fallen asleep. She imagined the two of them in another time and place on a lazy Sunday morning sleeping in. And it wasn’t difficult to picture his bare tanned skin under white linens with those hypnotic green eyes luring her to bed.
She pictured sweat beading on skin, hands clutched together in a fevered pitch, and the grinding of two bodies in the throes of orgasm. Her breathing and heart rate escalated as she imagined what he would feel like inside her. With eyes closed, she fantasized about making love to Jackson Kinkaid on a warm Sunday afternoon when all they had was time. She fought the urge to smile and took a deep breath.
She’d had such thoughts before about him, and she understood physical need and the urgency of sexual attraction. But making a commitment to one lover—would she ever settle for a life like that?
And more to the point, would she ever want to?
“Marlowe.”
She heard a male voice whispering near her. Hank Lewis wanted her attention.
“Yeah, Hank.” When she opened her eyes, she saw the short muscular man with his burr cut crouched near her. “What is it?”
“Booker and Rodriguez are back,” he told her.
Manny Rodriguez and Adam Booker had scouted ahead for the team. While one tracked and focused on the trail, the other flanked his position to keep watch. They rotated their assignments to keep their eyesight fresh.
“And?” she asked.
“Manny picked up a trail.” Lewis smiled. “The tracks fit our head count.”
She returned a grin and punched Kinkaid in the arm. “Wake up, sleeping beauty. Time to work.”
If Kinkaid had seen distinctive footprints of the hostages and their terrorist captors, his memory would be put to the test. With any luck, the tracks her scouts had found would be the bastards who killed and abducted innocent civilians. Once they had a trail to follow, the chase would be on.
And when the team caught up with the men, they’d carry out their brand of justice.
The zing of a machete echoed past them and down into the valley below as the lead man cleared a path where the overgrown vines were too dense. Sister Kate and the other hostages had been climbing a tapering mountain trail since dawn. And although the exertion and the altitude made it hard for her to breathe, she knew better than to complain. She still had no idea where they were or where the men were taking them. They’d been ordered to keep their heads down and hadn’t seen anyone else since they’d landed.
She caught glimpses of darkening clouds and noticed that the overcast sky had the smell of rain. And the wind had picked up. She felt the strong breeze most on the ridges they had crossed. And in the distance, she had seen the whitecaps. The ocean churned and had become choppy. A storm was coming.
By dusk, they made camp early, and bowls of food were handed out. At the bottom of rusted metal containers was a brown paste that they had to eat with their fingers. It smelled slightly rancid, but Kate forced herself to eat. The children did the same. And not one complained.
George had gotten worse. And no one had given him any food or water.
When she received her rations, she took some to him. The man lay sprawled on the ground under a stand of trees. His suit looked disheveled and filthy and was stained with his blood. Kate looked over her shoulder to make sure none of her captors were watching before she knelt by him.
“Here…you need this more than I do,” she whispered.
She raised George’s head to give him her share of water. The man looked into her eyes with a mix of gratitude and fear as he choked down the liquid. When she offered him food, he refused. His face had taken on a sickly gray pallor with spots of color where his skin was flushed with heat. A raging fever had stricken the poor man.
“I’ll bring more when I can,” she promised. “Now, let me have a look at this.”
She peeked under the dressing pressed to his shoulder and decided nothing could be done. Parts of the makeshift bandage was stuck to the wound, and the bullet hole was still bleeding, a slow and steady ooze. She’d tried to keep the wound clean, but she didn’t have fresh bandages, and infection had set in. The flesh around the bullet hole was red and swollen and hot to the touch. And foul-looking pus aggravated the injury and gave off a nasty odor.
Since there was no exit wound, she believed the bullet was still inside. George needed a doctor. She knew it, and by the look in his eyes, he did, too.
“Thank you…S-Sister.”
She dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a dirty cloth and felt the heat radiating off his skin. Raindrops pattered the leaves above George and fell onto his face. He was slow to blink them away. The man was getting weaker.
“Your fever is worse.” She clutched his hand and felt him squeeze her fingers. “I wish there was more I could do.”
“There is, Sister. My son.” He cleared his throat and choked. His lungs wheezed with the effort. “If you make it home, please tell my son…that our last thoughts were of him. And that we will always love him.” He tried to smile and didn’t have the energy. “He got married last year…and they’re expecting a baby. Our f-first grandchild.”
He stumbled over the word “first,” and she knew he was thinking of his dead wife. She wanted to comfort the man and tell him they’d all make it home again, but she knew that wouldn’t be true. If George didn’t get medical care soon, he’d be dead before help could arrive.
“Tell me about your son.” She forced a smile and stroked his brow. “Where does he live?”
She listened to what George told her. He grew very still to focus on what he said. And for a brief instant, the pain in his eyes faded as the rain slid down his cheek and drained into his tears.
She committed every word to memory. If she lived through this nightmare, she wanted to tell a son how much his father loved him. But before George finished, Kate felt a harsh jab at her back. When she turned, a young man holding a rifle aimed it at her and yelled words she didn’t understand. He nudged his head, and she shifted her gaze where he pointed.
The terrorist leader stood in the clearing near the fire. The sight of him knotted her stomach.
“I’ll be back…when I can,” she muttered to George and squeezed his hand. “You rest now.”
She glanced toward the children and they grimaced as they huddled in the rain. Being the oldest, Joselyne clung to the others. The girl’s eyes welled with glistening tears, but she resisted the urge to cry out. Sister Kate forced a smile and nodded her reassurance, then stood and went with the armed young man.
Standing in front of the man in charge, she kept her head down and avoided looking into his fierce eyes until his silence forced her to look up. He stared down at her in disgust as if she were vile. Of late, every encounter between them had become a competition for him to win, as if he had something to prove to her. This she did not understand, not when he was clearly in charge.
“It is your turn to plead for your miserable existence.” The leader raised his chin and looked down his nose at her. “And you will speak for the children. Their lives depend on you.”
“How?” she asked.
“You will use my phone…and contact Jackson Kinkaid. He is a wealthy American businessman, and you are an American nun. He would pay for you, yes?” The man looked at her with a smug expression, as if he had just revealed a secret of hers.
“Jackson Kinkaid?” Her eyes grew wide.
She counted Kinkaid as a friend, but not in the conventional sense. He was someone she had respected from the first time they met. And she understood what had mattered most to him and comforted him when he needed it. Beyond that, she never pried into his secrets. She accepted him the way he was, and he had done the same for her. Few would understand their bond—least of all the angry man standing in front of her now.
