Safe Heart (Dreamspun Desires Book 102) Page 13

  The water was still clear enough to see the machinery that operated the weirdo affectation that Spencer and Damien had been talking about.

  The wall.

  On the one hand, it was ridiculously small—a ten-foot-wide stretch of the ocean is, quite literally, a drop in the bucket. But on the other hand, he could see how it would force people in a boat to announce themselves. From the slight height above the cove and the distance, the dark shapes of the submerged junk on the edges of the water were visible. It should have been laughable—but it was actually effective, and Glen wished the guy hadn’t had the same military training he had.

  Damned canny fucker.

  Then the wall lowered, and he got a good look at the occupants of the boat motoring in and forgot about Tranquilizer Piss and the poor lost kids currently weeding the tomato patch.

  The two goons he’d expected—both of them wearing suits in the humidity if not the heat. The girl surprised him—but he’d been told there were two. This one didn’t look like Cash’s friend, so she must have been another inmate/victim of Tranquilizer Piss.

  But those weren’t the things that stopped his heart and caused sweat to crawl down his back.

  A familiar figure was trussed and gagged, lying unconscious and blindfolded in the boat. Glen had to look twice, but Cash had been wearing a pale blue hoodie and bright red sneakers that morning—silly and bright and touristy and perfect—and the sneakers could be seen from space.

  He stared as the boat puttered in, trying to control the beating of his heart.

  His skin was cold, he couldn’t breathe, his vision went black. That was convenient, right there within sight of armed guards. Fuck. Cash. Well, he was moving—Glen could see that much from here, so… plan. That’s what ops were. Plans.

  Okay. Okay. Plan. They had a plan. He didn’t see Preston in the boat—or the dogs—which meant Preston managed to avoid capture, which was good. His brother… his brother wouldn’t deal with being captured, and the dogs? Well, the guys in town might have been local yokels, but the guys here were the same mercenaries he and Cash had seen in Nayarit. They might shoot Preston’s dogs without hesitation, and Glen couldn’t live with that.

  So it was Cash, with his quick mouth and his survivor instinct, who’d been captured, and Glen needed to get him out.

  But first he needed to make contact. He peered around his tree again and saw the guards facing the ocean, whispering—probably about Cash.

  Glen dropped to his stomach, inched forward, and pulled a handful of brightly wrapped candy out of his pocket. He’d snagged a bunch of packages from the vending machine at the hotel, figuring that if he’d been kept on a strict diet/code of silence/exercise regime against his will, sugar might be the one thing that would get him to break.

  Making sure the guards were still turned away, he gave one packet a little toss so it landed right on the foot of the girl who’d spoken.

  She saw it land and scooped it up as smoothly as if she’d been pulling a weed. Surreptitiously she looked around. When she spotted Glen, her brown eyes widened, and she murmured, “Hello, Candy Fairy. Are you trying to get shot?”

  “Nope,” he whispered back. “Mostly I’m trying to get you all out of here. Any takers?”

  The girl peered around at her companions, all while keeping her head down. “Most of us,” she said. “See those two closest to the guards?”

  Tall and rail thin, deeply tanned with the sort of bone structure and dental work that spoke of plastic surgery and braces, the two young people at the edge of the garden plot looked enough alike to be brother and sister.

  “Yeah?”

  “They buy this bullshit. The rest of us just agree to it so they don’t drug our water.”

  “Then we won’t tell them we’re leaving,” Glen murmured. “Other side of the house—we’ve got a camo path to mask you, and a way to get down the cliff on the other end of the island. Any way we can get there?”

  The girl closed her eyes like she was thinking, and still her hands moved restlessly, looking for ripe veggies.

  “Evening prayer—in about four hours. We’re allowed to wander the front lawn aimlessly like zombies.” Her voice was flat and quiet and uninflected, but Glen sensed a lot of bitterness there. Good girl.

  “We’ll be there,” he whispered back. “Only bring people you know will leave quietly.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  From across the garden plot, one of the guards called, “Hey—are you asleep over there, or what?”

  “Of course, sir,” she said, standing up slowly. “Please don’t be bullshit,” she whispered harshly to Glen.

  “Very real,” he whispered back. “One more thing—if he’s got a prisoner, where would he take them?”

  She shuddered. “There’s a wine cellar,” she told him. “You can get to it through the back door during our evening meal. The guards are all around the dining room then—if you’re trying to get that kid in the boat, that’s when.”

  “Thanks. If I’m not at the meeting spot, my buddy will be. And if there’s someone you want out, but you don’t think they’ll come, leave them—if we’ve got a name and some parental involvement, we can come back. Right now we’re naked, you understand?”

  She nodded grimly. “Gotcha.” And with that she turned and started moving toward a patch of what looked like squash. It wasn’t doing great in the soil; it was sort of anemic and droopy and sad. Gah! No wonder they had to send Brielle looking for produce two or three times a week.

  Glen scooted back and snake-crawled to cover, then made his way to where Spencer crouched, peering through binocs and thoroughly annoyed.

  “There’s professionals here,” he said as Glen approached. “Some local talent, like the guys at the market, but—”

  “They’ve got Cash,” Glen interrupted, and saying the words made his hands sweat.

  Spencer fumbled the binoculars. “I did not expect that.”

  “You think?” Glen sank to his haunches, trying to be professional about this. “These assholes haven’t killed anybody yet,” he said, more to soothe himself than Spencer.

  “Always….” He actually heard Spence Helmsley change his brain track and fix what he was about to say. “Always good to know.”

  Which was a helluva lot better than “Always a first time.”

  “What’s the plan?” Spence asked, and given that he was singularly bad at taking directions, Glen had to appreciate him asking.

  “First we contact Damien and make sure my brother’s all right—then I’ve got a rendezvous around dinner time—and you’ve got another.”

  Spencer stared at him impassively as he outlined the plan. “I get the idiot children, and you sneak in the back and get your boyfriend. That’s what I’m hearing, right?”

  Glen didn’t even bristle at “boyfriend.” They had Cash. Impulsive, emotional, worried Cash, who had promised to stay, who had worked so hard at apologizing that Glen had almost—almost—forgiven him, and now he was in some idiot’s wine cellar, probably wishing he’d run before they even got on the plane.

  Glen found himself really, really wishing for that third chance, that moment to see if Cash meant it about staying. He’d been afraid to hope that morning, been afraid to admit it was a possibility the night before.

  But now, knowing how scared Cash must be, how sure he was that nobody would stick around for him, Glen wanted him to know that all his posturing was pure bullshit. Glen would always go get Cash.

  The hope, the breath of a hope, that Cash cared enough to stay—that was enough.

  Crouching in the underbrush, waiting for the sun to advance across the sky, Glen knew that the hope alone would sustain him through a thousand adventures like this one if only Cash was willing to promise one more time.

  But in the meantime, the wait was killing him. It was like physical pain—it built in his sternum, shivered through his chest, sweat out of his palms. His back and neck were aching from the pressure, and he thought long
ingly about running down to the compound, taking out the guards like he’d told Spencer not to, and then grabbing Cash and running. Yeah, he’d promised that scared girl, but goddammit, Brielle wasn’t here. That meant she’d gotten away. Didn’t that mean he’d kept his promise?

  Logically, no. No. Waiting for the evening meditation—that was a good plan. A great plan. He’d hold to that plan. Hold… hold….

  He and Spencer found comfortable positions, studied the compound layout, and waited….

  And the whole time his palms were sweating like he was being ripped to pieces by pigs.

  About an hour after he got back to Spencer, everybody was called inside for what was probably afternoon meditation and meal prep. After tracking the movement of the guards, Glen fished the sat phone from his pack while Spencer glared at him in outrage.

  “The hell?” he asked as a crackle sounded on the other end.

  “Damie?”

  “You two okay?” Damien asked, voice strained. “Because I’ve got news.”

  “Yeah, me too. How’s Preston?”

  “He just got here, and he’s really freaked-out.” Damien made a soothing noise in the back of his throat, and Glen imagined the two of them, standing personally close but not touching, not until Damien was off the phone. “He’s got Brielle with him—”

  “And the dogs?” Spencer hissed.

  Glen gave him a look but Spencer was unrepentant.

  “And the dogs?” Glen asked irritably to get Spence off his back.

  “Yes, the damned dogs are safe!” Damien snarled. “You were right about that, by the way. Preston says they refused to shoot the dogs, and that’s how he got away with Brielle. But Glen, they’ve….”

  “They’ve got Cash,” Glen said heavily. “Yeah, I’ve got a bead on his location. We were going to start smuggling kids off the island in a couple of hours, and while Spencer takes the first group, I was going to go see where he’s being held.”

  Damien growled. “That is not a good plan. Wait for me. I’ve got the authorities—they can get the kids, and you and I can—”

  “No,” Glen said, looking out across the vacant property. “Spence, those binocs got infrared?”

  “Aye-aye,” Spencer said. “Want me to check for alarms?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any reason you’re having him do this now?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Glen said. “And it involves me sneaking onto the property and hiding out until it’s time to get Cash.”

  “Wait for me,” Damien said flatly. “Preston can deal with the authorities and I can—”

  “Did you even hear what you just said?” Glen asked, wondering where Damien’s head was. “You leave Preston to deal with the authorities and he’s the one who will end up imprisoned. I thought you loved my brother!”

  “I do!” Damien grunted. “But you are not expendable.” He gave a sigh. “And I’d sort of miss Spence.” Another pause. “And you seem sort of attached to Cash. I would rather bring you all home.”

  “I am moved,” Spencer said. “Now shut up and let Glen plan.”

  And Glen barreled ahead. “Look, Spencer’s going to take the kids to the beach and get them off the island. You guys can tag team if you want, but I’m sneaking onto the property right now and finding Cash.”

  “I’m sorry, Gecko, but have you confused yourself with Cary Grant lately? Because as sexy as that fucker was in To Catch a Thief, you look nothing alike.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got his moves.” Glen shot Spence a fierce grin, and Spence low-fived him. “No… seriously—”

  “No, seriously,” Damien said, and he had a new note in his voice, something he hadn’t had until recently, not even in the military. “You wait. You wait until the evening meal, like you were going to in the first place. You take the kids out then and rescue Cash then. Remember the fucking gun towers, and how the floor of the cove will rip you up, and so will the fucking wall—and Spence?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Stay away from the goddamned snake. There will be someone here at the rendezvous point for the first batch of kids, but as Dog is my witness, if I have to cobble together a helicopter from spare parts and a bicycle, you will have air support by the time they start looking for the missing people, you understand me?”

  Glen grunted. “I like that plan,” he said. “That’s a fair plan.”

  “Well, it depends on two things. One is me finding a bird. And the other?”

  Glen let out a sigh. “Me staying put.”

  “Bingo. Now log off and let me work. You two… I dunno. Nap, swap family stories, bond, whatever, but don’t fucking move, capiche?”

  Glen got it. “Yeah. Capiche.”

  His stomach churned, and he closed his eyes and thought of Cash. “Men stay,” he’d told Cash. Well, running down on a harebrained rescue had sounded really fucking glamorous, hadn’t it? But now it was time to put up or shut up.

  He needed to stay until it was safe to go get his man.

  Bound

  OH, this was not what Cash intended at all.

  They dragged him ashore, stumbling in the brine, and the depressing stillness of the island settled into his ears. There was a kerchief or something over his eyes—it had been a bag at first, but he wasn’t breathing in dust now, so that was something, and the hard metal of the guns used to prod him forward was unmistakable.

  Glen’s assessment of the guys sent ashore was pretty astute—local yokels. When Cash had gained consciousness in the bottom of the boat, they’d been talking about Preston’s dogs and whether or not they should have shot them. The consensus had been that yes, probably, they should have shot the damned dogs, but not one of them could have done it.

  The other consensus was that they would catch hell for letting the girl get away—but perhaps Cash would keep Tranquilo Paz from losing his complete and total nut.

  Cash had wanted to tell them the guy’s real name was John, but his head ached, both from the blow that had brought him down and from whatever drug they’d injected to make him pass out. His brain—so muddy—but he was glad to hear about Preston and the dogs.

  A kick from a soft-soled shoe, right in the solar plexus, had made him grunt.

  “You’re not fooling anyone” came a soft female voice. Trudy? Probably. “I know you’re awake. Why’d you have to come and try to ‘free’ us, anyway? Now they’ll probably blame me for Brielle being gone and it’s not my fault!” The voice rose petulantly, and Cash winced as a hard crack and Trudy’s yelp resounded through the boat.

  The Spanish equivalent of “Fucking kiss ass!” could be heard muttered under the wind.

  And that was the last thing said besides terse instructions for how to get around the underwater obstacles in the cove, and how glad they all were that the fucking sea lions and seabirds had been driven back to the peninsula.

  “You should have smelled the sea lion crap!”

  Well, Cash was pretty sure the local wildlife felt the same way about these assholes.

  And then he was being dragged through the surf, pulled to the memories of all the times he’d gone surfing in this sea, and wishing absurdly to be doing that now, Glen at his side.

  Wouldn’t it be awesome to spend some time with the guy that wasn’t life or death?

  The twinge of regret pricked Cash more strongly than ever now, that kiss Glen had given him before he’d left tingling through his entire body.

  He’d promised Glen he’d be back at the hotel when he got there. He promised he’d stay. He was going to have to use his wits and his patience to make sure he could do that.

  He was shoved rudely up the beach and onto a lawn of some sort—he could feel the grass crushing beneath his feet. Then a walkway and into the house, big and too cold for this climate.

  The whirr of the air conditioners was almost deafening.

  Someone grabbed him roughly and directed him down a set of stairs, hand on his neck. When he got to the bottom, someone pushed him onto a hard
wooden chair and zip-tied his hands behind his back, then bound his ankles the same way.

  He heard rustling and general chatter; then the world behind the blindfold went dark.

  Oh, great—this game.

  He listened to footsteps receding up the stairs and said weakly, “Goodbye, everybody,” to see if he was alone. He figured if someone was there, they’d smack him, and if they weren’t, he wasn’t screaming his head off.

  Nobody smacked him, so he rubbed his face against his shoulder until the kerchief rucked up. With a quick shake of his head, he flung it off, then took a full breath and looked around.

  A wine cellar. Wasn’t that awesome? The bad guy had a wine cellar. Unbelievable. He frowned a little at the labels. His mom loved wine, bought it by the case, drank it by the keg. This here was some really frickin’ cheap wine.

  The bricks beneath his feet—slick and sandy since Cash’s shoes had been wet from the beach—were standard tile, not real brickwork. And the shelves to hold the wine looked like cheap laminate.

  Great. He was in a Discount Dan’s Evil Lair for Cheapskates.

  The villa in Nayarit must have been built before Tranquilizer Piss took it over—Cash remembered thick adobe walls and real carved woodwork and runner boards. Apparently he was attempting to recreate his first despot experience.

  Wow.

  As Cash sat, he wiggled his hands, trying to get some play in the zip ties. No dice. His ankles were a little looser—he’d spread his knees as the guy had been binding him and the man apparently didn’t know that trick.

  Well, Cash was pretty proud that he’d invented it, thank you.

  So Cash had some play in his feet. He wiggled and worked, trying to uncross his ankles so he could stand if need be, but the strain on his arms was terrific. He didn’t think you could dislocate your shoulder working on binding at your feet, but apparently the chair was there for a reason.

  He was involved in his efforts, the plastic scraping against his wrists and chafing his ankles, his shoulders and hips aching from the strain, when he heard sounds from upstairs.