Soldier Under Siege Page 6

  Chapter 5

  “Why didn’t you want Sebastian to come with us?” Eva asked, as Tate steered the Jeep down the mountain.

  Because only one of us needs to die on this wild-goose chase.

  Rather than voice his dour thoughts, Tate just shrugged in response and focused on the road ahead. The sun had yet to set, but faint ripples of light hovered over the horizon line, hinting that dawn was near. Gomez was already waiting for them at the airfield, and Tate couldn’t wait to get on the damn plane and get this over with.

  Best-case scenario? Eva was telling the truth, they would infiltrate Cruz’s hideout, and Tate would exact his revenge.

  Worst case?

  Jeez, there were so many of those he didn’t even know where to start. Even if Eva was on the up-and-up, that didn’t guarantee they’d make it in and out of Cruz’s camp alive. Tate couldn’t formulate a plan until he saw the place for himself, and who knew what he’d find in San Marquez? Cruz’s lieutenants and followers continued to fight for the cause while Cruz was holed up underground, but for all Tate knew, the majority of Cruz’s men were protecting that camp. An entire army might be waiting for him when he got there.

  And if Eva was lying, Cruz might not be the pot of gold at the end of this messed-up rainbow. The people who wanted Tate dead might off him long before he even got close to the ULF leader.

  That was why he didn’t want Stone anywhere near this. Killing Cruz was his crusade, his albatross. If for some reason Tate didn’t make it out of this alive, at least Stone and Prescott would survive and live another day to figure out why they’d become targets.

  Twenty minutes later, he pulled up at the dusty airfield, which consisted of two dirt runways, a large hangar with a sagging tin roof, and two armed guards at the rusted gate out front.

  The guards waved Tate through without batting an eye. No surprise. He was well-known here in Paraíso—and not for being an upstanding citizen.

  His first night in town, he’d had a run-in with a lowlife drug dealer in the cantina, and it hadn’t ended well for the dealer. That night he’d earned both the fear and respect of the townsfolk, most of whom were criminals or, like Tate, on the run for one reason or another.

  “Is that even a real runway?”

  Eva’s uneasy voice jarred him back to the present. He glanced at the passenger seat and shot her a crooked grin. “Sweetheart, does this look like a real airport to you?”

  “Can your pilot at least fly a plane?” she grumbled, tucking a strand of silky black hair behind her ear.

  “Don’t worry. He’ll get us to Colombia safe and sound.”

  Tate parked the Jeep and hopped out without another word. He rounded the vehicle, grabbed his go bag and the two backpacks, then tossed one to Eva just as she jumped out of the Jeep. She caught it against her chest with a thud.

  “Heads up,” he said dryly.

  She scowled at him. “You’re supposed to say that before you throw something at someone.”

  “I wanted to see if you’re quick on your feet. You passed. Come on, follow me.”

  He strode off, his tan-colored boots kicking up clouds of red dirt. Inside the dilapidated hangar, he found Manuel Gomez tinkering with the propeller of an older-model single-engine Cessna. The stocky bald man lifted his head at Tate’s approach.

  “Good. You’re here,” Gomez said in Spanish. His dark eyes flicked in Eva’s direction. “Who’s the woman?”

  “Eva.” Tate didn’t elaborate, and Gomez didn’t push, but the Mexican did arch his eyebrows knowingly before nodding hello at Eva.

  “We all set?” Tate asked, gesturing to the plane.

  “Good to go.” Gomez tossed his wrench into the metal toolbox on the floor. “Throw your gear in the baggage hold.”

  As Gomez conducted his preflight check, Tate stowed their bags, then extended a hand to help Eva into the small plane.

  She hesitated before accepting his hand, and the second his fingers made contact, a jolt of heat sizzled right down to his groin. Everything about this woman turned him on. Her silky jet-black hair, her centerfold body, the graceful curve of her neck. And her scent...talk about addictive. A flowery aroma, with a hint of orange blossoms and something uniquely feminine.

  Damn, it had been way too long since he’d had a woman. Eva was the first female he’d spent more than five minutes with since he’d fled Virginia. The whores at Juan’s cantina didn’t count—they held no appeal to him, and besides, Tate hadn’t paid for sex a day in his life.

  Then again, he could probably trust those prostitutes more than he could trust Eva Dolce. At least Juan’s whores made their agendas clear.

  He saw Eva’s pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat as she shrugged her palm out of his grip. She settled in one of the tattered seats in back of the plane, and he noticed her hands trembling as she buckled up.

  “Everything okay?” Tate drawled.

  Her jaw tightened. “I don’t like the way you look at me.”

  A chuckle slid out. “And what way is that?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He pressed his lips together to keep from chuckling again, then climbed up beside her.

  A moment later, Gomez slid into the cockpit, flicked some switches, and the little plane shuddered to life. As they taxied toward the makeshift runway, Gomez peered at Tate over his shoulder.

  “Should be a smooth ride,” the pilot said. “Flight will be a little over four hours.”

  He leaned back against the chair’s headrest and shot Gomez grim look. “Did you file a flight plan?”

  The man flashed a grin, revealing his crooked front teeth. “Why, of course, Mr. Tate. We’re taking a day trip to Panama, remember?”

  Tate grinned back. “Of course.”

  The engine hummed as the plane picked up speed, and five minutes later, they were in the air. Eva jumped when the landing gear retracted with a thump, but then she relaxed and shifted her gaze out the window. She stared at the clouds for a long while before finally turning to shoot him a perplexed look.

  “How do you have so many connections?” she asked. “When I tracked you down, I got the feeling the U.S. government isn’t exactly looking out for you.”

  He shrugged. “Uncle Sam might have disowned us, but we’ve got a whole lotta cousins watching our backs.”

  She wrinkled her forehead. “Cousins?”

  “Mercenaries, expats, active duty operatives, retired operatives, you name it. The spec-ops community looks out for its own. And when you work Special Forces, you develop a network of contacts that aren’t always on the legitimate side.”

  “So you were Special Forces,” she mused.

  “You didn’t already know that?” he said sardonically.

  “No, I couldn’t gain access to your military file. It was classified. But your status listed you as honorably discharged.”

  His shoulders tensed. “Are you telling me you actually managed to hack into the army database?”

  Eva smirked. “Like I said, I’m good with computers. I had help with that one, though. I have this hacker friend—he can break into any system, and I mean any system. Anyway, we got off topic. How do you pay all these connections of yours?”

  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to ask strangers about their finances?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Seriously, how do you have enough money to sustain yourself on the run? I checked your financial statements, and no way was your military pension enough to pay for the kind of expenses you’ve got—the security measures, on-call pilots, all those weapons I saw back at the fort. When you cleaned out your savings account, it only had five grand in it, so how are you paying to stay hidden?”

  He wanted to be insulted, but truth was, her tactics impressed him. It was exactly what he would do, research the hell out of a potential ally—or enemy. Still, it grated that this woman had been privy to the sorry state of his savings.

  “All my funds were tied up in the house I bought a few ye
ars back,” he admitted. “I didn’t have time to sell it and cash out. We kind of skipped town without much warning.” He smiled dryly. “But Seb and I had no idea how fat Prescott’s wallet was. He cleaned out his savings account, too, and I’m talking seven figures here. Cash.”

  “You didn’t know Nick was wealthy, even though you served in the same unit?”

  “Another thing about us Special Forces guys—we don’t like to talk about ourselves. I know Stone and Prescott better now than I did when they served under me.” Tate narrowed his eyes. “What about you? You mentioned you’ve been running from Cruz for a while. How is it you can afford new identities each time you and your son haul ass? I saw your documents—they’re flawless. Which means pricey.”

  “The first time we ran, my parents gave me money. Rafe was still a newborn, and I had just left San Marquez and moved back to New York. Hector showed up and demanded that I go back with him.” Bitterness dripped from her tone. “It didn’t seem to faze him that I kept saying no. He was determined to have me.”

  Rubbing her temples, Eva stretched her legs, drawing his attention to the way the faded blue denim hugged her firm thighs. He forced his gaze back to her face, ordering himself to concentrate on her words rather than her body.

  “He got violent when I refused to leave with him. He told me he’d give me twenty-four hours to come to him willingly, and after that, he’d use extreme measures. So that night, my dad gave me fifty thousand dollars from his private safe. I said goodbye to my parents, took Rafe and disappeared. That fifty grand paid for our first identities and a house in Thailand.”

  “What happened when the money ran out?”

  Her blue eyes grew veiled. “I became more resourceful.”

  He studied her, strands of suspicions coiling in his gut. “You stole what you needed,” he said slowly. An alarm dinged in his head. “Oh, hell, you stole from Cruz.” Now he felt a burst of triumph. “Is that why he’s after you, Eva? Is that the real reason?”

  “No. I told you why he’s after me. He’s obsessed.” Her mouth relaxed as a smug little smile tugged at it. “He has no idea I stole money from him. There’s no way he could ever trace it back to me.”

  “You sound certain of that.”

  “I am.” She ran a hand through her hair, sending another wave of her intoxicating aroma his way. “The ULF stores their funds in dozens of bank accounts across the globe. Caymans, Switzerland, Dubai—name the country, and the ULF has a numbered account there.”

  He raised a brow. “And you managed to hack into all of these accounts?”

  “Not all, but my friend helped me out and we managed to gain access to some of the accounts.”

  She proceeded to explain how she’d dipped into various accounts and transferred funds under the guise of commissions, banking fees and administrative charges; that way, if the ULF suspected or noticed something fishy, the wrongdoing would trace back to the person who oversaw that particular account, making it look as if that person had stolen the funds.

  Tate let out a low whistle as he grasped what she’d said. “You do realize that if Cruz or his lieutenants believe they’re being cheated, these bankers will get their heads chopped off?”

  There was zero remorse on Eva’s beautiful face. “The men who cook the books for the ULF are not innocent. Accountant, banker, manager, I don’t care who handles that money. They’re as responsible for all the deaths the ULF causes as the rebels themselves. These people sit in their cushy offices and move blood money around and pocket it to look the other way. I have no sympathy for them. None.”

  He cocked his head. “Interesting.”

  “What?” she said defensively.

  “You are far more ruthless than I would have imagined.”

  “Ruthless? No. Sick and tired of the corruption? Yes.” Her expression grew stony. “I came to San Marquez four years ago to make a difference and all I got out of the experience was disillusionment. The ULF doesn’t care about the country’s people any more than the government. The only things anyone concerns themselves with are money and bloodshed.”

  “Says the woman who spent a considerable amount of time and energy to track me down—so I could kill a man for her.”

  “You’re not killing Hector for me. You’re killing him for you. I’m just giving you the means with which to do it.”

  “Win-win, then?”

  “Murdering a man... Sure, Tate, it’s win-win,” she said flatly, and then she fixed her gaze out the window and promptly put an end to the conversation.

  * * *

  Eva was a bundle of nerves by the time they arrived in the small port city of Tumaco. Tate’s pilot had taken them as far as Cali, Colombia, where they’d boarded another plane piloted by another nefarious-looking character from Tate’s network of shady associates. Less than an hour later, they’d landed in Tumaco and taken a taxi to the harbor, where Tate was now haggling with the captain of a small cargo vessel.

  It had only been six hours since they’d left Paraíso, but Eva was already exhausted. She felt as though she’d run a marathon followed by two triathlons and a decathlon thrown in for good measure. Probably the heat. March in South America could be brutal, and today was no exception. Only eleven in the morning, and the temperature must be nearing ninety-seven degrees already. The sun’s merciless rays beat down on her head—her wide-brimmed straw hat was doing nothing to protect her scalp from the heat—and the air was so muggy it felt as if she was inhaling fire each time she took a breath.

  She hoped it would be cooler on the water, but if the stifling breeze rolling off the ocean was any indication, the impending boat ride probably wouldn’t offer much relief.

  Her gaze moved in Tate’s direction, and she couldn’t help but notice the way his sweaty white T-shirt clung to every hard angle and corded muscle of his broad chest. With the brim of his baseball cap pulled low, she couldn’t see his expression, but his body language displayed unmistakable irritation. He towered over the captain of the cargo ship, a slight, dark-skinned man who seemed determined to bleed Tate dry, judging by the second stack of bills he shoved in the man’s palms.

  A few moments later, Tate stalked over to where she waited, dodging dock workers on his way. “He’ll take us. We leave port in thirty minutes.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That we’re American, here to volunteer with one of the relief foundations. I said we missed our flight and decided we wanted a nautical adventure rather than wait for the next plane.”

  “How long to San Marquez by boat?”

  “Four, five hours. We’ll get there late afternoon.”

  Eva glanced over at the fruit stands a hundred yards from the dock, a sight that elicited a grumble from her stomach and served as a reminder that she hadn’t eaten a thing since last night.

  “Do we have time to grab some food for the ride?” she asked.

  Tate nodded and took her arm as they fell into step with one another. She didn’t know if it was a protective gesture, or if he wanted to make sure she didn’t run off, but the heat of his fingers as they curled lightly over her biceps made her heart to do a little flip.

  Lord, her heart had to quit doing that. She had no business being attracted to this man. To any man, for that matter. After her experience with Hector, a result of her own naïveté, she had no desire to get burned by a man ever again. Her son was the only male she wanted—or needed—in her life now.

  Banishing the awareness rippling over her hot skin, Eva filled a cloth sack with fresh mangoes and a bushel of bananas, paid the plump Colombian woman and then followed Tate back to the dock. At their approach, the captain impatiently gestured for them to come aboard, announcing in Spanish that it was time to go.

  Lugging his duffel, Tate took the lead and strode up the gangplank, his boots thudding on the creaky main deck of the vessel. Eva scampered after him and accepted his hand as he helped her on board.

  Not long after, they were heading due west, the balmy breez
e slapping their faces and the salty ocean mist stinging their eyes. Thankfully, it was cooler on the water. As Tate stood by the railing, watching the waves, Eva sank on a metal crate and gave her rumbling stomach some nourishment. She devoured two bananas, then cut open a mango with the small switchblade she found in her backpack, unruffled by the sticky juices that stained her hands. Lord, she was hungry.

  “Mango?” she asked Tate between mouthfuls.

  His rugged profile shifted in her direction. “Toss one over.”

  She dug a mango out of the sack and lobbed it his way. He caught it easily, then slid a lethal-looking blade from the sheath on his hip and sliced a piece of the ripe fruit. He flicked it up to his mouth with the tip of his knife, bit and sucked the fruit, then tossed the peel into the water.

  She was oddly fascinated as she watched him eat. His every movement was done with military precision, from the way he handled the knife to the way he threw away the peels. Even the way he chewed seemed carefully planned.

  “Can I ask you something?” she asked, as she uncapped a bottle of water. It would probably be the last “luxury” drink she’d have in a while—once she and Tate reached the river, they’d only be able to drink water that they’d purified first.

  “You can ask,” he replied, “but there’s no guarantee I’ll answer.”

  She took a sip, then rested the bottle on her knee. “How come you don’t go by the name Robert? At first I thought it was a military thing, using your last name, but Nick and Sebastian both used their first names when they introduced themselves.”

  His expression darkened. “I prefer Tate.”

  “Clearly. But why?”

  “Robert was my old man’s name,” he said tightly. “I didn’t want to have anything in common with that man. Sharing a surname was bad enough.”

  An unwitting rush of sympathy filled her chest. “Bad childhood?”

  “If you consider getting the crap kicked out of you on a daily basis for ten years bad, then yeah.”

  Her breath caught. She studied his harsh face, but there was no hint of humor, no sign that he was messing around with her. Instantly, her heart constricted with pain for everything he must have suffered growing up.