Dangerous Desires Page 14

  Up ahead, the weathered gray wood of the outpost shone through the mottled greens of the undergrowth.

  “Wait here,” Drake said, coming to a stop in front of her. “I’m going to check out the window and see if there’s anyone inside.”

  Madeline nodded, fingering her bag as Drake pulled his gun and moved forward using the river plants for cover. She squatted behind a rock to wait, letting her gaze sweep over the surrounding area for signs of life. Just beyond her a small turtle basked in the sun on a rock, and two bottle-green dragonflies hovered over a small lily of some kind.

  Suddenly the grass parted, and Drake was dropping down beside her.

  “What did you see?” she asked.

  “There’s definitely someone inside. A man. Indeterminable age. Hispanic. Could be local. It’s hard to tell. There’s no sign of a weapon, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one somewhere. It’s just not in plain sight. At the moment, he’s got his back to the door. So if I move quickly, I can intercept him from the front before he has a chance to do anything. Shouldn’t be a problem to neutralize him.”

  “Kill him, do you mean?” she whispered, with a frown. “What if he’s not a danger?”

  “Obviously, I intend to find out before taking any drastic action. The point is that I can get to him before he can get to me. Which means that either way, we’re good to go. So you stay here, and I’ll see what I can accomplish.”

  “But what if something happens to you?” She hated that she had to ask the question, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  “I’ll be fine. Stop worrying. You’re probably right and he’s got no connection with any of this.”

  Or she was wrong and Drake was walking into some kind of trap. She opened her mouth to argue, but instead settled for “be careful.” His smile indicated that for him this kind of thing was a walk in the park. Routine procedure. She grimaced and waited for him to disappear into the brush, then moved forward so that she could see in the window.

  The man inside was sitting at a table, looking at his laptop. A pot-bellied stove sat in the corner, something bubbling in a pan on the top, an old-fashioned percolator directly behind it. Madeline’s mouth watered. It had been hours since they’d had anything to eat, and that had only been cold puma. Not exactly the breakfast of champions.

  If the man turned out to be friendly, maybe he’d ask them to share his meal. And if he wasn’t inclined, well, she had the feeling Drake would find a way to convince him. As if on cue, Drake appeared in the doorway.

  “Don’t move,” he said. The man at the table tensed, his fingers tightening into a fist and then releasing. “Turn around slowly.”

  The man turned, one hand still on the table. His face was congenial enough, his brown eyes guiless. He looked to be somewhere between thirty and forty-five. His hair was long, and in need of a good wash. His clothes were serviceable, his shoes caked with the black mud that was everywhere.

  “Not exactly a friendly greeting,” the stranger said.

  “A man out here can’t be too careful.” Drake shrugged, not sounding the slightest bit apologetic.

  “True enough,” the other man nodded. “But that goes both ways. Can I ask what you’re doing here?”

  “I’m a botanist. I’ve been cataloging plants in the area.” He nodded out the door at the waving vegetation. “Lost my supplies in the rain. River surged and swamped my camp.”

  “It can get dicey out here,” the man agreed. “Who do you work for?”

  “University of California.”

  “American?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled, still holding the gun. “I guess it shows.”

  “I’ve been around, recognized the accent.” The man lifted his hands. “Why don’t you let me get you a cup of coffee?” He nodded toward the pot on the stove, and Madeline’s stomach rumbled so loudly she was certain they’d be able to hear it. “Assuming you’re willing to put down the gun.”

  “Why don’t you tell me who you are first?” Drake asked.

  “Jacques Ormond. You might say I’m a distributor of sorts. I collect animal specimens. There’s quite a market for them. Especially zoos.” He nodded toward a couple of cages stacked against one wall.

  Drake eyed the man warily, but lowered the gun. Madeline felt a niggle of concern. Something was off. He’d said his name was Jacques. French pronunciation. But his accent wasn’t French and Drake had been right, his features were definitely Hispanic.

  “This your place?” Drake asked, walking over to lean against the table.

  “Yeah, at least for the time being,” the man said. “This outpost is basically here to serve whoever needs it. And for the moment, I guess that’s me.” He stepped over to the stove, his back to Drake as he poured a cup of coffee. “How long you been out here?” He turned to hand the cup to Drake.

  “Only a couple of weeks. It’s my first time out. I’m working with a team, but we split up in Buenaventura. Figured it would be easier to cover more territory if we worked on our own.”

  “So you’re alone?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “You?”

  “Prefer it that way.” The man smiled, and again Madeline felt a tug of uneasiness. He crossed back to the stove and reached up to grab another cup, then turned to pour more coffee. “I’ve been out here a month or so.”

  “Catch much?” Drake asked, his eyes shooting toward the door. At least he had finally remembered she was out here.

  “I beg your pardon?” the man asked, half turning back from the stove.

  “Animals?”

  “Ah, sorry, wasn’t following your drift. Couple of monkeys and a toucan. I’ve been stalking a leopard, but so far no luck.”

  Madeline shifted a little so that she could better see the room, her foot dislodging a small pile of stones propped against the edge of the house in the process. Holding her breath, she waited to be certain that no one had heard, and then glanced back down at the ground, to be certain she wouldn’t do it again.

  The falling stones had uncovered something blue. She reached down to pick it up, and was surprised to find a mud-splattered bandana.

  Curious, she knelt, peering into the shadows underneath the pier and beam building. It took a moment for her vision to adjust to the dark, but when it did, her heart leaped to her throat as her brain registered what her eyes were seeing. A man lay prostrate, his head turned to one side, his mouth lolling open, his eyes rolled back in his head. His hand was outflung as if in entreaty.

  Madeline had the distinct feeling she was looking at the real Frenchman. Jacques Ormond. But regardless of whether she’d pegged his identity, his presence meant that Drake had most likely walked into a trap.

  She popped back up in time to see the stranger grab a gun from the shelf beside the stove and swing around, leveling it on Drake. “Toss me your gun,” the man said as Drake grimaced, his muscles tightening.

  Instinct surged, and Madeline reached into her bag, her fingers closing on the gun Drake had given her in the clearing. After wrapping the bandana around her left hand, she gripped the gun, and then smashed her fist through the window’s glass.

  The man swung around, surprised. And Drake dove for his gun. But Madeline didn’t wait, firing instead through the hole, hitting the stranger dead-on, the bullet driving him backward into the shelves, boxes and cans going every which way.

  Shaking now, she lowered the weapon, her eyes meeting Drake’s through the window as he went to check the body. Adrenaline still cresting, Madeline ran around the corner, up onto the porch and into the building. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes,” Drake said, eyes narrowed as he stared at the gun in her hand. “Nice shot.”

  “There’s a dead man under the house,” she said by way of explanation. “I think it might be the real Jacques. And then when I looked through the window again he was holding you at gunpoint. So I figured I’d catch him by surprise.”

  “Well, you did that.” He nodded toward the body.

  “
I was afraid the guy was going to blow you away,” she said, her breath still coming in ragged gasps.

  “I would have managed.”

  “Now where have I heard that before?”

  The corners of his lips twitched and she let out a slow breath, relief flooding through her, the power of the emotion surprising her. The idea of losing him was almost more than she could bear. After all, she needed him to stay alive so he could help her make her way out of here. He was her ticket to freedom. Without him…

  She stopped, her gaze moving to his. And suddenly, with complete certainty, she knew that her relief stemmed from far more than self-preservation. She actually cared about the man. What that meant in the grand scheme of things, she had no idea. But there was no escaping the fact that in the moments before she’d fired, the only thing on her mind—the driving force behind her actions—was the urgent desire to make certain that Drake was okay.

  Clearly, she’d lost her fucking mind.

  CHAPTER 14

  So if the real Jacques Ormond is outside,” Drake said, as he rolled the dead man over, “who’s this?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Madeline shook her head. “If he’s one of di Silva’s men, I’ve never seen him before. Does he have any kind of ID?”

  “No,” Drake said. “The body’s clean.”

  “Maybe there’s a backpack or something?”

  “Yeah. It’s possible. But before we look, let’s get him out of here. If any of his friends arrive, I don’t want to tip our hand.”

  “Dead bodies do tend to raise questions.” She nodded, shifting around to the dead man’s feet.

  Again, he was impressed by her control. She’d just killed a man, and while he’d expect this kind of calm from Tyler or even Hannah, he’d have thought she’d have been more affected. Then again, this was Madeline—and she always seemed to surprise him.

  He bent and grabbed the guy under his armpits. “All right, let’s do it.” Together they lifted the body and started to move toward the door.

  “Where are we going to put him?” Madeline asked. “Under the house with Jacques?”

  “No. We’ll throw him in the river. Jacques, too, actually.”

  “That seems a little callous.” She frowned at him. “I mean, maybe not for this guy. But Jacques deserves a little more respect.”

  “I’m just trying to keep us alive,” Drake said as they moved out onto the jetty. “The current will carry the bodies downriver fast. And between the fish and the caimans they’ll be gone before they the hit the coast.”

  “I thought you said there weren’t any crocs in these waters?”

  “I said none in the upper altitudes. Down here they flourish. Except when people like Jacques Ormond poach them for the leather.”

  “How do you know that’s what he was doing?” she asked.

  “There are carcasses in a shed just beyond the jetty.”

  “Oh. Well, I suppose that does change things a bit. Still, they’re crocodiles. Not exactly warm and cuddly.”

  “Yes, but they’re a threatened species. At least certain varieties. And people like Jacques use the societal demand for purses and shoes to justify what they do. There’s a hell of a lot of money in it, actually.”

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a member of PETA,” she said as they came to a stop at the end of the pier.

  “I just don’t like bottom feeders.” He shrugged. “We’ll drop him on three. All right?”

  Madeline nodded and he counted down as they swung the body out toward the water. It hit with a splash and then bobbed underneath the surface, disappearing as the current dragged it downriver.

  “You think someone else is going to come here looking for him?” she asked. “Or for us?”

  “I think it’s possible. And either way we’re better off leaving nothing to indicate any of us were here. Even Jacques.”

  “What about the crocodile skins?”

  “Those we can leave as is. But we’ll need to sanitize the room. And make sure we cover our tracks.”

  “Somehow I don’t think my slide down the cliff will be all that easy to cover up.”

  “You’d be surprised.” He smiled down at her. “You’re handling all of this really well.”

  “I don’t really have a choice,” she said, the corner of her mouth tugging upward. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who tolerates hysterical females.”

  “I think I’ve proved I can be understanding when the situation calls for it.” Their eyes met and held, and then she ducked her head, the pink stain of a blush washing over her cheeks.

  “I already apologized for that.”

  “And I told you there was no need.” He framed her face with his hands, her breath catching on a little whoosh at the contact. “And I still think you’re handling things really well, all things considered.” Their eyes met, gazes dueling as the conversation moved to a level beyond words. The words chemical combustion came to mind.

  But this wasn’t the time, and reluctantly, he let her go.

  “We need to move Jacques.”

  She nodded, stepping back, what looked suspiciously like regret flashing in her eyes. “No time like the present.”

  The two of them walked around to the side of the outpost, and Drake bent to drag Jacques from underneath the house. The man’s body was already starting to decompose in the heat, the smell overwhelming. “You might want me to handle this one,” he said, turning so that his back obstructed her view.

  “No worries,” she replied. “I’ve already been up close and personal with him.” She sucked in a deep breath and reached for his feet. “Let’s just get it over with.”

  They hauled the body up onto the jetty and swung him out into the water.

  “If the caimans get him,” Madeline said, shading her eyes as she watched the body floating downriver, “it’s sort of poetic justice, in a macabre kind of way. Circle of life and all that.”

  They stood for a moment just watching the river.

  “Does it ever bother you?” she asked, turning to face him. “All the killing, I mean?”

  “Yes and no. I suppose after a while you kind of get used to it. Or maybe I’m just built that way. I don’t know. My dad was military. And my brother. So maybe it’s in my genes.”

  “So then it’s just all in a day’s work?”

  “No. It’s more than that. I mean, I respect the sanctity of human life as much as the next person. But sometimes, it’s necessary to take a life to save one. And in the long run, most of what we do is about keeping people safe. People who won’t ever even know they were in danger.”

  “You make it sound noble.”

  “Hardly. It’s just a game of us against them. And my job is to make sure we win more than we lose. And for the most part, I honestly believe that what I do is for the greater good.” He shrugged, hating that the words sounded so pretentious. “I know that sounds like bullshit. Hell, the truth is, maybe I just like the ride.”

  “I suspect that’s part of it. But you didn’t have to come after me. And when you did, you didn’t have to put yourself out there to protect me. I’m not one of the good guys, Drake. And still, you saved me. As far as I’m concerned that’s pretty damn noble.”

  “Or maybe it’s just part of my job.”

  “To get me to D.C., I know.” But her smile said that she believed otherwise. “So what next?” she asked, as they walked back into the outpost, her no-nonsense tone thankfully signaling an end to all the philosophizing.

  “We need to search the room and see if we can find something that identifies our shooter.”

  “So what am I looking for?” she asked as she thumbed through a stack of stuff on a shelf in the corner.

  “A backpack or a wallet, anything that isn’t related to Jacques Ormond. Assuming that really was his name.”

  “It was.” Madeline nodded, pointing at the computer. “We must have interrupted the killer going through Jacques’s files. Look, his name is on the account screen.”
She clicked on a document and whistled. “You were right. There’s money to be made in smuggling crocodiles”

  “Hang on. I might have something here,” he called over his shoulder as he bent to retrieve a duffel that had been shoved into the corner under a table.

  “What have you got?” Madeline asked, coming to stand beside him as he put the bag on the table and unzipped the main compartment.

  “A couple of guns,” he said, lifting out a sniper rifle. “Whoever our guy was, he was ready for action. Ammo”—he pulled out a couple of clips and put them on the table—“and a scope. And night vision goggles. This guy was definitely a pro.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “A revolutionary or even a drug runner. This guy’s got top-of-the-line equipment here. I’m betting a mercenary.”

  “You think di Silva hired him?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, pulling open a Velcroed pocket tucked into the inside of the bag, “but maybe this will tell us.” He extracted a thin nylon pouch, the kind internationals used to protect their papers, and pulled out a passport.

  “So what’s it say?” Madeline pushed close in her eagerness to see, and despite the gravity of the situation, Drake felt his body respond to her proximity, pheromones overriding good sense.

  Ignoring the stirrings, he opened the passport, thumbing through it. “The passport was issued in Portugal. His name is Paolo Montague.” He sorted through the rest of the stuff in the pouch. Some Colombian currency, about a hundred dollars American, and an international driver’s license. “License has the same name. Does it mean anything to you?”

  “No. It’s not a name I’ve heard Ortiz mention. Or di Silva, for that matter. But the organization is large. And I certainly don’t know everyone.”

  “Which means we can’t rule out his having been sent by Ortiz or di Silva. And if he was, then we’ve got bigger troubles than I anticipated.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I told you I expected di Silva to come after you, but this guy beat us to the punch. Which means they expected us to take this particular route.”