Peter's Return

“Will you have everything here that you need?” he asked.

“More than enough,” Emily said, looking around. A side door opened and a woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform walked in pushing a little boy in a wheelchair. His emaciated body didn’t detract from the love and laughter in his large brown eyes. “Papa!” he greeted.

“Hello, Marcos.” Baltasar knelt down to be at eye level with his son. “I’d like you to meet your new doctors. This is Dr. Armstrong and Dr. Fletcher.”

“Buenas tardes,” Marcos said.

Emily smiled. “Good afternoon to you, Marcos.”

Baltasar stood. “And this is Marcos’s nurse, Marguerite.”

The nurse smiled pleasantly then walked over to Marcos’s hospital bed and turned down the covers.

“Mr. Escalante—”

“Baltasar, please.”

Emily gave a slight nod. “Baltasar, do you have Marcos’s medical records for us to look at?”

He looked pleased at her question. “Absolutely, right over here.” He opened up a drawer and removed a thick file. Emily took it from him. “Please read it over, visit with my son, and then let me know your findings at dinner this evening.”

Emily got the feeling his offer wasn’t a request.

He kissed Marcos on the head and left the room. After the nurse settled Marcos into his bed, Emily stepped forward. “How are you feeling?” she asked the boy.

“Okay,” he said, then started to cough.

As his coughing persisted, she asked the nurse for a stethoscope and thermometer. She took his temperature, frowned as she read the elevated reading, then listened to his chest. His little face filled with fatigue. Emily’s gaze met Robert’s across the bed. “Lay back and get some rest,” she said softly to the child, gently brushing his forehead with her fingertips.

He nodded and gave her a sleepy smile that tugged at her heart. Of all the terminally ill children she’d had to help, she’d never gotten used to the pain and heartache that came with each one she lost. She knew she should distance herself from them, but then she’d look into their sweet, innocent, scared eyes and she’d be lost, her heart sunk. Each time, she’d hoped God in His infinite wisdom and mercy would spare them. Maybe this time He would. She gave Marcos a warm smile, then joined Robert and the nurse in the outer room.

“How long has he been coughing?” Emily asked the nurse.

“He just started this morning.”

“There’s moisture and rattling in his chest. He’s in the beginning stages of pneumonia.” Emily had seen it many times before, and as the illness progressed, the child would grow weaker and weaker.

“Mr. Escalante will need to be told,” Marguerite said while reaching into an overhead cabinet.

“What happened to Marcos’s last doctor?” Robert asked casually. Emily had wondered the same thing. She recalled Baltasar’s earlier reference to losing Marcos’s doctor, but couldn’t imagine a doctor leaving his patient at this stage in his illness. And Baltasar didn’t seem like the sort of man who would just let him go.

The nurse mumbled something without turning.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Emily asked.

Marguerite pulled out a syringe and bottle of antibiotics, then said, “Snakebite,” and quickly left the room.

Emily turned to Robert. Uneasiness tweaked her stomach as she held his gaze. “There is way too much talk about snakes around here.”

Peter Vance took in his surroundings and hoped his years of hard work had paid off and he’d finally been granted access into the heart of La Mano Oscura, also known as The Dark Hand. The manicured grounds were a stark contrast to the untamed jungle pushing at the compound’s tall stone walls. The bungalow he’d been led to was large and gracious, with ceiling fans, plantation shutters and yards of mosquito netting. It sure beat the shack he’d been living in—he could barely call it a shack—since he’d left Colorado Springs three years ago.

He knew when the CIA asked him to upgrade his status and go deep undercover as an operations officer, life as he knew it would be over. But he hadn’t expected how much the isolation would bother him, or how much he’d miss his family.

How much he’d miss Emily.

He shook off the thought as he had numerous times before. He’d hoped the long nights alone would have purged her from his mind. Unfortunately they hadn’t. Even here deep in the jungles of Venezuela, where nary the sight of a long wheat-colored blonde could be found, he’d see something that would remind him of the exact shade of hazel in her eyes and there she’d be, at the forefront of his mind.

Somehow, some way, he had to forget her and move on. By now she’d probably found herself a nice doctor husband, one who’d come home to her safe and sound every night and given her lots of drooling babies to take care of. He could see it perfectly in his mind, the type of life she’d longed for, the type of life he could never give her.

He took out his secured satellite phone and dialed Maxwell Vance, his father and case handler.

“You at the compound?” Max asked as he picked up the line.

“Affirmative.”

“Good. We’ve had a major break on this end. It won’t be long now.”

Peter sighed and allowed himself a second to hope. Three years without a break, a vacation or a meal from his mother’s diner, The Stagecoach Café. How he wished he could go home and see everyone even if it was only for a day.

“We’ve uncovered an air force connection to Diablo.”

He raised his eyebrows. The air force is connected with Colorado Springs’ major crime syndicate? No wonder they had such a hard time tackling their problems. “Is La Mano Oscura Diablo’s main supplier?”

“Affirmative. If everything goes according to plan, the sting we’ve set in motion should bring the Venezuelan cartel to its knees. All your hard work is finally going to pay off. You’re in the perfect position to help us bring La Mano Oscura down.”

“It’s all I think about, believe me.”

“If you can, get the names of any operatives still set up here in Colorado that we may have missed. We can’t afford for Escalante to get wind of our plans.”

“Got it.”

“Also, Barclay has taken a tumble.”

Peter shouldn’t have been surprised. They had suspected that hotel tycoon Alistair Barclay was the kingpin of the Diablo organization credited with the increase of drug trafficking to hit Colorado Springs, but they hadn’t been able to get the goods on him. Things were looking up.

“Has he confirmed Escalante is El Patrón?” Peter asked. They’d been hoping for something to pinpoint Escalante as the head of La Mano Oscura, but they hadn’t had much luck. “I know in my gut he’s our guy, but he’s kept himself clean and surrounded with well-established, legitimate connections. Has he found out about Barclay’s arrest?”

“Negative, as far as we know. He’s expecting a shipment through General Hadley of cash and high-definition Keyhole Satellite images of his lab on the Colombian border. Expect company in place of the shipment. The operation will go down on the thirteenth at zero-hundred hours. Make sure you’re there. We’ll need you to help tie up any loose ends. This could be it.”

Peter took a deep breath and tried not to let himself hope. He wanted to leave, but wasn’t sure what he’d do next. The jungle and his cover as Pietro Presti had been a part of him for so long, he wasn’t sure how he could ever go back to just being Peter Vance. He glanced out the window and saw Escalante heading toward the bungalow down the main path. “Escalante’s coming, I’ve got to go.”

“Wait…there’s one more thing you should know.”

Peter heard the trepidation in his father’s voice, a voice he knew well enough to know this wasn’t something he wanted to hear. This was something personal. His gut tightened.

“It’s about Emily….”

Emily.

“Mr. Presti?” Baltasar Escalante said as he walked through the opened door.

Peter disconnected the line and turned, the name of his ex-wife ringing in his ear.

Chapter Two

Determination overrode emotion. For three years, Peter had worked hard to establish his cover as small-time drug trafficker Pietro Presti hoping to gain the attention of El Patrón, kingpin of La Mano Oscura. Now was his chance. He was in the perfect position to find out the truth about Baltasar Escalante and his connection to La Mano Oscura. He had to stay focused. He couldn’t afford to let himself wonder about Emily and what his father wanted to tell him about her.

“Mr. Presti, how do you like your quarters?” Baltasar asked as he strolled into the room.

“Very much,” Peter responded. “Thank you for your hospitality and please, my friends call me Pietro.”

“Pietro it is,” Baltasar said, and sat in a teal-and-salmon chair. He rested his long arms against the bamboo trim and watched Peter for a disquieting second. His lips curved into a small, predatory smile. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your phone call?”

Peter forced a casual air. “Not at all, just checking on a few business deals.”

As Baltasar continued to stare at him, Peter hoped the invitation to the compound would turn out to be a friendly one.

“I understand you’ve been having some run-ins with our mutual acquaintance, Domingo,” Baltasar finally said.

Peter held up his hands, palms out, then gave a gentle shake of his head. “I’m just a small-time guy trying to eke out a living in a big-time jungle. Domingo has taken issue with some of my methods.”

Baltasar nodded, his dark eyes narrowing in contemplation. “I understand perfectly. Let’s take a walk,” he said, rising. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Peter followed him out the door, knowing full well when he received Baltasar’s summons it could mean trouble. He’d taken a chance stirring up the pot with Domingo, but he needed to gain Baltasar’s notice. The few days he’d taken to scope out the perimeter of the compound and stash a motorcycle in a strategic location outside the wall could pay off sooner than he’d thought.

In silence, they walked through the gardens on a cobblestone path moving far away from the main house.

“Your estate is incredible,” Peter said truthfully, trying to gauge Baltasar’s mood.

“I enjoy nice things. I work hard to achieve them. You can, too, if you play according to the rules.” Baltasar looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

His gamble with Domingo had been the right one. Now they were getting somewhere. “Rules have never been my strong suit,” Peter said casually, but laced his tone with an edge of steel.

“I’ve noticed. But to succeed in La Mano Oscura, one must never tread too far off the beaten path.”

Peter contemplated his response, but stopped as the snarl of a wild cat pricked the hairs on the nape of his neck. Slowly, he turned toward the tree closest to the path. A midnight-black jaguar with yellow-green eyes watching his every move sat on a low tree branch, its tail twitching, a low growl resonating deep in its chest. Peter’s breath knotted in his throat. He’d seen firsthand what a cat that size could do to a man, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Baltasar approached the cat, reached up and rubbed its head. “Hello, Akisha,” he cooed. He took a napkin out of his pocket, then carefully removed a large piece of raw meat and fed it to the cat. He turned back to Peter. “As I was saying, veering too far off the path might not be a healthy choice.”

Stunned, Peter could only nod as he watched the cat devour his treat. He expelled a relieved breath as they turned and headed back down the path toward the main house. He was still groping to get a handle on whether this visit would be agreeable to him when Baltasar said, “I love Venezuela. My enterprises have taken me many places, Pietro, and yet I always come back home where the colors are vibrant and the smell of the jungle heightens your senses.”

“I believe you have the makings of a poet, Mr. Escalante,” Peter said after a moment’s hesitation.

Baltasar let loose a deep, barrel-chested laugh. “My dear late wife used to say the same thing.” He shook his head. “How I miss her. You married?”

“Once,” Peter answered. “Unfortunately, it didn’t work out.”

“It takes a special kind of woman to be married to men like us.” Baltasar patted him on the back and as they approached the main house he led him through a set of French doors into a comfortable yet masculine office.

Peter casually scanned the room, taking in the deep brown leather sofa flanked by two overstuffed chairs. Against the far wall, but still maintaining the focal point of the room, was a large cherrywood desk and credenza. Everything he would need to unearth Baltasar’s nefarious activities would probably be found in that monstrous desk.

“We can talk privately here,” Baltasar said, and took a seat behind the desk.

Peter viewed this as a good sign. If Baltasar had wanted bloodshed, he wouldn’t have brought him into a room sporting a plush Turkish carpet. And they wouldn’t be alone. Baltasar opened a small humidor sitting atop his desk, pulled out a rich brown cigar, and gestured to Peter.

Peter didn’t care for cigars, but he knew it would be bad form to refuse. He nodded and watched as Baltasar used a stainless steel cutter to neatly snip off the cigar’s end before passing it to him. Peter accepted Baltasar’s offer and held it under his nose, breathing deep its strong aroma, and then waited for the business to begin.

“Along with your aversion to rules,” Baltasar said after lighting and inhaling deeply off his cigar. He rolled the smoke around in his mouth before exhaling and finishing his thought. “Your reputation as an innovator and a man of action precedes you. I can use someone like that in my organization. You interested?”

Peter took a deep drag off the cigar and let Baltasar stew a moment, then said, “Perhaps. Depends on what you have in mind.”

Baltasar held his gaze. “Right now I’m in a position to expand my operations and I need someone in the States to head it up for me. You are an American, sí?”

Peter nodded and gestured with the cigar. “But you already knew that. You see, your reputation precedes you, too, Mr. Escalante, and I know you wouldn’t have brought me here if you didn’t already know everything there was to know about me.”

Baltasar smiled, his expression moving from benign indulgence to sharp respect. “Good, then we can drop the pretenses?”

“Please do.” Peter leaned back in the chair.

“I know you’re good at what you do. I know you’re considered a bit of a hothead. I also know you’re American, and a trip back home might not be such a bad idea, since our mutual friend Domingo isn’t too enamored with you at the moment.”

“Domingo is a fool,” Peter countered. “He doesn’t have the foresight, the imagination, or the guts to run an organization that will have the success and the reputation of La Mano Oscura.”

Baltasar nodded, his fingers coming together to steeple beneath his chin. “I appreciate the compliment.”

Bingo. Baltasar was indeed El Patrón, leader of La Mano Oscura.

“But I didn’t bring you here to hear compliments, Pietro. Personally, I could care less if Domingo hacks you up and feeds you to his beloved crocodiles. But I believe you can help me and if you turn out to be worth my trouble, then you’ll get a free ticket back to Chicago and a piece of the La Mano Oscura pie. You interested?”

“Perhaps. How big a piece?” Peter asked, and couldn’t help flashing a predatory smile of his own.

Baltasar laughed. “I think I could like you, Pietro.” He was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping out a simple beat on his desk. “I know you have a small but well-run organization in Chicago. How would you feel about expanding that operation?”

“Depends if the returns are as big as the risk. I like to stay small because it keeps me under the authority’s radar.”

“It also keeps you living in shacks in the jungle.”

Peter snuffed out his cigar in a crystal ashtray. “You got me there.”

“I’m expecting a large payment soon that will cover all the expenses necessary to set you up properly. I have one thousand kilos of pure powder processed and ready. I can have half that shipment sent to Chicago. Can you handle it?”

“I can, but I’ll have to increase my base.”

“Think you can have it done by the thirteenth?”

Peter nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Good. I’m cutting back on my organization in Colorado. I want to transfer operations to Chicago consecutively.”

Peter schooled his features not to show too much excitement. This was a bigger break than any of them had anticipated. Baltasar must be very unhappy with Barclay to be cutting him out. Either that or he was on to Barclay’s arrest. And if that was the case, this whole conversation could be a setup and Baltasar could have wind of the sting operation the CIA had planned.

Peter’s stomach turned, and it wasn’t just from the cigar.

“All communications will be directly between you and I. You won’t use my name, but will always refer to me as El Patrón. Each month I will send an e-mail communication of when you can expect the next shipment of kilos and where—”

The door burst open and a woman rushed in, her long, flowing wheat-gold hair, bouncing across her shoulders.

Baltasar stood.

The woman stopped dead in her tracks, her arms frozen in midswing, her large hazel eyes staring in widened shock. At him.

Emily.

Peter’s heart slammed into the side of his chest.

A man dressed in the tan uniform of Baltasar’s guards came running up behind her, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her back.

Peter stood, and had to stop himself from rushing forward and ripping the man’s arm off. He must be dreaming. It couldn’t possibly be his Emily standing in Baltasar Escalante’s office being manhandled by a guard.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Escalante,” the guard said. “The señorita is faster than she looks.” His lips quivered in disgust. “I won’t let her get by me again.”

Emily’s shocked gaze hadn’t left Peter’s.

It was her. And if he didn’t do something fast, she would say or do something, and the jig would be up, his cover blown.

“It’s all right, Esteban,” Baltasar said, and walked toward them. “You may leave us.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. The guard nodded and backed out the door. Peter took advantage of Baltasar’s diverted attention and held a forefinger to his lips. For a brief second, Emily’s eyes widened.

Once the door clicked shut, Baltasar turned back to Emily. His Emily. What was she doing there? Why wasn’t she back home in Colorado Springs working at Vance Memorial and raising babies? His mind felt wrapped in several layers of cotton. He forced out three quick breaths, then took a deep one and tried not to think about how fast his heart was beating. He had to calm down. He had to make sure neither one of them gave the game away.

Baltasar turned back to his desk and snuffed out his cigar. “Dr. Armstrong, is everything all right with Marcos?” he asked.

Emily still hadn’t spoken. She just stood there staring, her emotions playing across her face—shock, pain, regret.

Peter held his breath. Come on, Emily. Pull it together. Don’t give me away.

“Dr. Armstrong?” Baltasar said again.

Peter didn’t like the way Baltasar’s gaze kept shifting from her to him then back to her again.

“Is everything all right?” he asked again.

She took a step toward Peter, her mouth opening to speak. He lifted his hand a fraction of an inch, gave a slight shake of his head, and hoped she could still read him as easily as he could still read her.

“Sorry,” she said, regaining her voice, though it was obvious how much of a struggle it was for her.

“Is everything all right with Marcos?” Speculation ran high in Baltasar’s tone.

Peter turned toward the window, breaking their connection before Baltasar’s speculation turned to suspicion.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Emily said, seeming to pull it together. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Marcos is coming down with a cough that we’ll need to keep a close watch on. It seems he’s develoved pneumonia. But he’s been given antibiotics. His spirits are high and he’s resting comfortably.”

Peter sat back in his chair and acted uninterested while watching them out of the corner of his eye. He knew Baltasar’s son was dying of AIDS, which explained why Emily, a pediatric hematologist, would be there, but it certainly didn’t explain how she got there.

“He’s a wonderful little boy,” Emily added.

“Thank you,” Baltasar said softly. “I think so, too.”

She fell silent, her large hazel eyes once again seeking out Peter’s, once again causing a painful lurch in his chest. He tried not to look at her, tried to look back out the window, or at the desk, anywhere, but all the willpower in the world couldn’t pull him away. How he missed her, the sharp pain of it sliced through him.

“Was there something you needed, Dr. Armstrong?”

The abrupt edge to Baltasar’s tone sent a twinge of anxiety rushing through him. They’d have to be careful around this man. From everything Peter had heard and seen, he could play Mr. Charm, but underneath he was a diabolical and ruthless killer.

“Yes,” Emily said, and turned slightly, giving Baltasar her full attention.

That’s it, babe. Don’t let him see you sweat.

“The phones in our wing aren’t working and we need to call the clinic and let them know we’ve arrived safely. It’s been several hours since we were due and we don’t want them to worry.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Dr. Armstrong, but I’ve already contacted the clinic and let them know you’ve been delayed.”

As she hesitated, the pieces clicked into place. Baltasar needed a doctor for his son and he took one, regardless of what she wanted or needed, or who might need her. Come on, baby. Play it cool. This isn’t Mr. Altruistic; this is a monster in disguise.

“And then there’s the matter of Dr. Fletcher’s wife and children. They were expecting to hear from him. They must be worried sick.”

Dr. Fletcher. Peter vaguely recalled that name from Vance Memorial’s Christmas parties.

Baltasar smiled warmly. “Of course they are. We must alleviate their worry. Tell Dr. Fletcher to post a letter and I’ll see it’s mailed immediately. I’m sorry, but our phone service is sporadic at best, and it isn’t working right now. I’ll make sure you and Dr. Fletcher know the minute it comes back on.”

Emily’s shoulders fell with her relief. “Thank you, Mr. Escalante. We really appreciate it.”

“Please, my name is Baltasar. And thank you. There’s no way I could ever express the appreciation I feel toward you and the good Dr. Fletcher. This is the least I can do.” Baltasar turned toward the door and called for Esteban.

The guard stuck his head in the room. “Sí?”

“Please see Dr. Armstrong back to the hospital wing.”

“Yes, sir.” He stepped into the room and took Emily’s arm.

Frustrated by his inability to intercede, Peter opened his mouth to protest, then forced himself to close it again as the guard led her out of the room. A fist of dread grabbed hold of Peter’s solar plexus and gave a firm squeeze. She was a giant monkey wrench that could totally screw up his operation. But didn’t she look good? Better than he remembered. And if he closed his eyes, he was sure he could recall what she smelled like, and how her skin would feel as soft as silk beneath his touch.

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” Baltasar said, shaking his head and sitting back down behind his desk. “My son’s new doctor. I don’t think she heard much, but I do think she’s going to give me trouble.”

Peter raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything, hoping the man would continue, but not wanting to appear too interested.

Baltasar leaned back in his chair and stared at him. “I manage to stay one step ahead of the game by not allowing mistakes or mishaps of any kind. There’s too much at stake here for us to take unnecessary chances or risks.”