скачать книгу бесплатно
“I’ll remember you, Grandfather. I promise,” he declared fervently. Then he tucked the coin into his pajama pocket.
No longer able to contain her sadness Ann hurried down the hallway to the privacy of her bedroom.
By rote, she went through the motions of preparing herself for bed and was about to retire when the door flung open with such force that it slammed against the wall. A scream burst past her lips at the sight of a man in the doorway waving a weapon at her.
“Out. Out,” he ordered sharply, gesturing wildly with the rifle.
“Ann! Ann! Help me,” Brandon cried out from the other room.
“Oh, dear God! Brandon!” In her hurry to reach the frightened child, Ann ignored the armed man and rushed past him. Another abductor was pulling the protesting child by the arm out of his bedroom into the living room.
“Take your hands off him,” she cried, rushing to Brandon’s defense. His captor shoved her away and she fell back onto the couch.
“Don’t you hurt her.” Brandon’s lower lip jutted out pugnaciously as he pounded the chest of his captor. He was sent sprawling next to Ann. She clutched him tightly as they huddled, terrified, while the two servants were herded into the room by more armed men. After a quick exchange, the abductors bound and gagged the servants and took them back to their room.
Several others went into her bedroom, and Ann could hear them ransacking it.
“Up. Up,” her captor ordered when they returned. His knowledge of English may have been limited, but his body language and the menacing gestures spoke an international language that was not difficult to interpret as he herded Ann and Brandon into her bedroom.
As frightened as she was, Ann refused to cower under their intimidating glares. “What is the meaning of this? What do you want from us?”
“No talk. You no talk,” he barked, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
She couldn’t believe the devastation their captors had created in such a short time. The room had been thoroughly sacked in their search for weapons and valuables. Bureau drawers had been pulled out and the contents strewn everywhere. Chairs were upended and pictures yanked off the walls.
After Brandon helped Ann put the mattress back on the bed and restore the bedding to a proper order she insisted he go to bed.
“I’m scared, Ann. I don’t want to go to sleep. When are these mean men going away?”
“Soon, honey. Soon,” she soothed. “Try to sleep. Maybe they’ll be gone in the morning.”
When he finally settled down, Ann went to the door and tried to hear what the men were saying. From the few fragments of sentences she was able to overhear, she grasped that they were waiting for further instructions before moving Brandon and her to a different location.
Good Lord! Who were these men? Were they responsible for Clayton’s death? Were they going to kill her and Brandon, too?
Her breathing came in quick, shallow gasps as her panic mounted. She felt she was choking. Rushing to the window, she raised it and drew several deep breaths. An armed guard outside waved his weapon to indicate she move back inside the room. Irritated, she slammed down the window.
Her nerves were raw, and she could feel herself coming apart. Her fright, Clayton’s death and not knowing the reason behind it all had driven her to the brink of losing her control. Brandon’s need for her was the only thing keeping her from breaking down.
To occupy herself Ann tidied the room. The task helped to take her mind off her misery until she picked up a framed photograph that had been knocked to the floor. Her eyes misted as she gazed at the cherished face of the distinguished-looking man in his sixties. She had snapped the photograph of Clayton Burroughs the day they met.
“Oh, Clayton.” Sobbing, she sank in despair to the floor.
Chapter 2
Mike Bishop awoke with a start when Cassidy nudged him with his foot. “I think I just saw the signal.”
Saturated with perspiration, he sat up and looked around hastily at the men stretched out on the deck. All were sleeping except for Dave Cassidy at the helm.
Mike pulled out his binoculars and trained the glasses on the shore. The infrared lenses distinguished a ragged coastline capped by a dense jungle. As the boat drew nearer, a light blinked three times from the shore, the prearranged signal from the local guide. They were on course.
Frowning, he lowered the glasses, removed a black wool cap and then wiped his brow on the sleeve of his sweater. He ran his fingers through the clipped hair matted to his head and rose to his feet to stretch his cramped muscles. He was hot and sweaty and would have liked to pull off the black sweater that clung to him in wet patches, shuck the pants and boots and dive into the inviting water.
Despite the undulating movement of the small craft, his step was firm, his back ramrod straight as he crossed the deck.
“We made good time.”
Cassidy nodded. “You think the woman and kid are still alive?”
“I’m not psychic! Your guess is as good as mine.”
“What’s chewing on your ass?” Cassidy asked. “You’ve been uptight since the briefing.”
“Nothing. Nothing’s bugging me,” Mike growled. He returned to his former seat, picked up a round tin and began smearing black greasepaint on his face. When he was through, only the whites of his eyes could be discerned in the darkness. Passing the tin to Cassidy, he settled back and began to reflect on the mission ahead.
From the quick briefing they’d received from Prince Charming, a British national had been murdered in French Guiana. A contact informed them that the man’s six-year-old grandson and American assistant, Ann Hamilton, whom the Agency assigned the code names of Boy Blue and Snow White, had reached a prearranged rescue site, but were now being held prisoners, presumably by those responsible for the Brit’s murder. And since his squad was on a training exercise in neighboring Guyana, they were immediately dispatched to go in fast and get the woman and kid. And not make it an international incident. That meant not to take out any of the abductors. What the hell was with the Agency? Did Baker and Waterman think they could just walk through the door and the bastards would hand them the prisoners?
For the dozenth time Bishop reached into his pocket and pulled out the faxed photograph given to him at the briefing. He stared at the woman’s face in the picture. Deep-violet eyes veiled with thick dark lashes stared out at him from the photograph. Shoulder-length golden hair feathered in soft curls around a flawless face blessed with a small straight nose and high cheekbones.
Man, she was hot!
He ran his finger absently across her wide, generous mouth. What in hell had been with this Burroughs? The guy had to have known the risks. Only a damn fool would bring a woman along on an assignment.
On second thought, he’d cut the guy some slack. Maybe the poor fool didn’t know. Baker had said that Burroughs wasn’t actually an agent. That Waterman had asked Burroughs for his help.
Why had Queen Mother asked this Burroughs for help? Espionage was no job for amateurs. So now the poor bastard’s dead for his effort.
Mike felt a tightening in his chest. And by this time, the woman and kid are probably dead, too.
When Cassidy began to rouse the men, Mike refolded the paper and returned it to his pocket. He was proud of this team. Known as the Dwarf Squad in the Agency, he, Cassidy, Bolen and Fraser were former Navy SEALs; Williams and Bledsoe had been with the British SAS. Each man was a specialist in a particular field. They had served together as a team for the past three years, and he trusted all of them. Would stake his life on the performance of any one of them. Mike smiled wryly—he’d often had to.
There was nothing to distinguish one of them from the other. They wore no identification. Dressed alike. On this mission, each of them carried an Israeli-made Uzi submachine gun. In addition they all carried a Silver Trident knife, a garrote, grenades and six extra clips of ammo strapped to their waists.
The team never carried survival rations. They survived on whatever the land offered.
The craft touched shore, and they slipped into the water and beached the boat. At the sound of a crackling leaf all six weapons swung toward the man who stepped out of the brush. He identified himself as the contact they were expecting.
“Burroughs’s house three kilomètre,” the man explained, holding up three fingers as he struggled with English. He pointed to a spot on the map that Bishop had extracted from a waterproof packet. “I see nine, maybe ten go into house.”
“Did they all have weapons?”
“Oui.”
“Automatic weapons?” Mike pursued.
“I not know, monsieur.”
“What about servants?”
“Only Guillaume Sellier and his wife.”
“Are they friendly?”
“I think yes.”
Seeing there was no more information to be gleaned, Mike nodded abruptly. “Williams, Bledsoe, you two have Boy Blue. Bolen and Fraser, the servants. Cassidy and I will take Snow White. Conceal the boat and we’ll move out.”
Armed with only a machete, their guide slipped silently into the jungle. “Williams, Bledsoe, take the point.” The two men followed the man into the forest.
Cassidy came over to him. “Well, we made it this far. Wonder if we’ve been spotted.”
“We’ll soon find out,” Mike said. He shifted his gaze to the dense foliage surrounding them. Not a leaf stirred. “It’s damn quiet.”
Cassidy’s smile flashed whitely against the greasepaint on his face. “We’ll get them out, Mike. I’ve got good vibes about this mission.”
Mike’s face slashed into a grim line. “You said that about Beirut, too.”
Mike’s heart pounded like a jackhammer. The closer they got to the house, the faster it beat. His hand holding the rifle was clammy and sweaty. He knew he had to get a hold on himself, but he could only think of what they might find when they entered the house. What if the prisoners were dead? He couldn’t forget those violet eyes staring at him from that photograph. The time had come to get out of the business; he was losing his objectivity.
Suddenly they were there, no more time for what-ifs. The men halted, awaiting orders. He sent the guide back to his village to protect the man’s identity in the event the mission fell apart.
Stay focused, Bishop. Don’t lose your objectivity or you’ll endanger the squad as well as the woman and kid. He mustn’t let his emotions muddy the water. So why in hell was he fighting the urge to run up to the house and burst through the front door?
Mike shook his head to clear his muddled mind and concentrated on the mission. A brick wall surrounded the house. A damn brick wall! Bad enough he was battling mental obstacles, now he was confronted by a physical one—a damn brick wall! They could be picked off like sitting ducks as they tried to scale it.
The squad remained concealed as Williams and Bledsoe checked an SUV parked on the outside of the gate. Before moving on, Bledsoe shook his head and indicated with a hand signal that the keys weren’t in the ignition.
As Mike passed the car, he glanced inside. A white flowered scarf shimmered like a silky pool on the front seat. He picked it up and brought the material to his nose. The sensuous fragrance hit like a punch to his gut. The damn scarf smells like Violet Eyes looked in the picture—sensuous and sexy.
Round blotches began to dot the flimsy material. Mike glanced up to discover that it was raining. That was a good sign. Rain would muffle the sound of footsteps. Maybe they were getting a little bit of outside help. He stuffed the scarf under his sweater. The piece of silk adhered seductively to his heated skin.
Bledsoe and Williams returned to report that only one man guarded the front door. In addition, the first stumbling block had been eliminated—the gate had been left ajar; they wouldn’t have to scale a wall. One by one the men slipped through the gate until all six members of the squad were inside.
A light glowed from a front window of the house. As the squad huddled in the shrubbery, the front door opened and two men stepped outside carrying automatic weapons. One relieved the guard on duty while the other crossed the patio, passing right by the concealed team. Mike motioned to Bolen and Fraser, and the two men followed the gunman.
He gave Cassidy a signal to take out the guard at the front door and his second in command moved away. Bledsoe and Williams worked their way toward the back of the house to check for any other sentries.
Overcoming the guards proved a simple task, and with the perimeter secured, their objective now was to find the prisoners.
Each of the men moved to a window at the rear or sides of the house. Mike selected the one where Williams had discovered a sentry. Raising the window carefully, he peered into the darkened room and could see a figure in the bed. The light was too faint to distinguish whether it was male or female.
Moving cautiously, he climbed into the room, drew the Trident and crossed the room to the bed. He froze in his tracks when he was close enough to identify the sleeping figure.
He’d found Snow White. Boy Blue was asleep beside her.
Bishop slipped the knife back into his boot and leaned over the woman. The sensuous combination of French perfume and woman drifted up in a seductive titillation. He was tempted to clamp his mouth—instead of his hand—over that wide, generous mouth of hers. Objectivity, hell! He’d been in the jungle too long!
Her eyes popped open in alarm and she struggled to rise, but he forced her back down.
“Quiet. We’re here to help you.”
Incredulity replaced Ann’s initial shock and panic. He sounded American! She peered up at the frightening apparition. The room was too dark to see anything except the faint figure of a man dressed in black. But there was nothing faint about the firm hand clamped over her mouth.
“I’m removing my hand. Don’t make a sound. Do you understand?” he whispered.
No doubt remained; that voice was American. She nodded, and couldn’t have cried out if she wanted to. She was too numb with shock.
He removed his hand and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “We’ll get you out of here. How many men are there?”
Ann wanted to break out in a chorus of “God Bless America.” When she finally found her voice, her heart hammered so loudly in her ears, she couldn’t hear what she was saying. “I saw eight of them, but I think there were others.”
“Is there anyone else in the house besides you and the kid?”
She nodded. “Two servants. The last time I saw them they were tied up in the rear bedroom.” Now that the shock had worn off, once again she could feel hysteria mounting within her.
He must have sensed her rising agitation and tried to relax her. “You’re doing fine. Now tell me, were all the men armed?”
“I think so. At least all of the ones I saw. Who are these men? Are they the same ones who murdered Clayton?”
“I’ll explain everything later. Just remember, they’re dangerous, and won’t hesitate to kill you or the kid. Do exactly what I say. Did any of them speak English?”
“Poorly.”
“Could you understand anything said?”
The man’s clipped questions and reticence were beginning to make her feel as if she were on a witness stand. “I think they’re waiting for someone—or some instructions. They said something about moving us to a different location.”
“Did they say where? Mention any names?”
At the negative shake of her head, his jaw hardened into a grim line. “Did any of them harm you?”
“No.”
A trace of a smile tagged at the corners of his mouth. The glimmer was gone before she realized that it might have been an attempt at smiling.
“Will the kid cry when you wake him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But this has been a harrowing experience for him.”
Bishop stood up. “Get dressed.”
“What about Brandon?”
“Let him sleep for the moment.”
By now her vision had adjusted to the darkness, and she saw that the man was tall, at least four inches over six feet. He dwarfed her five feet eight inches. Most men she met didn’t.
After collecting her clothing, she cast a prim glance in his direction.
