Raising her head, Letty met his eyes. “Friends?” she asked a second time.
Letty Madden and him. Not likely. His friends were few. Carefully chosen. He was a hired gun, and he didn’t want her painting him as her personal knight in shining armor because he’d killed the bastard about to rape her.
“No thanks, sweetheart. I got all the friends I can handle.” He knew, even as he spoke, that his words would insult and offend her, but that couldn’t be helped. They’d come to Zarcero to do a job. When it was finished he’d be out of her life and she’d be out of his.
Letty’s head snapped back, and she glared at him. “You’re a nasty son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He wouldn’t deny it. “You’d best not forget it.” He stalked toward the shore. “It’s time to get back on the road,” he said evenly. “We leave in five minutes.”
Letty plowed out of the water, making more noise than a Sherman tank, sloshing and kicking, venting her frustration like a woman scorned.
Murphy quickly donned his clothes and had a hell of a time hiding his smile.
His amusement quickly faded when he realized they were being watched. He didn’t know where or who was out there. Not yet. Over the years he’d developed a sixth sense about such matters.
“Letty…” He kept his voice low and calm.
She ignored him.
“Without being obvious, walk over to me.”
Something in his voice must have alerted her to the danger. She picked up her clothes and walked directly to his side. “Someone’s out there,” she whispered.
He grinned. “Yeah, I know.”
18
Jack Keller returned to his condominium around two in the morning. He let himself inside, tossed the keys on an end table, and strolled aimlessly through his living room while rubbing the back of his neck. His night certainly had taken an unexpected turn. He’d had Marcie in the palm of his hand, whimpering for what they both wanted, and then whammo, the next thing he knew she was asking for a cigarette and listing Clifford’s sterling traits.
Jack should have been angry. A woman couldn’t lead a man to the point of no return and then call it quits. But Marcie had done exactly that. Naturally he’d been frustrated. It’d taken ten minutes under an ice-cold shower to cool his libido. The disappointment had been as sharp as his frustration. Damn it, he wanted her. It’d taken half a pot of strong coffee to clear his head.
Even now he wasn’t entirely certain he understood about Marcie and Clifford. He was fairly certain she wasn’t in love with the plumber. Marcie wanted him, and that wasn’t his ego talking, either. He loved the way her eyes lit up when she saw him. His touch flustered and fascinated her. She was both sensual and honest, a rare combination in a woman, he’d discovered. It distressed him to realize that if he didn’t act soon, he was going to lose her. Not to any fast-talking shyster, either, but to a plumber.
Jack openly admitted that he’d underestimated Marcie. She deserved far more credit than he’d given her. He had assumed he’d easily be able to manipulate her into bed. Dinner, a little sweet talk. A kiss. Hell, it hadn’t even taken that much. By the time their meal had arrived they could hardly stay in their chairs for want of each other. All that had changed, however, shortly after they’d arrived back at her place.
Right up to the moment Marcie had rolled away from him, Jack had thought it’d be a snap to have her. Not so, but then he always had enjoyed a challenge. It stirred his blood. Marcie was a hell of a woman, in bed and out, and it’d do him well to remember that.
His mind was filled with thoughts of Marcie and the pleasure that awaited them. Jack was determined to have her. Hell, just how difficult could it be? No woman in her right mind would choose a plumber named Clifford over him. Women needed excitement, pleasure, adventure, and he offered all three.
Okay, okay, Clifford had won round one, but the championship fight had only just begun. Jack fully expected to gain the prize, and frankly he didn’t expect it to take much longer. A little subtle planning, and he’d close in for the kill.
He got excited just thinking about it.
Too keyed up to sleep, he turned on the television and plopped himself down in front of the boob tube. No sooner had he finished a complete surf of the channels than his doorbell chimed long and loud.
“What the hell?” he muttered, glancing at his watch. People generally didn’t make social calls this time of the morning.
His peephole revealed two clean-cut men standing on the other side of his door. They might have been twins if one hadn’t towered a good six inches over the other. The two had “the law” written all over them. Officious. Pompous. Self-important. Both looked as if they were struggling to hold in a fart.
The taller of the two impatiently pressed the buzzer a second time.
The temptation not to respond appealed to Jack. He was already short-tempered, and having to deal with a couple of tight-ass federal agents didn’t rate high on his list of ways to pass the wee hours of the morning.
On second thought, he had to concede that their temperaments wouldn’t improve if he left them sitting on his porch all night. Forcing himself to disguise his irritation, Jack opened the door.
“We’re sorry to bother you this time of night,” the shorter man said. He pulled identification from inside his suit jacket and flipped it open. Ken Kemper. CIA. The second man, Barry Moser, showed his identification as well.
Unimpressed, Jack folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. And waited. “What do you want with me?”
“We need to ask you a few questions.”
“Now?” Jack asked. He pointedly looked at his watch, stating silently that he had better things to do with his time. After all, he had company. Nick at Night was waiting for him.
“We can do it here, or we can take you downtown,” Barry suggested, his voice monotone, making it sound as if it made no difference to him. “The choice is yours.”
The fact that Jack had supposedly been given a choice when he had none didn’t escape him. Sighing loudly, he made a sweeping gesture toward the living room. “Make yourselves at home, gentlemen,” he said.
The two agents walked across the room and then like robots simultaneously sat on the sofa.
Jack reluctantly reached for the controller and turned off the television.
“I understand you’re a friend of a man who goes by the name of Murphy.”
Jack rubbed his jaw and played dumb. “Murphy?”
“Let’s skip the bullshit,” Kemper said impatiently. “We know all about you and Murphy and Deliverance Company.”
“We’re not here about covert activities,” Moser added.
Jack just bet. “Then what do you want?”
“Where’s Murphy?”
“I don’t know,” Jack told them, which was true enough. The last time he’d heard anything at all had been that phone message, in which he’d learned that Murphy was headed toward Zarcero with the Madden woman. He hadn’t seemed any too pleased about it, either.
“You don’t know where Murphy is?” Ken Pompous asked a second time.
“Did you check Boothill, Texas?” Jack asked.
“He’s missing,” Moser, the one with the tighter of the two asses, replied. “By sheer coincidence, so is Letty Madden.”
“Letty who?” Jack asked, continuing to play dumb. At this point it wasn’t difficult. He was getting slow in his old age, and careless. Stupid mistakes. He’d learned the hard way that mistakes cost lives. It was apparent the two men had been sitting outside his condominium waiting for his return. And he hadn’t noticed.
“Letty Madden,” Barry repeated. “She’s Boothill’s postmistress.”
“Never heard of her.”
The two men exchanged knowing looks, but they didn’t challenge him.
“Don’t you find it the least bit curious that these two people both disappeared at the same time?”
Jack didn’t respond for several tense moments. “D
o you think Murphy kidnapped her? If that’s the case, shouldn’t the FBI be handling the case?”
Both men ignored his suggestion. “Have you ever heard of Zarcero?” Ken asked next.
Jack pretended to roll the name around in his mind. Then, like a schoolboy who’d done his homework, he replied, “It’s the country in Central America that’s going through all that political upheaval, isn’t it?”
“Letty’s brother, Luke Madden, served as a missionary in Zarcero.”
Both men appeared to wait for some kind of reaction to this. Jack gave them none.
“From what we’ve been able to learn, Ms. Madden is determined to locate her brother. Determined enough to ignore the advice of her country and go after her brother herself.”
“Is that a crime?”
“It depends on what she does about it.”
Jack stifled a yawn, swallowing it loudly, and hoped the two took the hint. They weren’t going to get any information from him. Even if he had some to offer, he wouldn’t share confidences with the likes of them.
“What’s all this got to do with Murphy?” he asked, pretending to find their conversation taxing.
Neither agent seemed particularly interested in answering him. Apparently they preferred to be the ones asking questions.
“We believe Ms. Madden may have hired your friend to help her locate her brother.”
“Really?” Jack arched his eyebrows as if to suggest this was news to him. “Do you really think a postmistress could afford Deliverance Company’s services?”
“Not Deliverance Company,” Kemper, the shorter one, informed him primly. “We believe she hired Murphy.”
“Why would she do something like that when all she need do is contact the helpful people employed by the State Department? Surely the State Department would be able to assist a worried post-mistress hoping to locate her long-lost brother. All you people need do is apply a few sanctions and a little diplomatic leverage, and Luke Madden will be coming home singing the praises of a democracy. Hallelujah, brothers,” he sang, raising his arms above his head and waving his hands.
Neither man appeared to find his antics amusing. “Have you ever heard of Siguierres?” Kemper asked, scooting forward on the cushion, narrowing the distance between them.
“Siguierres,” Jack repeated, and shook his head in complete honesty.
“We’ve received word of an explosion.”
“A fuel storage tank,” the second agent supplied.
“The work is suspiciously like that of your friend Murphy.”
“Is that right?” Jack swallowed a grin and lazily leaned against the chair’s cushion. He cupped the back of his head, his elbows fanning out on each side of his face.
“We don’t know if your buddy’s in contact with you or not,” Ken said stiffly, and stood. Barry followed. “But if you are, we have a bit of information for him.”
“What makes you think Murphy would contact me?”
“Birds of a feather, perhaps,” the taller agent suggested.
“For all I know, Murphy could be sport-fishing in the Gulf of Mexico.” Jack shrugged as if to say his friend’s whereabouts remained a mystery to him.
“If you do hear from Murphy, tell him he’s in over his head this time.”
“Just a minute,” Jack said, and leaped out of the chair. He rushed to a side table, where he withdrew a pad and a pen. “What was that again? I want to make sure I got it right. Far be it from me to miscommunicate this important missive. In over his head? Is that what you wanted me to tell him? Anything else, fellows?”
Both men glared at him and then wordlessly walked out of the apartment.
Jack followed and closed the door, struggling not to laugh outright. It certainly sounded as if his pal were up to his old tricks. Briefly Jack wondered what kind of mess Murphy had gotten himself into. From the sound of it, he was taking care of matters nicely.
19
“Don’t move,” Murphy instructed Letty in an urgent whisper. He crouched behind the jeep himself. “Don’t even breathe.”
She nodded as her muscles tightened warily. Her heart was lodged in her throat. Even the birds in the trees seemed to have quieted. The stillness that fell over the area took on an eerie quality.
Murphy reached for his weapon and carefully took aim.
Hunkered down against the four-wheel drive, Letty tried to think clearly. Her senses fine-tuned, she heard every noise as if it were announced over a public broadcasting system. A scarlet macaw flew from one tree to the next, its brilliantly colored wings flapping against a backdrop of blue sky and lush green jungle. Birds called, their cries loud and discordant in the sudden silence. Thick green leaves wavered and weaved in the breeze, stirring the fresh morning air. The day was indescribably beautiful. And deadly. The sounds fit together like intricate puzzle pieces, creating a graphic picture in her mind. Except for one distinct sound: hushed voices.
Letty froze with fear. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t make a sound. Murphy was poised beside her. He’d heard the same thing she had and leveled his pistol in that direction. She studied him and knew that he was calculating their chances of escaping, weighing their alternatives. It was either flight or fight.
If they were caught, Letty was well aware of what would happen to her. She’d received a foretaste of that the night before. Although her mind was hazy with fear, she had the presence of mind to murmur a silent prayer. If she was to die, she preferred to go quickly. She wasn’t afraid of death as much as the process of dying.
The flicker of hope that they might escape faded as she studied their situation. They were trapped by the lake and had nowhere to go. Each soldier, and there was no telling how many there were, would be heavily armed. Murphy would hold them off as long as he could, but there was only so much one man could do. She was useless to him and, consequently, herself.
Her throat went dry, making it impossible to swallow. She thought about Luke and her father. Grammy. Surprisingly her mind was sharp, clear, alert.
All at once a muffled sob broke the tense silence. Like that of a small child. One terrified and lost.
“Murphy,” she whispered, making a clumsy effort to dress. Somehow she managed to slip the dress over her head and insert her arms into the short sleeves. “It’s a child.”
“I heard.” But he kept his gun poised and ready. “Come out,” he shouted in Spanish.
Letty rolled her eyes. The poor thing was terrified. Murphy’s gruff voice wasn’t going to encourage anyone into the open.
“We mean you no harm,” she added on a gentler tone, again in Spanish. “You’re safe.”
No sooner had she spoken than a bronze-skinned girl of about twelve appeared, a baby propped against her hip. She walked into the clearing, barefoot, her dress in rags. Her large brown eyes sought out Letty, her look empty, weary, afraid.
“Sweet Jesus,” Murphy whispered when four other children, who looked to be between the ages of five and ten, stood, revealing themselves one by one.
They were terrified, Letty noted, trembling, shaking, huddling together, uncertain of what awaited them.
Murphy barked a number of questions, but they appeared to be too frightened to answer.
Letty moved from behind the jeep while Murphy supped into his pants and followed.
“Where are your parents?” Letty gently asked the oldest girl.
The youngest boy, who was about five, started to sob, and the girl who held the baby placed a protective hand on his shoulder. “We don’t know.”
“What are your names?” Murphy demanded.
Letty glowered at him. The children were frightened enough without him shouting orders at them. The oldest, the girl, introduced herself as Maria and her brothers as Vincente, Esteban, Rico, Dario, and the baby, Pablo.
“The soldiers came,” Vincente explained, his dark eyes bright with weary defiance. “Early in the morning, they stormed into our village. Our mother woke us and helped us escape out th
e window…. She told us to run and hide in the jungle, and we did.”
“Then we heard the guns.”
“After the soldiers left,” Maria whispered, her eyes glazed over with the horror of what had happened, “we returned and everyone in the village was gone.”
“All the houses were empty.”
“Except for Carlos and Juan and Ernesto. They were dead.” Vincente, who was no more than eleven, stiffened his shoulders as if to say had he been there he would have helped save the men. What struck Letty was the way in which the youth mentioned the three dead men. He made it sound as if soldiers routinely plundered the village, as if the happenings were an everyday occurrence.
“We buried them as best we could,” Maria whispered, comforting her baby brother by bouncing him gently on her hip.
“Everyone was gone?” Letty repeated. “Where would the soldiers possibly take them?” She looked to Murphy for answers. He’d been through this sort of thing countless times, unlike her. He’d know what to say and do. Expectantly, the children turned to him as well.
He shrugged as if he were as much in the dark about all this as they were. “Generally they’re only interested in the men.”
“For what reason?” Letty asked, before she realized he couldn’t possibly answer. Whatever the answer, it was sure to distress the youngsters.
“When did this happen?” Murphy asked, ignoring her inquisitiveness.
“Three days ago.”
“Three days,” Letty cried. No wonder the children looked so wretched. “You must be starving.” Without waiting for Murphy’s approval, she took the baby from the girl’s arms and cradled him against her side. “When was the last time the baby had anything to eat?”
At the mention of food the children gathered around her like small chicks fleeing a storm. Letty half expected Murphy to disapprove, but he didn’t. Nor did he complain when she dug through their own meager supplies.
The children ate like animals, stuffing the food into their mouths and tucking what they couldn’t manage just then inside their pockets. Letty’s heart ached as she watched them. She wished she had more to give them. When they’d finished, the six thanked her with wan, pitiful smiles.