Danger Zone (2 page)

“Is he dead?” she whispered.

Her companion looked down at the guerrilla, insensible on the floor.

“Nah,” he said dismissively. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll have a shiner and a headache tomorrow, that’s all. In a few months he’ll be showing his scar to the girls and telling them what a glorious hero of the revolution he is.”

He took off again, pulling Karen in his wake. They fled up a flight of stairs and into an outer room with a view of the street.

“Who do you work for?” Karen asked as he left her to go to the window. He flattened himself against the wall next to it.

“I work for me,” he replied, ducking forward and taking a quick look at the road. He glanced back at her and gestured to the hall they’d just left. “Where does that corridor lead?” he asked.

“To the staircase running down to the main lobby.” The Government House was a converted mansion from the British settlement period and featured the central staircase common to many of those homes.

She watched as he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket and studied it. She could see that it was a floor plan of the building. His profile was very clean, very sharp, as he bent over the blueprint; he looked like a seasoned professional athlete studying a game plan rather than the soldier he obviously was.

“Good,” he said, replacing the map in his pocket. He looked at her again and said, “You’re an American?”

“Yes.”

“So am I,” he offered unnecessarily, pushing the curtain back from the window with the saber point of his rifle and taking another look at the street. The sun had set and dusk was spreading over the landscape. “Where you from?”

“New Jersey.”

“Oh, yeah? I’m from Florida myself but I know Jersey. I spent the night in jail once near Newark—you know that part of the state?”

Karen stared at him. Were they really having this singles’ bar conversation while the Government House was under siege? And why had he abducted her away from the other women?

The second question was answered as he said, “As soon as I see the trucks coming to pick you up, I want you to go back downstairs. You herd those other women out to the emergency exit by the kitchen loading dock and get them ready to go. I’ll meet you there after I make sure these floors are clear. Got it?”

“I think so,” Karen replied faintly. “We’re being rescued?”

“That’s the idea.” He peered at her closely, wondering if he had misjudged her mettle. “I need you to help me, now,” he said warningly. “Can I count on you to do that?”

Karen nodded briskly, with more certainty than she felt.

“What’s your name?” he fired at her, taking another covert glance at the street. A shot from below glanced off the window frame with an eerie, whistling sound, and a scattering of wood chips spattered against the glass pane.

“I knew we hadn’t taken them all out down there,” he muttered to himself, falling back against the wall.

“Karen Walsh,” Karen said, swallowing hard.

“Steve Colter. Pleased to meet you,” he replied, with another wicked grin. Now that the initial shock of their meeting was receding, Karen could acknowledge to herself that he was very attractive. He had a disturbing physical presence, and a disarming manner that made itself felt even under these less than favorable circumstances.

“Mr. Colter, uh, what’s going on?” she asked him. “Why are you here?”

“The Brits hired me to get you people out. We’re taking you to their embassy in Caracas.”

“Venezuela?”

He winked. “You know another one?”

“But why?”

“Closest British embassy around here.”

“No, why are
you
doing this?”

He checked the magazine on his weapon, releasing the cartridge and then reloading it with a sharp metallic sound. “For money, honey.”

“Oh, you’re a mercenary.”

“That’s me,” he said, leaning forward and raising his head to peer into the distance, “a summer soldier. I go anywhere the weather’s warm and the pay is good.” He straightened suddenly, alerted by some action in the courtyard and said urgently, “The trucks are here. You know what to do. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Karen said breathlessly.

“Good girl. Go, now. Run!”

Karen dashed back to the cellar supply room and ushered her band of ex-prisoners to the appointed spot.

“Where are we going?” Linda asked Karen as they hurried through the labyrinth of passageways that led to the loading dock. All ten of the women had followed Karen’s direction without objection, her bravery in speaking up to Colter apparently having convinced them that she should be in charge.

“To the loading dock,” Karen replied. “Colter is going to meet us there.”

“Is that his name, Colter?”

^“
Yes. He’s an American.”

“I gathered that,” Linda said crisply. She was British and her father was a government official. “Is that Yank supposed to be rescuing us?”

“Yes, he has some other men with him too.”

“Well, I must say,” Linda observed breathlessly as they rounded a corner, “he seems perfectly capable of doing it by himself. And as for me, I’d follow him anywhere, into or out of a civil war.”

This was such an unexpected statement for Linda to make under the circumstances that Karen stopped short, causing the other woman to crash into her.

“What do you mean?”

Linda made a face. “Don’t be dense. Surely you noticed that the man is gorgeous.”

“I did, but at first I was a little more concerned about what side he was on.”

Their conversation came to an end as they approached the dock, a large flat area like an airplane hangar with a huge roll-up garage door at the back. Supplies and deliveries were received at this point, and Colter evidently planned on taking them out of the building through the spacious rear exit.

They were joined shortly by the men, who looked as if they had not fared quite as well as their female counterparts. Some were cut and bruised, as if they had been physically abused, and one of the security guards was supporting his bandaged arm. Karen and Linda exchanged glances. They didn’t want to think what might have happened if Colter and his men hadn’t shown up when they did. And it was far from over; they still had to get away.

During the next minute or so, Colter’s eight men assembled at the loading dock from all parts of the building. They were dressed in khakis, T-shirts, camouflage pants, denim vests—a motley assortment of clothing—but uniformly carried Israeli Uzi submachine guns, the most efficient assault weapon in their deadly business. They fell into line behind Colter as he appeared from Karen’s left and ran to the steel door. He held his gun down at his side, reducing the kick, and shot off the lock holding the door in place. Then after slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he threw up the door to reveal a trio of military transports waiting for them to board.

Everything seemed to be moving at the speed of light. The hostages ran to the trucks as Colter and two other men directed them, separating them into three groups for boarding purposes. Colter stretched out his arm and caught Karen as she ran past him.

“You’re going with me,” he said. “Get into the third truck.”

Karen obeyed, looking back at Linda who was heading for the first one. There was no time to object, Karen realized as she ducked under the canvas flap and took her place on one of the side benches. She didn’t mind anyway; Colter’s confidence was contagious. Already she felt safe with him.

An armed man rode with the driver in each transport, and the two other mercenaries jumped into an accompanying jeep. Colter vaulted into Karen’s truck at the last possible second, grabbing a hand pull just inside the back flap. The little caravan careened wildly down the access lane and into the street.

Everything had been done in the space of a minute with the efficiency of long practice. The band of hired soldiers probably did this sort of thing all the time. But Karen didn’t. She found that her hands were trembling so badly she had to clasp them between her knees to keep them still.

“Got the shakes?” Colter asked, looking down at her.

Karen nodded, ashamed that he’d noticed.

“Don’t worry, it’ll pass,” he said, with more sympathy in his tone than she would have expected. He wasn’t inured to the physical effects of fear, then. Perhaps he had even felt them himself. But then she looked at the set of his broad shoulders as he stared out the back of the truck, the way he held his weapon as if it were an extension of his body, and she doubted it.

Suddenly he began to curse under his breath. He levered his gun into his hands and yelled, “Hit the deck, everybody. We’ve got company.”

Karen flung herself to the floor, crossing her arms over her head. The moving truck was rocked by a series of explosions. Colter knelt and, steadying his weapon on his upraised knee, fired several rounds from his position at the rear. Karen could hear what sounded like little bombs going off around them; someone was lobbing grenades at the transport. The noise was deafening and the smell of cordite choking, overpowering.

Through it all the driver roared on and even seemed to pick up speed, taking the turns through the narrow downtown streets at breakneck pace. Karen could only assume that reinforcements had arrived and the rebels were making a final effort to recover their fleeing hostages.

A charge went off right behind them. Colter turned and threw himself down, seizing Karen and sheltering her under him. She was conscious of a second flash of light, followed by a thunderous detonation, but was more aware of the man who lay on top of her, pinning her to the metal floor of the transport with his body. He was heavy, but not uncomfortably so. Once again Karen felt protected, even though she knew that anything hitting him would probably injure her as well. Her face was crushed against his chest and she inhaled the clean male smell of him, detectable through the odors of sweat on his skin and the starch in his shirt. She could feel his heart beating under her ear, and its deep, steady thud was comforting. She noticed that it was not racing, as hers was. She wondered what it would take to get it pumping wildly. World War III, maybe. Or the right woman. Then all at once she was ashamed of herself for having frivolous thoughts at such a time and she closed her eyes, willing them to stop.

The firing from outside fell off dramatically and Colter sat up. Karen scurried away from him as soon as he released her and huddled against the curved wall of the truck.

He leaned forward, concerned, and put a large hand on her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Karen nodded mutely, more shaken by his recent closeness than the rebel attack.

“You sure? You jumped up like you were on fire.”

Karen looked away, disturbed by the unintentional accuracy of his analogy. She wondered wildly if the confinement in the cellar, followed by the theatrical rescue, was unseating her reason. She had been fantasizing about a man whose only thought was to save her life. He would have done the same for anyone else on the truck and she knew it.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, and he stood, satisfied. He made his way back to the door and then looked around at the rest of his passengers. Some were mute with shock, others weeping openly. He alone seemed unaffected; it was another day’s work to him.

Karen waited for the onslaught to resume, but nothing happened and the truck plummeted on toward its destination. She hoped the worst was over.

Colter crooked his finger at Karen and she rose unsteadily. When she reached him he put his arm up behind her, sheltering them from view, and spoke to her in a low tone.

“Do you have any psychological training?” he asked. His eyes, the color of Karen’s aquamarine birthstone, searched her face.

“I, uh, no,” Karen replied, thinking it an odd question for him to ask.

He nodded resignedly. “It was just a hunch. I thought you might, from the way you took charge back at the Government House. These people are pretty shaken up and we’re going to have to hold them together until I can get them where they’re supposed to go.”

She liked the way he spoke of it as a cooperative effort. “I’ll do what I can,” she said.

She grabbed for a handhold as the truck hit a pothole and pitched her forward. Colter put an arm around her and steadied her against his side. She had an overwhelming temptation to relax into his embrace, let him take care of everything. But she had promised to help him and this wasn’t the way to go about it. She straightened and eyed him alertly.

“The situation isn’t good,” he said shortly. “I saw one of the jeeps get hit, and I think we’ve got some injured people in another truck. We’re taking you to a ship waiting in the Ascension harbor. It’s supposed to be outfitted with trained staff and medical supplies, but it will be an overnight trip to Caracas. We’ve got to keep the injured, and anybody who’s on the verge of losing it mentally, going long enough to get them to a hospital there.”

“Can’t we leave them at the hospital here?” Karen asked. “Surely the Almerian authorities will cooperate; the rebels were acting on their own.” She glanced over her shoulder at the rest of the passengers; some of them were taking an interest in her conversation, clearly wondering what she was saying to the mercenary.

Colter shook his head. “The government here is too unstable, and the rebels are everywhere. We have to sneak you out on a tuna boat because the locals didn’t want to risk an international incident at their airport. I can’t vouch for the safety of any of these people if we leave them in Almeria. I’m being paid to get them to Venezuela, and that’s what I’m going to do. Now are you with me?”

“Of course,” Karen whispered, her dark eyes locked with his pale ones.

He curled his right hand into a fist and tapped her on the chin with it.

“Good girl,” he said again, and she wondered why such a casual salutation from an obviously distracted man should mean so much to her.

The truck bumped to a stop, and Colter jumped down from its open back while it was still moving. Karen was the first of the hostages to get out; he reached up and put his hands on either side of her waist, lifting her to the ground.