Eye of the Storm (26 page)

"Who the hell are you?" Her tone was cool, bordering on icy, her eyes narrowed as she studied the man.

He was clearly of Latin origin, and prepared for battle. A second gun peeked out between his back and his jacket.

"He's got another gun," Reece warned.

"Throw it over here." Simone's gaze never wavered. "Now."

The man hesitated a moment, eyed both of their guns and then with a look of pure hatred, threw the gun at Reece's feet. He bent and picked it up, careful to keep his own weapon trained on the killer.

"I'll ask again," Simone said. "Who are you?"

"Your enemy," the man swore, his English heavily accented.

"Look, we can do this the easy way or I can make it a hell of a lot harder, but either way you're going to tell me what I want to know." Simone lowered her gun, pointing at the man's knee.

"I'll take the hard way," the man said, his tone taunting.

Simone squeezed off a round. The man screamed and then fell back clutching his leg, his enmity now a palpable thing. "Tell me who you are," she said again, pointing at the other knee.

Reece's gut roiled as he stared at Simone, and then he remembered Marguerite.

"My name is Carlos Ramirez. I think you knew my father." If hatred could kill, Simone would be past tense.

Reece had seen a lot of loathing in his day, but this was beyond anything he'd experienced. The man's face literally contorted with fury.

Simone opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say anything, there was a noise in the hallway. Simone jerked in response, and Carlos, seeing the opportunity, dove for the gun on the floor.

Reece aimed but before he could fire, another shot emanated from the hallway, the bullet's impact knocking Carlos back to the floor. Tate stepped into the room. "Miss me?"

Simone swung on him, her eyes shooting sparks. "What the hell did you do that for? Now he's useless to us."

"He was going to kill you."

"Only if he got to his gun. Which meant he had to get past me. And believe me, that wasn't going to happen."

"All right," Tate said, holding up his hands. "Next time I'll let you get shot."

Ignoring their bickering, Reece crossed to where Carlos had fallen, one hand thrown across Marguerite's leg. Somehow, his touching her seemed profane, and so Reece bent over to move the offending limb. As he lifted the arm, Carlos's fingers closed around his, the man's fading eyes flickering open.

"Cruci..." he whispered. And Reece leaned closer, trying to understand the words. The man let go of his wrist, reaching for something around his neck. Reece lifted his gun, but all Carlos did was rip something from his neck and then hold out his hand. "For Isabella..." he whispered, trying to say something more, but before he could speak again, he exhaled, his body going slack.

Reece reached over to pick up the object in Carlos's now-lax hand. The tiny gold crucifix glittered against his palm.

"He dead?" Tate asked, pushing the man's leg with the pointed toe of his boot.

"Very," Reese said, dropping the cross into his pocket.

"Everyone okay?" Martin said, rushing into the room. "I saw it all on the monitor. You were awesome." His words seemed to be meant for everyone, but Reece didn't feel particularly awesome. It had been Tate who'd managed to stop the threat. And the idea of it didn't sit well at all.

Still, everyone was safe. At least for the moment.

"We've got to get out of here." Tate was walking around the kitchen, wiping things off and rearranging this and that.

"What are you doing?" Reece frowned.

"Sanitizing." Simone said, coming to stand beside him. "We don't have time to explain things, and so it's best if we clear out any evidence of our ever having been here. When someone discovers the bodies, they'll think they took each other out."

"We're just going to leave Marguerite here?" Martin's voice echoed Reece's bewilderment.

"We have to." Tate's voice brooked no argument, but Reece didn't give a damn.

"But it's over. Surely now we can come forward and explain everything."

"It's not over by a long shot. Carlos wasn't in this by himself," Tate said. "You heard him say Isabella's name."

"Yes, but it was just a dying man's last thoughts." Reece's hand closed around the crucifix.

"We can't be sure of that." Simone's hand on his arm was soothing. "Until we take this to the source, we'll never know for certain it's over."

"So we're going to South America." It was his turn to speak in absolutes.

"Like hell..." Tate started, but Simone cut him off.

"There's no way I'm leaving them here. Not now. We have no idea how many people Isabella has on our tails. It could just be Carlos, or there could be an army. And I'm not taking a chance with my family."

Reece nodded, his gaze meeting Simone's, not really sure if he'd won or lost, but delighted that she'd referred to them as a family. It was a start.

"So what made you come back?" he asked, reaching out to wipe a smear of dust from her cheek.

The corner of her mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. "I forgot to say goodbye."

"POR FAVOR, estimado Dios, no Carlos."

The cry echoed through the private courtyard then died, punctuated by the softly falling water of the fountain. Isabella dropped the phone, her empty hand clenching, her nails digging into her palm, drawing blood.

Not Carlos.

Please, no
.

But there was no denying the message.

Her brother was dead.

"Isabella. What is it? Is someone here?" Ramón ran into the courtyard, his gun drawn.

"No. There is no one here."

No one at all. She was alone. The gringos had taken everyone from her. Her mother, her father, Amon, and now Carlos. She was the last Ramirez.

"What is it, then?" Ramón holstered his weapon and knelt by her side, his warm hands kneading her cold ones.

She stared up at Ramón, not wanting to say the words, as if by speaking them, she was making them true, making them irreversible. But even as she had the thought, she knew how ridiculous it was. Carlos was gone—semantics wouldn't change the fact.

She lifted her face to her father's friend, not bothering to hide her tears. "Carlos is dead. He was ambushed in Virginia."

"How can you know that?"

"I had a phone call. A man I know in the States. One of the men who moves our product. He heard of it, and thought I should know. The killer was CIA."

"This source of yours, he is certain?" Ramón rocked back on his heels, his expression skeptical.

"Positive. He says there is intelligence to back it up. A woman was found at the house. She's a confirmed operative."

"This woman, she's alive?"

Isabella shook her head. "No. They killed each other. At least that is what the CIA believes. But my source believes there were others involved."

"He has proof of this?" Ramón frowned.

"No hard evidence, but he says that there are others who claim the woman was used as a cover-up. A way to hide the identity of the real killer."

"Any idea who it might be?" He released her hands, moving over by the fountain.

"I believe it is the person who killed my father."

"So Carlos found the truth." It was a statement, not a question.

"I don't know." Isabella shook her head, even in her grief working to find the right way to spin the truth.

"Perhaps as painful as it is, this is all for the best." Ramón turned to face her, his expression impassive.

Isabella jerked to her feet, the phone falling from her lap to clatter against the tile floor. "How can you say such a thing?"

"You know I would never wish you pain. But your brother, he was dangerous. Always thinking with his heart and not his head. His actions threatened us all."

"He was my father's son. And as such he deserves your respect." She drew herself up to her full height, anger momentarily overcoming her grief.

"
You
are your father's daughter, Isabella. You carry his legacy. And you know as well as I do that your father would never have tolerated the man your brother had become."

"If my father had not been murdered, perhaps Carlos would have been free to grow into a better man. Everything, it seems, comes back to that day in Sangre de Cristo." She reached down to pick one of the orchids trailing along the edge of the fountain.

"Despite the fact that you have had no contact with your brother—" Ramón paused as if waiting for her to contradict him.

She waited, careful to keep her thoughts from her face.

"Even though you had nothing to do with what happened in America," he continued finally, "I think we have to consider the possibility that it will be assumed that you were in on his plans. You were in America. And apparently that meeting was not as private as you had thought. Coupled with the events in Managua, it seems quite plausible to conclude that you were working with Carlos."

"Let them think what they want. What do I care?"

"You know as well as I do that we cannot withstand that kind of scrutiny. Since your father died, we have managed to create a lucrative business with the drug trade."

"But it is only a means to an end, no? We transport cocaine in an effort to raise money to support my father's cause. For the betterment of our people."

"You are living a dream, Isabella. This is a war we can never win."

"Not as long as the Americans continue to side with the government."

"The Americans will always side with the winners." He spat into the fountain in disgust. "They want only what makes their country stronger."

"All the more reason we should fight to drive them from our country."

"I applaud your idealism, Isabella. But me, I am a practical man. And the cocaine, it makes us rich."

"Money isn't everything, Ramón."

"No, but it is a good start." He shrugged, tossing a small pebble into the fountain. "And you'd do well to remember that none of this—" he waved a hand around the luxurious courtyard "—would be possible without it."

"You have turned into a cynic, my friend."

"No." He shook his head. "A realist. And as such, I think we need to consider increasing security even more."

"But I feel already as if I am living in a gilded cage."

"It is the price of power." He shrugged. "And I think it is wise. I do not fear Ortega's people, but the CIA is another matter entirely."

"No." She clenched her fist, thinking of the Americans responsible for the destruction of her family. Let them come. They would find that she was a far more dangerous adversary than her brother had been. "If we noticeably fortify we will invite the very attention you fear. Put our people on alert. And maintain the extra patrols. But beyond that, do nothing."

"I still think..."

"I am in charge here. Do not forget that." She opened her hand, her heart shriveling like the ruined orchid petals in her palm. She would wait. And if they did not come— then she would become the hunter.

One way or another the Americans would pay.

*****

"HOW MUCH LONGER?" Reece asked no one in particular. Martin and Tate were immediately in front of him. Simone directly behind him. Tate's man, Derek, was leading the way. Derek was CIA, working undercover in Honduras. He'd been in place long enough to be familiar with the terrain, and it was his job to get them safely across the border to a safe house near
El Ojo de la Tormenta
.

"Maybe an hour more." Tate called over his shoulder.

The cloud-forests of Nicaragua were named because high in the Isabella Mountains heavy moisture combined with the mountain air to cover the peaks with mist and wisps of cloud. It made for an eerie beauty heightened by the majesty of the towering oaks and pines. Ferns littered the forest floor, a carpet of green decorated with a delicate lace of wild orchids.

They'd been walking already for almost half a day. The only signs of life, the birds in the trees, and the occasional sound of an animal rustling in the undergrowth. The cargo plane they'd caught in Virginia had dropped them near Danli in Honduras, just miles from the border into Nicaragua.

Despite the fact that the civil war was long over, there was still unrest among the inhabitants of the mountains. Tourists avoided the place, leaving it to drug dealers and revolutionaries. The best Reece could tell, in actuality it had changed little from the powder keg that had led to the massacre at Sangre de Cristo.

Isabella Ramirez's stronghold was located in a small valley nestled among the foothills of Cerro Mogoton, one of the tallest peaks in the area. According to Tate's intel, the family compound masqueraded as a coffee plantation, but in reality, it was the center of the organization's drug- smuggling operations.

"You holding up okay?" Simone moved up beside him, adjusting the backpack she wore. Like Tate, she was dressed in camouflage pants and a mud-colored tank. Even considering the humidity and unforgiving terrain, she seemed right at home, the suburban housewife disappearing into someone almost unrecognizable.

"I'm fine." He studied her face as they walked.

And then she smiled, and suddenly he saw the woman he loved. It didn't matter what kind of clothes she wore, or even what kind of life she lived—or had lived. She was Simone. It was as simple as that. "You handled yourself really well back there."

His thoughts turned to Virginia and Marguerite. "I couldn't save her."

"I know. And she knew it, too, believe me. We all know that sooner or later in this business there's going to be a bullet with our name on it. It's just a part of the game. I know that sounds cold, but it's the only way you can deal with the fallout."

"But it doesn't make it hurt any less to lose people you love."

"No." She shook her head, swatting at a mosquito. "Nothing takes that kind of pain away. But you learn to push it down. To lock it away somewhere. I think it's like surgeons. Every day they take people's lives into their hands. And if they let the losses matter, if they let them alter their confidence in themselves, they'd never operate again. And that would be a loss for everyone. So they shut it all out, and in the process they shut out other emotion as well. I think the divorce rate among surgeons is one of the highest in the world."

"Except the CIA?" He'd meant it as a quip, a way to lighten the moment, but she took him seriously.

"We don't get divorced, because we don't get married. It's just not in the cards."

"But you did—to me." He couldn't help himself.

"Yes, but I thought D-9 was finished. That I was free. A foolish notion, it turns out. But I wanted it so badly."

"Wanted what, Simone?" He stepped over a fallen log, wondering what a therapist would think about them facing their problems while trekking through the Nicaraguan mountains. "Marriage? A relationship. What did you want?"

"I wanted you." She shrugged. "And I didn't stop to think about what the long-term repercussions might be. I just reached out and took what you were offering."

They walked in silence for a moment, the sound of Martin's laughter filtering back from up the trail.

"I'm glad you did." And he found that he meant it. Really meant it.

"Even with all this?" She waved at the mountain framed by a canopy of trees.

"Yeah." He slowed, adjusting his backpack. "It's given me the chance to see you—to see us—in a different way. And I think maybe that's a good thing."

She nodded but didn't comment.

"I'm thinking we should stop here and rest," Tate called to them, before Reece had a chance to say anything more.

He fought a surge of irritation and then reminded himself that his marital problems weren't Tate's fault.

He'd made his own bed. The only question now being whether or not he'd be sleeping in it alone.

*****

SIMONE STOOD at the edge of the precipice, looking down at the jagged rock below. At the bottom of the ravine, she could see the silver ribbon of a creek winding its way through the trees.

Tate, Reece and Derek were studying the map Derek had brought, consulting a compass from time to time. Simone had no doubt that they were on target. Derek was too much of a professional for anything else to be true, but it was always better to double check. Make sure that everything was proceeding as expected.

The thought made her want to laugh. Nothing about her life was turning out as expected. Just a week ago, she'd been worrying about what to fix Martin for dinner and whether or not she should sign her divorce papers, and then with a single gunshot her entire reality had shifted, sending her plunging into a nightmare that should have been a journey she made on her own.

Yet here she was, standing on the side of a mountain, her husband and brother-in-law just behind her. She wondered suddenly if she'd been wrong to try and keep her past a secret. If maybe Reece could have accepted her, warts and all. There was no way to know. And maybe that was for the best.

Maybe Reece was right and they could build a new future. But to do that she had to come clean. She had to tell him everything. The idea appealed, but she still wasn't sure she was up to taking the risk. It was certainly ironic as hell that she was more afraid of emotional commitment than she was of walking into an armed compound of Nicaraguan guerrillas.

"You seem quiet. Worried about what's ahead of us?"

She'd been so lost in thought, she hadn't even noticed Martin coming to stand beside her. "A little. I'd be a fool if I wasn't concerned."

"But you've done this kind of thing before, right?" Martin sounded nervous. And she felt a wash of guilt for dragging him into this.

"Yeah. A lot of times." She said the words to comfort him, but she hadn't lied. She and Tate and the other members of D-9 had been in situations Martin couldn't even conceptualize. Assassination of prominent officials, bombings that were blamed on terrorists, insurgent operations to free dissidents the U.S. government openly chastised. Their job had been to clear the way for U.S. policy when normal channels of action simply wouldn't do.