Wolfsbane (43 page)

Please, Roark … hold on
.

The cutter pitched again, sloshing hot coffee over his hand. Canyon shook it out and gave up. He tossed the cup in the trash and climbed the almost vertical steel steps to the upper level. Stuffing his arms through the black jacket, he skirted the pilothouse and moved to the side of the ship where he could watch the waves tumble over one another, as if fighting to be the first to devour the cutter.

Sort of like him and Range fighting over Roark. His brother had worked miracles, convincing a buddy who owed him a favor to run them down to San Juan in his small plane, where Range’s longtime friend Lieutenant Browne allowed them to board the cutter, which was patrolling the coastline—coincidentally the same route that would take them toward Venezuelan waters. Which just so happened to be where Canyon would rendezvous with a Special Forces buddy who’d moved there with his wife. The guy would get Canyon and Range to Piñago, the city outside Bruzon’s estate and roughly twenty klicks from Caracas. A lot of steps that meant a lot could go wrong.

What’s new?

Churning waters rose and fell, crashing into the hull of the
Fallon
. Canyon gripped the rail. Salty spray misted his face. And with it, the choking sensation of hopelessness doused him. Everything had already gone wrong. What did he expect to find when he got there? Was Roark even alive still? It hit him then that Roark had been in these waters, clinging to a makeshift raft.

He shook his head, amazed once again at her incredible bravery.
No wonder I love her
.

His heart chugged.

Love? He didn’t know the first thing about love. Didn’t want to. Yeah, she’d declared her love for him, denied her love for his brother, and he’d taken her innocence, but love? Love … what was love?

“I am love.”

Canyon swallowed.

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

He’d give anything for her. His own life, if needed. Was that love?
No. He’d screwed it up. The one chance to do right and he’d failed. Roark deserved Range.
He
was a hero.

Yet … everything in Canyon surged and railed at the idea.

A swish startled him and jerked his attention to his right. Range stood in a USCG jacket, hands in the pockets. Feet apart, his brother seemed at home on the tumultuous waters.

“I’m impressed,” Range said.

Canyon eyed him but not for long. Too many accusations. Too many fights.

“Most people would puke up their guts on a day like this.” His gaze rose to the sky. “It’s going to get nasty.”

Small talk. Canyon wasn’t in the mood. His brother had forced him to relinquish all claim to Roark to save her life. The thought infuriated him.

“Browne pulled me into the pilothouse.”

Uh-oh.

“Before I got promoted, we were constantly picking illegals out of the water. They were fleeing the border wars between Colombia and Venezuela. There’s been an unusual show of force, skilled force, among the VFA.” Range sighed. “Anyway, with the area being in a lockdown due to border talks and an apparent attempt by some rogue group to insert into the area”—Range didn’t divert his attention from the waters but Canyon felt the implication—“Browne’s a bit nervous. It’d be a bad idea if one of those rogue warriors was on his boat.”

Canyon smirked at the doublespeak. “No kidding. Really bad idea.”

“That’s what Browne said.”

The smile in his brother’s voice brought Canyon’s gaze to him. Then to the pilothouse that had a 360-degree tinted window well that allowed the crew uninhibited views of the surrounding area.

“He also said you seem haunted. I tried to tell him it was just the telltale green hue of the broken nose someone gave you, but he didn’t agree.”

Canyon pushed his gaze back to the water.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Besides the fact I was doped out of my mind and made love to Roark?
“I told you everything I know: Roark was taken captive and is with Bruzon again.” All at the hands of a man he’d trained. What was Navas doing in the service of a dictator-seeking general like Bruzon? How had an American-trained SF guy ended up …

Canyon stilled.
Skilled
soldiers. As in American-trained soldiers?
Was this Tres Kruces all over again? American SF training the enemies of an enemy to change the political tide in U.S. favor? Slowly he straightened. He motioned toward his brother. The lockdown … the arms talks. Was there a list of who was attending that?

“Hey,” Canyon said, turning the idea over in his mind. “Is there a computer I can use?”

Range hesitated but nodded. “In the mess hall.”

Canyon smacked his brother’s shoulder as he hustled past him, through the hatch and back down the steep stairs into the main deck. At the terminal, he searched the Web for news on the border talks. As he scanned a CougarNews article, his breath hitched into this throat as one name stood out: Senator Michael Roark, D. MD.

Canyon whipped his phone from the holster, and his fingers froze over the keypad. It’d been years since he’d entered this number. The man could have him strung up. Or he could help. Canyon hit S
END
and pressed the phone to his ear.

“Authenticate.”

Leaning his shoulders toward the wall, he burrowed into the alcove, seeking anonymity aboard the cutter. “Mike Indigo Delta Alpha Sierra Golf Bravo One Sierra Foxtrot.”

“You no longer exist,” the voice intoned.

His jaw tightened. “It makes disappearing easier.”

“I like talking to ghosts.” A chuckle seeped through the line. “Pleasure or business?”

“Remember Tango Kilo?”

“Of course.”

“I think we have a repeat.”

“A lot of innocent people could die if that’s true. But how is that my problem?”

Canyon glanced around, relieved to see the empty mess hall. “There is a common name between the two: Senator Michael Roark.”

“Mm, tasty. Quite a favorite among the GOP at the moment.” The operative was hedging, indirectly saying this would be very touchy and cause an uproar.

“The VFA have suddenly swung the tide in their favor. Just like Tango Kilo. Someone gave me bad intel four years ago, nearly a hundred people died, and I took the blame while two men walked away guilt free. I won’t stand idly by while they nuke some poor country.”

“Sorry, Midas. No-go. It’s too touchy. I need to protect myself and my assets.”

“No. Listen—”

Click
.

Furious, Canyon banged the phone back into its cradle. “Am I cursed?” he shouted.

CHAPTER 28

I
cy, sharp fingers of the cold atmosphere ripped at his body as the ground rushed up at him. Overhead, the cargo plane that Canyon had jumped from continued on its journey to the capital city with nobody the wiser to its secret deployment. He pulled the cords and the chute deployed. Within minutes, he landed hard and rolled.

He launched to his feet, wincing at the oh-so-familiar streak of pain in his spine. Chopping the cords and nylon chute he balled it up, his feet dragging against the strong winds. White flapped against the expanse of green.
Might as well be a freakin’ strobe light!

Panic hammered through his pulse, spiking his adrenaline. “Range, help me with the chute!” He battled the chute, which seemed to have a mind of its own. A few more pulls and he should have it collapsed.

A low moan nearby snatched his attention. Canyon glanced over his shoulder as he wrapped up the lifesaving nylon. Range lay facing away. Another moan.

Chute secured, he jogged over to his brother. “Hey, we need to get into—”

Face contorted, Range rolled to the side, hands extended toward his leg—the leg that sat an unnatural angle.

Crap!
Canyon dropped the chute and slumped to a knee. “Lie still.” Carefully he probed the injury.

Range howled. “I can’t … move my foot.” He cursed and sputtered. “It’s killing me.”

Smooth move, Ex-Lax
. Go rogue. Steal into enemy territory with a brother
not
trained in spec ops. Jump out of a cargo plane. And land, blowing Range’s leg.

Canyon bit against the condemnation as he tried to stabilize the
leg, his brother hurling curses like he’d never heard. “I promise I won’t tell Mom I heard that.”

Behind them came trouble—a vehicle. Joints squeaked and popped, the engine roaring as it apparently went airborne. When he checked his six, he spotted a Jeep bounding over the hills and disappearing in the small valleys as it raced closer.

“We have to move.” Canyon stuffed the chute into Range’s arms. “Hold that.”

Range stiffened. “Is this going to hurt?”

“Like hell.” Canyon hooked him into a fireman’s carry and rushed to the trees. After a few diversionary turns and switchbacks, he settled his brother against a tree.

“You need … to get … away,” Range ground out, his face a puddle of tears and sweat. He jerked to the side and retched, waving Canyon off. “Go. I shouldn’t have come. It was my jealousy, me wanting to control—”

“Shut up.” Canyon bent and dug into his pack, his hearing on the twang of a dirt bike, his medical training on the twisted leg. He withdrew an inflatable splint and slipped it over the leg.

Arching from the tree, Range grunted. Then slumped back with a long hiss.

Canyon gave him two tablets. “Ibuprofen.” He stowed his gear.

“I’m telling you, man—” His complexion paled.

A scent sailed on the wind.

Canyon clamped a hand over Range’s mouth. Shoulders hunched and head cocked to the side gave him the perfect angle to hear the goings-on behind them.

Grease. Oil. Gasoline.

Amazing how those smells reeked in the luxury of a freshly washed jungle.

Silent terror screeched through Range’s face, tugging at Canyon’s heart. Hitting the tree, he cursed himself. Everything he’d done in the last few weeks had screwed up. By trekking out on his own, he’d really screwed things up. Almost got his brother killed jumping. What else could go wrong?

Snap!

Canyon whirled, coming straight up, drawing his weapon around in front of him.

A fist flew at him. Canyon ducked—but not soon enough. Knuckles grazed his cheek. His head whipped back, the foliage blurring. Though
he staggered, Canyon seized his attacker.

“Navas!” The man who’d betrayed him. Tortured him. Using those memories fueled his fight, drove his fist at the guy.

“You never learned when to give up,” Navas growled and dove at Canyon’s gut.

Air seemed to levitate him, nudging him back several feet. Pain darted through his neck and back. A weight pressed in against his throat as Navas pinned him against a tree.

Canyon swung a left.

The hit connected. Drove Navas back.

Another right. Left.

Range
. The thought pulled Canyon’s attention to his brother. Propped against the trunk, head lobbed to one side, he looked unconscious. Dead.

No.

Thud!
Something hit him in the head. Sent him spinning. He flipped over. Navas dropped on top of him.

Forearm constricting Canyon’s windpipe, Navas stuffed a gun in under his chin. “Who’s teaching who now? Really, Midas—dropping in on a white chute? Why not bring a spotlight?”

Whom
. Canyon wished he could say it, rattle the guy. But the bulging pressure from the O
₂
deprivation left him weak. Hands cupped against the guy’s arm, he pushed.

“Know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” Dark wild eyes glowed down on him.

Suffocating beneath the man’s grip, Canyon thrashed, trying to kick him in the back. Trying to get his legs wrapped around him.

His temples pounded. A strange wheeze escaped his lungs.

Navas jammed the muzzle harder against the soft spot. “Thought you were smarter. You had your chance to escape but you come back. Brought your general. That sweet thing worth your life?”

Canyon rammed his fist into the guy’s kidneys.

A strained groan accompanied a shift in Navas’s weight. Enough for Canyon to haul in a breath.

Red-faced and neck bulging, Navas returned. Angrier. He rammed his forearm against Canyon’s throat, once again cutting off his oxygen. “You piece—you know what I’m going to do to you and that white-haired fool?” Small talk left behind, he rammed a fist into Canyon’s head.

Agony and confusion wrapped Canyon in a tight vise. General?
White haired? Slowly, he pushed onto all fours, waiting, expecting the guy to pummel him again. As he stood, Canyon knew he was being baited.

“My team will get to Isla de Margarita and silence that warmonger once and for all.” He drove a fist into Canyon’s face.

Blood spurted. Slid back down Canyon’s nasal passage … air cut off by the blood gushing out. No air.

Navas sneered. “See? You taught me well, Midas. There won’t be any more mistakes this time. My men will take care of the old man while Bruzon takes his pleasure with Danielle.” The way he dragged out her name, a sick, haunting whisper …

Canyon clawed at Navas’s face. Slapped. Hit. Punched. Wanted to curse him. But even his ears hurt now. The edges of his vision ghosted as Canyon struggled to breathe.