Authors: L. J Charles
Next up, she’d phone Jayme. There was so much to say, and…she shivered. How would she ever tell him about Eamon? And ask about their relationship? Surely there was some reason he hadn’t mentioned that Eamon was his brother.
Kaimi left the air-conditioned luxury of Unimed with a still-damp cast, a bottle of unneeded pain medicine, and a warning to be more careful. An odd word, careful. Like she’d asked to be attacked. She sucked in a breath of evening air ripe with exhaust fumes and an underlying odor of stale garbage. It went with her mood, used and damaged.
She’d pushed herself on the trip downriver because she hadn’t wanted to be caught out after dark, but now relentless fatigue had settled into her muscles. Her right hand was still shaking from signing the hospital paperwork. It had been the first time she’d written her name as Xola Muerte, and the experience had been… disturbing. Not that she had a choice, since the signature had to match her identification. And she’d have to do it again when she registered at the hotel. Her entire being rebelled. She was Kaimi Maliu. Not Xola Muerte.
JAYME GRADY TURNED IN THE
paperwork for an emergency leave of absence, hit up a covert analyst who owed him a favor and got him to trace Eamon’s activity (which involved tracking him through several secure databases), and made flight reservations. He landed at the Eduardo Gomes International Airport less than four hours after Eamon, his brother having had the advantage of access to military transport. Fortunately, Eamon’s destination had to be officially noted since his assignment was a joint effort of the CIA, MI6, and G2, the military intelligence branch of the Irish Defense Forces. Clearly he was headed for the Amazon rainforest. And he was working with two women, Fion Connor and Xola Muerte. That gave Jayme three possible leads to follow.
Jayme was on Eamon’s trail within hours. A dark chuckle rose in his throat. Throughout their childhood, Jayme had never let on that he knew every damn time Eamon lied. Early on he’d discovered that Eamon created fabrications consistently and often, usually resulting in Jayme being grounded. Out of self-defense, Jayme had studied his brother until he’d spotted the tell: Eamon’s right index finger twitched when he was lying, and Jayme had used the knowledge to stay out of trouble. Not that it worked very often, since his brother had a hell of a devious streak, but this time the message was clear. Eamon knew exactly where Kaimi was, and he was following her. It was a sure bet that his brother would make short work of anything and anyone that tried to keep him from finding a cure for his multiple sclerosis.
Jayme’s friend in covert analysis gave him the latitude and longitude of a supposedly deserted CIA base camp deep in the jungle. Kaimi was a forensic anthropologist, so that fit. She was probably studying the local population, but why the deep cover? It didn’t make sense. And she’d been more quiet than usual before she’d disappeared. If he didn’t trust in their love so completely, he’d have thought she wanted to break it off between them, but their relationship had been healthy. And the sex was great. Kaimi wasn’t the kind of woman who would fake it during sex.
The sun sat low on the horizon. Jayme worked his jaw back and forth a few times. Darkness fell hard and fast in the jungle, so he’d have to grab a hotel room for the night, and damn, but it pissed him off. The constant ache from clenching his jaw during the long flight from Washington DC, and now this delay, had hiked his temper to the snapping point. He needed to find Kaimi, and the conviction that there wasn’t much time left rode him hard. He considered traveling upriver immediately, but dismissed it. There were jaguars out there, and of course alligators and anacondas. All deadly if provoked. Or hungry.
Then there was the issue of hiring someone to bring him upriver, and that, too, would have to wait until morning unless he was able to make arrangements through the hotel. Heat lightning flashed overhead. Yeah, daylight was the way to go. No point in getting killed before he found his woman.
He knew enough to avoid the favelas, the slum areas where poverty, violence and drugs thrived. He’d read a CIA report on the plane, complete with pictures of the congested areas, with houses built on stilts to avoid the trash and flooding underneath, and the different exterior colors advertising the type of drugs sold inside.
He slapped his cheek. Damn mosquitos. It would be easy to get caught where he didn’t belong if he wasn’t careful. On his way out of the airport, Jayme stopped to ask for help at one of the ticket counters. “You know a nearby hotel where I can spend the night. Safe?”
The man tagged a suitcase, then slung it onto a conveyor belt. “How long are you staying?”
“Just one night. I need to travel upriver.”
“Check out front with the taxi dispatcher, but I suggest the Adrianópolis. It’s close, reasonable, and you avoid the congestion of the city. A few are closer, but more expensive.” He shrugged. “Probably not worth the extra money for just one night.”
Unknown city, a language he didn’t speak, and his lack of intimate knowledge about the favelas were the decision-makers. The other consideration was cost. With no idea how long it would take him to find Kaimi, he had to keep spending to a minimum. Anxiety built by the second as Jayme headed for the taxi dispatcher and gave the name of the hotel. “You know if they can arrange for a trip upriver?” he asked.
Broken English aside, Jayme figured the dispatcher’s answer fell somewhere between “Are you crazy, man?” and “Don’t know nothin’.” It was impossible to tell.
The ride was less than five miles and took fifteen holy-crap minutes. Apparently red lights and intersections were signals to speed up, make sudden turns without signaling, and belly-out on hills. Wide awake, Jayme unclenched his fingers from the door handle, and stuffed some money in the cabbie’s hand.
You want to see Kaimi again, Jayme, avoid taxicabs.
He escaped into the hotel lobby, shivering at the sudden wash of cool air. Why hadn’t he signed on for SEAL training when he was in the Navy? Something useful? Law school was no damn use in the field.
KAIMI SIGNED IN AT THE
hotel, pocketed her key, and dashed to an open elevator. Her head ached from the long day, and from not having time to truly process Eamon’s attack. She craved another shower, the hotter the better. Fresh towels, sheets, and clothes would be so welcome.
She shoved the key into the lock, and heaved a sigh of relief when she shut and secured the door behind her. Flicking on the bedside lamp, she was glad to find the room adequate. Clean. She dumped her duffle on the floor and stretched tall, working the kinks out of her back. It had been a long ride in the jitney, and the chairs in the hospital waiting room were nothing short of brightly colored torture devices. After her shower, she’d treat herself to a long soak in the tub, and then round out the evening with room service that included a glass of wine, because tomorrow…oh, damn. Tomorrow she’d have to travel back to the lab. Unless she went AWOL.
The first sob squeezed through her chest and climbed into her throat. She crumpled into a ball on the bed and let the tears fall, savoring the release of fury, humiliation, and fatigue. She was so flipping tired. Sleep finally absorbed her sobs, and eased her into a dreamless respite.
While she slept, dark had crawled through the room, eating everything outside the small pool of pale light that spread from the bedside lamp. The startling shift in ambiance jolted Kaimi awake, and she jerked her Boss Jack from its sheath. Too dark. Too many corners she couldn’t see. She jumped to her feet and searched the room, turning on lights, and finally bringing her ragged breathing under control when the entire room came into bright focus. Better.
Get it together, Kaimi. You’re stronger than this.
She turned on the radio, searching for a station that played the soft rock and golden oldies that always seemed to soothe her, and then she worked the double ties from her bootlaces and kicked her feet free. Bliss. A glance at the clock confirmed she’d slept for over an hour. She chucked the rest of her clothes and climbed into the shower, hoping the blast of hot water would work the tension from her muscles and start to loosen the plaster binding her wrist. The soap wasn’t big on making suds, but it filled the sterile room with the fragrance of too-sweet lemon. Not jungle. And not the stink of Eamon’s sweat and medicinal breath. Her actions were so rote, so frantic that she didn’t realize she’d abraded the skin on her thigh until the sting of the hot water against raw flesh penetrated her frenzy. Two over-scrubbed showers in less than twenty-four hours was too much. She dropped the washcloth and planted her palms against the tile wall until her breathing evened out.
Cranking the water off with a brisk twist, she toweled dry and slipped into a soft cotton t-shirt and fresh underwear. A shiver cascaded down her spine. The room was a comfortable temperature, but her fatigue had apparently messed with her body’s ability to regulate temperature. She snagged a blanket from the end of the bed and wrapped herself before calling room service to place an order—estimated time of delivery seventy-five minutes. Should be just long enough to soak her cast off.
Time dragged while she soaked. Was there anything more boring than perching on the edge of a bathtub with your arm in a sink full of water? The forced inactivity left Kaimi nothing to do but sing along with the radio while she considered what, and how, to tell Jayme about everything that had happened. She’d put off thinking about it all day because it was the most stressful thing on her to-do list. It had been so long since she’d disappeared. Maybe he’d found someone else. Oh, damn. Or worse, maybe he’d heard rumors that she’d died. If the CIA could get away with crap like that, surely the military could as well.
What if…
A solid pounding on the door interrupted her thoughts.
CHAPTER TWELVE
KAIMI RIPPED THE FEW REMAINING
strips of gaze and plaster from her wrist, palmed her new Boss Jack, and almost put her eye up to the peephole before she caught herself. Bad idea. Her shadow would be readily visible with all the lights on, and if whoever was on the other side had a gun, they could blast a hole right through the door. Chances were good the knock had come from a room service waiter, but Eamon was out there. Could he have followed her? Or if he wasn’t able to travel yet, could he have sent someone? Fion?
She was giving in to paranoia. How stupid. “Who is it?” She tightened her hold on the knife, stood to the side of the door, and checked the chain lock—not that it would stop anyone, but it would gave her a narrow window of opportunity to listen and look before anyone burst through the door.
A garbled mouthful of words sifted into the room.
Not good. The door opened from the right to the left. Kaimi canted her body behind the door in a blade position and, bracing her right foot, moved the left several inches back from the door. “Didn’t understand you. Say again.” Her voice was tight, demanding.
Another firm knock followed by what sounded like her name. She hadn’t been able to check in with Fred, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of what had gone down at the campsite and sent someone to check on her.
A blast of adrenaline hit her veins.
Why hadn’t she purchased a gun during her earlier shopping spree? Keeping her knife hand at the ready, Kaimi leaned back onto her right foot for strength, and to make less of a target if whoever was out there crashed into the room. She checked that the door would clear her left knee if someone burst through it, sucked in a breath, turned the knob, and eased the door open until the chain pulled taut. “Who is it?” Anxiety and irritation added a sharp crackle to her words.
“Xola Muerte? Open the door. I’m from the American CIA and—”
Kaimi’s vision narrowed and her heart pounded.
Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.
She fumbled with the door, closing it to release the chain, and then swinging it wide open. Her heart beat wild in her chest. “Jayme?”
His face blanched to stark white. “Kaimi?”
THERE SHE WAS. AFTER ALL
this time, right in front of him. He needed to touch her, hold her tightly enough to feel her heart beating against his chest. To know she was alive and... He tossed his duffle into the room and reached for her, arms open, hope flaring, tears of relief burning behind his eyes.
He drank her in. Her dark blue eyes were duller than he remembered, and the way she was clutching the blanket tight to her body was all wrong. She’d sleeked back her hair in a harsh wad, and it was streaked with dark wet patches. There was a bruise on her jaw, barely visible under her tanned, olive skin. And she had a knife in her hand. Panic surged. “You’re hurt. Are you in danger?”
She backed away from him. “No, I…come in. I’m…how did you find me? Thank God you found me! I was going to call you, but you knocked, and I thought it was room service, and, oh, my God you’re really
here
.”
A chill twisted and tumbled in Jayme’s middle. Her voice was hollow, missing the rich Hawaiian lilt that usually danced through her words. He dug up a smile, tried to make it reassuring. “You look absolutely beautiful, even hiding under that huge blanket.”
His words struck home. He could see it in the lines etching her face, the wobble of her beautiful mouth. His Kaimi was very scared, hiding from something. From him? Doubt twisted in his gut.
“Oh, no. I’m a mess. Haven’t even dried my hair since I showered.” She reached for the wet mass, then must have realized she still had the blade in her hand because it slipped from her grasp and landed on the carpet with a soft thud.