Dark brown lashes veiled the golden glitter of Grant’s eyes almost completely. He looked as if he would begin snoring at any minute. “Well? Does she know anything about the microfilm or not?”
“We don’t know. My guess is that she doesn’t. Persall had several hours to hide the microfilm before he went to her room.”
“Why the hell couldn’t she have stayed with Daddy, where she belongs?” Grant murmured.
“Hamilton has been raising hell for us to get her out of there, but they aren’t really close. She’s a party girl. Divorced, more interested in having a good time than in doing anything constructive. In fact, Hamilton cut her out of his will several years ago, and she’s been wandering all around the globe since. She’d been with Persall for a couple of years. They weren’t shy about their relationship. Persall liked to have a flashy woman on his arm, and he could afford her. He always seemed like an easygoing good-time guy, well-suited to her type. I sure as hell never figured him for a courier, especially one sharp enough to fool me.”
“Why don’t you go in and get the girl out?” Grant asked suddenly, and he opened his eyes, staring at Kell, his gaze cold and yellow.
“Two reasons. One, I don’t think she knows anything about the film. I have to concentrate on finding the film, and I think that means finding Luis Marcel. Two, you’re the best man for the job. I thought so when I…ah…arranged for you to be brought to Hamilton’s attention.”
So Kell was working to get the girl out, after all, but going about it in his own circuitous way. Well, staying behind the scenes was the only way he could be effective. “You won’t have any trouble getting into Costa Rica,” Kell said. “I’ve already arranged it. But if you can’t get the girl out…”
Grant got to his feet, a tawny, graceful savage, silent and lethal. “I know,” he said quietly. Neither of them had to say it, but both knew that a bullet in her head would be a great deal kinder than what would happen to her if Turego decided that she did know the location of the microfilm. She was being held only as a safety measure now, but if that microfilm didn’t surface, she would eventually be the only remaining link to it. Then her life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel.
So now he was in Costa Rica, deep in the rain forest and too damned near the Nicaraguan border for comfort. Roaming bands of rebels, soldiers, revolutionaries and just plain terrorists made life miserable for people who just wanted to live their simple lives in peace, but none of it touched Priscilla. She might have been a tropical princess, sipping daintily at her iced drink, ignoring the jungle that ate continuously at the boundaries of the plantation and had to be cut back regularly.
Well, he’d seen enough. Tonight was the night. He knew her schedule now, knew the routine of the guards, and had already found all the trip lines. He didn’t like traveling through the jungle at night, but there wasn’t any choice. He had to have several hours to get her away from here before anyone realized she was missing; luckily, she always slept late, until at least ten every morning. No one would really think anything of it if she didn’t appear by eleven. By then, they’d be long gone. Pablo would pick them up by helicopter at the designated clearing tomorrow morning, not long after dawn.
Grant backed slowly away from the edge of the jungle, worming himself into the thick greenery until it formed a solid curtain separating him from the house. Only then did he rise to his feet, walking silently and with assurance, because he’d taken care of the trip lines and sensors as he’d found them. He’d been in the jungle for three days, moving cautiously around the perimeter of the plantation, carefully getting the layout of the house. He knew where the girl slept, and he knew how he was going to get in. It couldn’t have been better; Turego wasn’t in the house. He’d left the day before, and since he wasn’t back by now, Grant knew that he wasn’t coming. It was already twilight, and it wasn’t safe to travel the river in the darkness.
Grant knew exactly how treacherous the river was; that was why he would take the girl through the jungle. Even given its dangers, the river would be the logical route for them to take. If by some chance her departure were discovered before Pablo picked them up, the search would be concentrated along the river, at least for a while. Long enough, he hoped, for them to reach the helicopter.
He’d have to wait several more hours before he could go into the house and get the girl out. That would give everyone time to get tired, bored and sleepy. He made his way to the small clearing where he’d stashed his supplies, and carefully checked it for snakes, especially the velvety brown fer-de-lance, which liked to lie in clearings and wait for its next meal. After satisfying himself that the clearing was safe, he sat down on a fallen tree to smoke a cigarette. He took a drink of water, but he wasn’t hungry. He knew that he wouldn’t be until sometime tomorrow. Once the action was going down he couldn’t eat; he was too keyed up, all his senses enhanced so that even the smallest sound of the jungle crashed against his eardrums like thunder. Adrenaline was already pumping through his veins, making him so high that he could understand why the Vikings had gone berserk during battle. Waiting was almost unbearable, but that was what he had to do. He checked his watch again, the illuminated dial a strange bit of civilization in a jungle that swallowed men alive, and frowned when he saw that only a little over half an hour had passed.
To give himself something to do, to calm his tightly wound nerves, he began packing methodically, arranging everything so he would know exactly where it was. He checked his weapons and his ammunition, hoping he wouldn’t have to use them. What he needed more than anything, if he was to get the girl out alive, was a totally silent operation. If he had to use his carbine or the automatic pistol, he’d give away their position. He preferred a knife, which was silent and deadly.
He felt sweat trickle down his spine. God, if only the girl would have sense enough to keep her mouth shut and not start squawking when he hauled her out of there. If he had to, he’d knock her out, but that would make her dead weight to carry through vegetation that reached out to wrap around his legs like living fingers.
He realized that he was fondling his knife, his long, lean fingers sliding over the deadly blade with a lover’s touch, and he shoved it into its sheath. Damn her, he thought bitterly. Because of her, he was back in the thick of things, and he could feel it taking hold of him again. The rush of danger was as addictive as any drug, and it was in his veins again, burning him, eating at him like an acid—killing him and intensifying the feeling of life all at once. Damn her, damn her to hell. All this for a spoiled, silly society brat who liked to amuse herself in various beds. Still, her round heels might have kept her alive, because Turego fancied himself quite a lover.
The night sounds of the jungle began to build around him: the screams of the howler monkeys, the rustles and chirps and coughs of the night denizens as they went about their business. Somewhere down close to the river he heard a jaguar cough, but he never minded the normal jungle sounds. He was at home here. The peculiar combination of his genes and the skills he’d learned as a boy in the swamps of south Georgia made him as much a part of the jungle as the jaguar that prowled the river’s edge. Though the thick canopy blocked out all light, he didn’t light a lamp or switch on a flashlight; he wanted his eyes to be perfectly adjusted to the dark when he began moving. He relied on his ears and his instincts, knowing that there was no danger close to him. The danger would come from men, not from the shy jungle animals. As long as those reassuring noises surrounded him, he knew that no men were near.
At midnight he rose and began easing along the route he’d marked in his mind, and the animals and insects were so unalarmed by his presence that the din continued without pause. The only caution he felt was that a fer-de-lance or a bushmaster might be hunting along the path he’d chosen, but that was a chance he’d have to take. He carried a long stick that he swept silently across the ground before him. When he reached the edge of the plantation he put the stick aside and crouched down to survey the grounds, making certa
in everything was as expected, before he moved in.
From where he crouched, he could see that the guards were at their normal posts, probably asleep, except for the one who patrolled the perimeter, and he’d soon settle down for a nap, too. They were sloppy, he thought contemptuously. They obviously didn’t expect any visitors in as remote a place as this upriver plantation. During the three days he’d spent observing them, he’d noted that they stood around talking a great deal of the time, smoking cigarettes, not keeping a close watch on anything. But they were still there, and those rifles were loaded with real bullets. One of the reasons Grant had reached the age of thirty-eight was that he had a healthy respect for weapons and what they could do to human flesh. He didn’t believe in recklessness, because it cost lives. He waited. At least now he could see, for the night was clear, and the stars hung low and brilliant in the sky. He didn’t mind the starlight; there were plenty of shadows that would cover his movements.
The guard at the left corner of the house hadn’t moved an inch since Grant had been watching him; he was asleep. The guard walking the grounds had settled down against one of the pillars at the front of the house. The faint red glow near the guard’s hand told Grant that he was smoking and if he followed his usual pattern, he’d pull his cap over his eyes after he’d finished the cigarette, and sleep through the night.
As silently as a wraith, Grant left the concealing jungle and moved onto the grounds, slipping from tree to bush, invisible in the black shadows. Soundlessly, he mounted the veranda that ran alongside the house, flattening himself against the wall and checking the scene again. It was silent and peaceful. The guards relied far too heavily on those trip lines, not realizing they could be dismantled.
Priscilla’s room was toward the back. It had double sliding glass doors, which might be locked, but that didn’t worry him; he had a way with locks. He eased up to the doors, put out his hand and pulled silently. The door moved easily, and his brows rose. Not locked. Thoughtful of her.
Gently, gently, a fraction of an inch at a time, he slid the door open until there was enough room for him to slip through. As soon as he was in the room he paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust again. After the starlight, the room seemed as dark as the jungle. He didn’t move a muscle, but waited, poised and listening.
Soon he could see again. The room was big and airy, with cool wooden floors covered with straw mats. The bed was against the wall to his right, ghostly with the folds of mosquito netting draped around it. Through the netting he could see the rumpled covers, the small mound on the far side of the bed. A chair, a small round table and a tall floor lamp were on this side of the bed. The shadows were deeper to his left, but he could see a door that probably opened to the bathroom. An enormous wardrobe stood against the wall. Slowly, as silently as a tiger stalking its prey, he moved around the wall, blending into the darkness near the wardrobe. Now he could see a chair on the far side of the bed, next to where she slept. A long white garment, perhaps her robe or nightgown, lay across the chair. The thought that she might be sleeping naked made his mouth quirk in a sudden grin that held no real amusement. If she did sleep naked, she’d fight like a wildcat when he woke her. Just what he needed. For both their sakes, he hoped she was clothed.
He moved closer to the bed, his eyes on the small figure. She was so still…. The hair prickled on the back of his neck in warning, and without thinking he flung himself to the side, taking the blow on his shoulder instead of his neck. He rolled, and came to his feet expecting to face his assailant, but the room was still and dark again. Nothing moved, not even the woman on the bed. Grant faded back into the shadows, trying to hear the soft whisper of breathing, the rustle of clothing, anything. The silence in the room was deafening. Where was his attacker? Like Grant, he’d moved into the shadows, which were deep enough to shield several men.
Who was his assailant? What was he doing here in the woman’s bedroom? Had he been sent to kill her or was he, too, trying to steal her from Turego?
His opponent was probably in the black corner beside the wardrobe. Grant eased the knife out of its sheath, then pushed it in again; his hands would be as silent as the knife.
There…just for a moment, the slightest of movements, but enough to pinpoint the man’s position. Grant crouched then moved forward in a blurred rush, catching the man low and flipping him. The stranger rolled as he landed and came to his feet with a lithe twist, a slim dark figure outlined against the white mosquito netting. He kicked out, and Grant dodged the blow, but he felt the breeze of the kick pass his chin. Moving in, he caught the man’s arm with a numbing chop. He saw the arm fall uselessly to the man’s side. Coldly, without emotion, not even breathing hard, Grant threw the slim figure to the floor and knelt with one knee on the good arm and his other knee pressed to the man’s chest. Just as he raised his hand to strike the blow that would end their silent struggle, Grant became aware of something odd, something soft swelling beneath his knee. Then he understood. The too-still form on the bed was so still because it was a mound of covers, not a human being. The girl hadn’t been in bed; she’d seen him come through the sliding doors and had hidden herself in the shadows. But why hadn’t she screamed? Why had she attacked, knowing that she had no chance of overpowering him? He moved his knee off her breasts and quickly slid his hand to the soft mounds to make certain his weight hadn’t cut off her breath. He felt the reassuring rise of her chest, heard the soft, startled gasp as she felt his touch, and he eased a little away from her.
“It’s all right,” he started to whisper, but she suddenly twisted on the floor, wrenching away from him. Her knee slashed upward; he was unguarded, totally vulnerable, and her knee crashed into his groin with a force that sent agony through his whole body. Red lights danced before his eyes, and he sagged to one side, gagging at the bitter bile that rose in his throat, his hands automatically cupping his agonized flesh as he ground his teeth to contain the groan that fought for release.
She scrambled away from him, and he heard a low sob, perhaps of terror. Through pain-blurred eyes he saw her pick up something dark and bulky; then she slipped through the open glass door and was gone.
Pure fury propelled him to his feet. Damn it, she was escaping on her own. She was going to ruin the whole setup! Ignoring the pain in his loins, he started after her. He had a score to settle.
CHAPTER TWO
JANE HAD JUST reached for her bundle of supplies when some instinct left over from her cave-dwelling ancestors told her that someone was near. There hadn’t been any sound to alert her, but suddenly she was aware of another presence. The fine hairs on the back of her neck and her forearms stood up, and she had frozen, turning terrified eyes toward the double glass doors. The doors had slid open noiselessly, and she had seen the darker shadow of a man briefly outlined against the night. He was a big man, but one who moved with total silence. It was the eerie soundlessness of his movements that had frightened her more than anything, sending chills of pure terror chasing over her skin. For days now she had lived by her nerves, holding the terror at bay while she walked a tightrope, trying to lull Turego’s suspicions, yet always poised for an escape attempt. But nothing had frightened her as much as that dark shadow slipping into her room.
Any faint hope that she would be rescued had died when Turego had installed her here. She had assessed the situation realistically. The only person who would try to get her out would be her father, but it would be beyond his power. She could depend on only herself and her wits. To that end, she had flirted and flattered and downright lied, doing everything she could to convince Turego that she was both brainless and harmless. In that, she thought, she’d succeeded, but time was fast running out. When an aide had brought an urgent message to Turego the day before, Jane had eavesdropped; Luis Marcel’s location had been discovered, and Turego wanted Luis, badly.
But by now Turego surely would have discovered that Luis had no knowledge of the missing microfilm, and that would leave her as the sole suspect.
She had to escape, tonight, before Turego returned.
She hadn’t been idle since she’d been here; she’d carefully memorized the routine of the guards, especially at night, when the terror brought on by the darkness made it impossible for her to sleep. She’d spent the nights standing at the double doors, watching the guards, clocking them, studying their habits. By keeping her mind busy, she’d been able to control the fear. When dawn would begin to lighten the sky, she had slept. She had been preparing since the first day she’d been here for the possibility that she might have to bolt into the jungle. She’d been sneaking food and supplies, hoarding them, and steeling herself for what lay ahead. Even now, only the raw fear of what awaited her at Turego’s hands gave her the courage to brave the black jungle, where the night demons were waiting for her.
But none of that had been as sinister, as lethal, as the dark shape moving through her bedroom. She shrank back into the thick shadows, not even breathing in her acute terror. Oh, God, she prayed, what do I do now? Why was he there? To murder her in her bed? Was it one of the guards, tonight of all nights, come to rape her?
As he passed in front of her, moving in a slight crouch toward her bed, an odd rage suddenly filled Jane. After all she had endured, she was damned if she’d allow him to spoil her escape attempt! She’d talked herself into it, despite her horrible fear of the dark, and now he was ruining it!
Her jaw set, she clenched her fists as she’d been taught to do in her self-defense classes. She struck at the back of his neck, but suddenly he was gone, a shadow twisting away from the blow, and her fist struck his shoulder instead. Instantly terrified again, she shrank back into the shelter of the wardrobe, straining her eyes to see him, but he’d disappeared. Had he been a wraith, a figment of her imagination? No, her fist had struck a very solid shoulder, and the faint rippling of the white curtains over the glass doors testified that the doors were indeed open. He was in the room, somewhere, but where? How could a man that big disappear so completely?