Whatever it Takes (Shadow Heroes Book 4) Read online

She dug for her key in the little change purse she kept in the pocket of her skirt. Before opening the wobbly wooden door, she looked over her shoulder and peered into the alley.

  Nothing. No movement. But a man willing to challenge Ruiz wouldn’t give up so easily. He would come. He would turn her in.

  No, he’d helped her. He had no reason to cross Ruiz if his intention was to gain the reward. Ruiz was, after all, behind the orders for her arrest and would be the one to pay him. Besides, she wouldn’t have been able to get away if he intended to turn her in.

  But their handshake. That could only mean one thing. They could find her and arrest her.

  She wasn’t thinking straight, couldn’t. All that mattered was avoiding arrest and finding Tony.

  Once inside the one-room apartment, she turned on the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and closed the door. Hurrying, her hands shook as she reached for the tennis shoes where she’d stuffed the money she’d brought with her when she left her father’s house. She verified that it was still there, then pulled a backpack from the poor excuse of a dresser and jammed the shoes and her few items of clothing inside.

  She couldn’t leave dressed like this. The sarong skirt and the blouse made her too easy to identify. Quickly, she found the cheap blue jeans and black T-shirt she’d bought at the big outdoor market in the capital. She stripped off the blouse and tossed it on the thin, lumpy mattress. Dressed in her bra and skirt, she heard the door open.

  Startled, she snatched the T-shirt and clutched it to her chest.

  The stranger stood in the doorway.

  “Querida.” The hard uncompromising lines of his mouth made a mockery of the endearment.

  From behind him she heard male laughter.

  She took one step back. A desperate glance over her shoulder told her what she should have remembered in her panic. There was no other way out.

  “Bueno,” the stranger said. “You are undressing for me.” The words didn’t match the look on his face. The look was…apologetic?

  “Go on, compadre,” a male voice from behind him cajoled. “She awaits you.” Raucous laughter followed the words.

  Heart tripping a frantic rhythm, Laura pulled the black T-shirt tighter against her chest.

  “Gracias, amigos,” the stranger said, his eyes steady on hers. “As you see, my wife is anxious. You may go.”

  “Vaya, hombre. Take her in your arms. Show her who’s the boss,” another male voice shouted.

  This time Laura caught a glimpse of two figures, Ruiz’s men, in the dark behind the stranger.

  He took one step into the claustrophobic room. The overhead light played across his angular features, revealing two small but noticeable, scars. One on the left of his upper lip, another across the arch of his right brow. His light brown hair glinted gold and barely covered what had to be a longer scar on his left temple.

  “Go away,” he said harshly to the men behind him. Then his eyes gentled. “Come here,” he whispered to her.

  She wasn’t sure if she did as he ordered because of his eyes or because she was so scared she could think of no alternative.

  As she took one tentative step forward, her T-shirt in a death grip against her breasts, one corner of his mouth kicked up, softening his features despite its hard angles and days’ growth of beard.

  “Show no fear,” he whispered. “If I push you down, stay on the floor.”

  Dios mío. What was happening?

  He placed his left hand gently at the juncture of her neck and bare shoulder, then ran it down her arm, leaving a trail of chill bumps. When he reached her elbow, his eyes intent on hers, he reached behind her, grasped her waist and pulled her flush against himself.

  Laura’s breath caught.

  Behind the stranger, Ruiz’s men shouted and whistled.

  “Enough,” the stranger said to them, his words warm against her hair. “Go now.”

  “Of course,” the heavier of the two men said. “But if you need help, call.” He and his friend laughed.

  The stranger shut the door shut with his foot, but still held her firmly. She pushed against his chest and backed away.

  “¿Qué quieres?” she asked, as if she didn’t know what he wanted.

  “What were you thinking?” he countered in a low voice. “You cannot handle someone like Ernesto Ruiz.”

  Laura didn’t know what to do, how to reply. How to react. “I— You—”

  “I don’t have the time to deal with him for you,” he continued, his voice still pitched low, the cadence of his Spanish definitely Argentinean. He turned, pulled the cheap curtain aside and peered out the tiny window before turning back. “Couldn’t you think of anything besides slapping him?”

  Hands clenched, she replied, “What was I supposed to do? No one asked you to interfere.”

  “Was I supposed to leave you to Ruiz’s tender mercies?” He shook his head, muttering something she only half heard, something about bad timing, as he rubbed his brow impatiently.

  He was crazy, but didn’t seem to know who she was. She hoped her voice didn’t shake. “Gracias por—”

  “Do not thank me,” he said, his attention fully on her again. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Avoid Ruiz?” What she thought was a statement came out like a question.

  But he wasn’t paying attention to what she said. He was staring, and she realized that even though she held her shirt to her chest, barely covering her breasts, his very pointed examination didn’t include her body, just her face.

  “Step forward,” he ordered.

  “¿Qué?”

  “You heard me, step forward.”

  No. No way. She stepped back. “I thanked you. That is all—”

  She backed away even more, but he followed, trapping her against the wall, his eyes hooded in the dim room, his mouth set in an implacable line. Before she could react, he tilted her face up toward the light.

  “Good God,” he said softly in perfect American English, a dark expression on his face. “You’re Laura Iglesias.”

  Chapter Two

  “What in God’s name are you doing here?” Mark Williams had just blown the hell out of a months’ worth of planning. Three weeks in-country without a single screw up until now. But the pretty waitress with the incredible body was no simple waitress. There was nothing at all simple about Laura Iglesias, at least not to him.

  “No hablo inglés,” she said.

  She had a functioning brain, while he’d left his somewhere back at the restaurant when he’d charged in like some damn knight in shining armor.

  “I know who you are,” he said, deliberate in his use of English. “Who your father is,” he added, frustration spiking his words. Who her husband was.

  She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. He had.

  “No hablo—”

  “Look, I know damn well who you are. I know about the reward. I’m not here to turn you in,” he said, exasperated not only with himself but with her for not admitting the truth. But she’d proven she had survival skills, while he, courtesy of an impulse to save a pretty waitress, had risked his mission.

  To go after ex-general Ernesto Ruiz, believed to be behind the gun trade that fed the resurgence of the Primero de Mayo terrorists. The brutal terrorists, all but destroyed a few years earlier, had been given new life with the acquisition of more modern weapons and threatened the stability of San Mateo and other South American governments.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said.

  She shifted to one side, as if she intended to make a break for the door.

  Damn, he was getting nowhere with her.

  “I’ll get you to safety. Ruiz won’t arrest you.”

  Wide-eyed, she stared, but said nothing.

  Maybe he wasn’t reading her right, maybe her English wasn’t as good as he presumed. “I’m—”

  “Stop,” she said in Spanish, a sharp edge to her voice. “I understand. I know who you are.”

  That sounded l
ike an accusation. Maybe she knew. Maybe she’d somehow learned what happened when her husband was killed during that bloody siege.

  “My father should choose intelligence officers who are more subtle.” She eyed the closed door. “But why did you bring them here?” Her whispered question mirrored the panic in her eyes.

  She thought he worked for Arturo Herrera’s intelligence agency. Thank God. She didn’t know who he was, why he was here. And she had no way of knowing who he worked for.

  “I didn’t bring them. Ruiz’s men ‘escorted’ me. He knows where you live. You’re not safe here.” The only way for her to survive was to get her out of San Mateo. If she thought he worked for her father, so much the better. “Gather what you need and let’s go.” He’d figure out a way to get her to safety as well as take Ruiz up on his job offer, one sealed with a handshake.

  She turned away, slipped on the black T-shirt she’d held like a shield, and faced him again, jerking her long dark hair out of the shirt. It fell in shiny waves across her shoulders.

  It was no wonder he hadn’t instantly recognized her. He’d only seen her that one time, at the memorial service for her husband and the two others who’d been executed by the Primero de Mayo terrorists four years ago. Mark had been ordered not to attend.

  But one of those men had been a good friend, and while he hadn’t known Captain José Antonio Iglesias well, the man’s blood had soaked Mark’s clothes and the memory of what he’d said was a constant reminder of what the man had done for him. He should have told her of her husband’s bravery years ago, no matter his cover, the top secret nature of his job and another direct order. Hell, he’d disobeyed the most important one, so why not that one?

  Then, just two months ago, when he finished rehabbing his shoulder, he jumped at another mission in San Mateo to target Primero de Mayo. He’d never expected to see Laura Iglesias again, hadn’t wanted to. The dossier he’d been given of the major political players as he prepped for this mission included a picture of her father, the San Matean Minister of the Interior who oversaw the country’s intelligence service. Beside him stood Laura, a classy, raven-haired beauty, clothes and makeup perfect. But now, with her face scrubbed clean, there was nothing here of that woman. And despite the waitress uniform designed to showcase her shape, which was, admittedly, what drew his attention the day before, she looked wholesome, younger than the twenty-eight years her father’s dossier claimed. Vulnerable.

  Yet she’d had the guts to get out of the capitol where she would surely be recognized and arrested, to hide here and wait on tables to survive. Maybe not smart in her choice of locations given that Ruiz practically owned Puerto Escondido and had a compound here—and the slap was downright dangerous enough for a one-way ticket to prison—but he had to give her points for courage and effort. He didn’t want to think what would have happened if he hadn’t been here, what would happen if he didn’t get her out of the country.

  “There is no way out,” she said finally. It was the first time she’d spoken in English. There was no trace of a Spanish accent in her speech, which made sense since lived in the States and her late mother had been an American.

  “Maybe there’s no good way, but there’s always a way.”

  “They’re watching the port. I can’t get through security at any airport.” Impatience colored her dark, exotically shaped eyes. “The roads in the mountains are dangerous now. It’s the rainy season. There will be huaicos. They’re mudslides—”

  “I know what a huaico is. I have a truck—”

  “A huaico can easily destroy a truck,” she shot back.

  O-kay. “Trouble is our buddy Don Ernesto expects me to join him.”

  “What did he say to you? What did he want?”

  “To give me a job. Something that would earn me enough to make my mujer happy.”

  Her lips pinched. Disapproval. Of what? His actions? “What the hell were you thinking when you slapped him?”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  Not have a body that screamed sin, shot straight to his mind.

  “Was I supposed to say, ‘Don Ernesto,’” she used an exaggerated supplicatory tone, “‘por favor, don’t touch my…’”

  He nearly laughed at her sarcasm. Nearly, because the moment he felt his response, he saw the flash of anger in those fantastic eyes. No. Laughing would be a dumb move. She was pissed. With good reason. The son of a bitch had touched her. Mark’s stomach clenched.

  “I spoke with a boat captain, a man I trust,” she continued. “It’s too dangerous to leave by sea. All ships are searched.”

  “If your trusted boat captain is out, then we go overland.”

  “I told you—”

  “Huaicos,” he filled in.

  “Thieves, too, with the roads—”

  “I know—”

  “Then use some common sense,” she snapped.

  “And do what?” he snapped right back. The lady was argumentative. So far, he hadn’t seen a whole lot of vulnerability. Mark reminded himself she was a member of the wealthy upper class, from one of the most powerful families in San Mateo. Hell, Arturo Herrera might even become president someday if Ruiz didn’t kill him. She wasn’t used to doing as she was told. He knew the type well.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Nothing?” Was she nuts? “We can’t do nothing. Ruiz has...unpleasant plans for you.”

  “Ruiz will forget. You’ll see. A waitress is nothing to him. He has no idea who I am.” Her eyes sparked with impatience in the starkly lit room. “You can go now. I have to—” she stopped herself before continuing. “I’ll leave soon.”

  Yeah, she was nuts. Completely. “Lady, Ruiz may be more interested in you than in me.”

  “I’ll go to Aguas Calientes when the rainy season is over, then I can cross the border.”

  “Cross the border? With the authorities looking for you?” He wanted to shake some sense into her. “That means sneaking across the border. With the situation so unstable between San Mateo and Monte Blanco, if you’re not shot by a border guard, you’ll be blown up by a land mine. So, no.” He took an angry breath. “We go. We go now.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  She could have told him she was from Mars and surprised him less. “What do you mean you can’t do that?”

  She held his gaze for a few seconds, then zeroed in on the opposite wall, as if searching for an answer there, before letting her eyes meet his again. “You will be noticed. You sound like you’re from Argentina.”

  “What difference does it make? I spent some time there.” Why the hell was he explaining himself?

  She stared at him for a long moment. “If Ruiz bothers to look for us, he’ll be searching for two people,” she said finally, the tiniest bit of a Spanish accent creeping in. “I cannot do this. I won’t allow—”

  When she didn’t continue, he asked, “You won’t allow what?”

  She’d said more than she’d intended. He could almost see her trying to figure out how to continue.

  Then her expression changed. Her lips parted slightly, tilting up into a shadow of a rather alluring smile. It was not the sort of smile he trusted.

  With her gaze focused on him, she walked—no—she sauntered toward him. It had been years since he’d seen a woman saunter, but by God, that’s what she was doing. She didn’t have much space for the move, given the size of the room. When she reached him, she let her gaze roam down to his arm and gently placed her hand on it.

  “What should I call you?” she asked, her attention returning to his face.

  What should she call him? “Mark. Call me Mark.” Shit, wrong answer, but at least he hadn’t blurted out his whole name or anything that could tie him to who and what he was.

  “Thank you for saving me from Ruiz, Mark.” And yes, an accent was there. He half expected her to add something like gracias, señor in the rolling cadence of a Latin cartoon beauty. “But I cannot go with you now.” Her husky whisp
er shot straight to his imagination.

  If she hadn’t blinked before looking up at him through her lashes, he might have bought the effort to distract him. But she did, and it wasn’t a smooth move. She was trying to play him with a clumsy attempt at flirting.

  He stiffened, reminded of too much time spent with women who really could pull off something like this.

  “Sultry Latina doesn’t work with me,” he said.

  Her eyes snapped wide and the smile faded from her lips.

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing,” he said, “but it won’t work.”

  “Ruiz is dangerous,” she said between clenched teeth. “If he finds out you work for my father, he will kill you. I will not let that man cause another death. My father is willing to gamble with the lives of others. I’m not.”

  There. That was sincerity. Despite what she’d done, he respected her for the attempt because she meant what she said. “Don’t fight me,” he said. “And don’t ever try that again. It won’t work.”

  She glanced at her hand, still on his arm, and jerked it away as if he’d burned her. A blush spread across her cheeks.

  “Get your things,” he said.

  “You can’t—”

  “Get them or you go without,” he said. He was not in the mood to pacify her, not in the mood to do anything but get her the hell away from here. He’d stash her some place safe until he could contact someone he could trust to get her back to the States.

  Langley, convinced Ruiz was behind the sale of guns to the terrorists, had given Mark this opportunity to resurrect the cover identity he’d used in the past. He wasn’t about to risk the chance to get at Primero de Mayo because she’d been foolish enough to come to Puerto Escondido.

  “Please listen. This—” Laughter from outside stopped her.

  He pulled aside the thin window curtain just enough to see out, then eased it back down. Shit. He turned back toward her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “We wait.”

  “Wait for what?” Her dark, perfectly arched brows rose.

  “My two friends outside.”

  She took a small breath. “Why are they still there?”