Breaking Protocol Page 2

  With the flames at her back, she gripped the revolver, flung the straps of the backpack over her shoulder and fled into the night, heading straight for the one-lane road leading to the nearby village where a vehicle and her traveling papers waited.

  Casting a dismal glance at the lowly revolver, she inventoried the rest of her resources. The effort took the lesser part of two seconds considering what little there was to assess, and pitifully inadequate compared to what she knew she’d be up against. The men sent after her would be toting firepower that made her own weapon look like a peashooter.

  It was then she decided not to take the open road. Instead, she chose to blaze a parallel path along the original, close enough to monitor incoming activity and still remain hidden under the protection of the thick tropical foliage.

  Adjusting the backpack straps over both shoulders to evenly distribute the weight and free her arms, she set out to make her way as far as she could before she would be forced back to the main trail. The village was only two miles away. With a little luck she’d be on the main highway in a couple of hours and on a plane to the United States shortly thereafter.

  She stopped short and held her breath. Two members of Escobedo’s private militia stood between her and freedom. Crouching, she peered through the bushes, her breath rushing from her lungs in relief. For the moment they stood at ease, smoking and talking, with their high-powered rifles slung casually over their shoulders. Their relaxed stance could be deceiving to anyone who wasn’t familiar with these highly trained professional soldiers. She’d seen firsthand how attuned to their surroundings they really were.

  Certain there had to be more men scattered around the perimeter and down the path all the way to the village, she scanned the darkness for any further signs of activity. She was a little surprised, though no less relieved, when she didn’t detect more than just the two. Before more arrived, she had to take advantage of the numbers. As soon as these guys realized the shots they’d heard hadn’t eliminated all the intended targets, they’d be calling for backup and tearing this forest apart looking for her.

  She lifted her gaze but couldn’t yet detect any glow of the fire tinting the night sky. She told herself she needed to get moving before reinforcements had the opportunity to cordon off the area and sever any hope she still held in believing she could make it out alive.

  Keeping low, she turned and started into the denser part of the forest—away from the path and toward what she felt was the least likely direction they’d expect her to travel.

  She refused to let herself think about the wildlife she knew was there, tracking her scent and watching her every move. Thinking would just have to wait for another time because thinking made her hesitant, and even a fraction of hesitation could get her killed. She needed to rely on instincts alone.

  With only scattered shards of moonlight breaking through the forest canopy to light her way, she led with her gunned hand and shoved aside a thick curtain of vines with her forearm. Stepping beyond their depth, she worked her way through the hanging overgrowth and tangled underbrush with arms alternating like a swimmer fighting against a powerful current.

  On and on she plodded in similar unwavering fashion, the humid air hanging as thick as the foliage in some places, for what had to be by her estimation close to an hour already. The village had to be getting close.

  Dirty and dripping in sweat, she stopped and dropped her aching arms, moving her head from side to side and flexing her strained muscles in an attempt to stay loose and ready to move again.

  Her once pristine white tee was soiled and stained beyond redemption, a fact that was probably for the best since even now random clean spots shined like beacons in the darkness. Cramped fingers throbbed and trembled. In an effort to give her hand a break, she tucked the revolver into the back waistband of her jeans—out of sight but still within easy reach.

  Lifting her perspiration-soaked locks off her neck, she gathered it all between her hands and held the heavy mass on top of her head, desperately wishing for the hint of a breeze or something, anything, to tie up her hair. Discomfort and necessity led her to tear the hem off her shirtsleeve.

  She scooped her hair between her hands and wound the loop of fabric around the ponytail as she held her breath and listened. There were so many nocturnal noises she couldn’t define. She heard dozens of vague, indistinguishable sounds, though she knew instinctively not all of them were indigenous to the forest. She felt the presence of human predators surrounding her, cutting off her escape route, closing in for the kill. Those thoughts were all the impetus she needed to get moving.

  The crack of a gunshot zinged past, ricocheting off a tree trunk just inches from her head. She ducked and crouched, taking cover behind a protruding tangle of tree roots and low-hanging branches. Two more shots followed, the pitch of both sounding different from the first, telling her that there was more than one shooter.

  But it wasn’t the number of guns that troubled her as much as the different directions from which they originated. The shots fired from both behind and ahead of her. This was not, no matter how she tried to analyze it, a good sign.

  She had quite probably stumbled into a left-wing guerrillas’ camp, and now she was caught smack in the middle of what could easily escalate into a full-blown shootout. She sure as hell wasn’t sticking around to find out what happened next.

  The problem was, she wasn’t particularly thrilled with the other options left to her: Turn left and she’d be back on the main road without cover, turn right and she would find herself swimming in a sluggish tributary of the Sinú River.

  While she contemplated her choices, the shooters traded another round of gunfire. Her decision was made. Since she didn’t feel like going for a midnight swim, the road it was.

  The ricochet came a split second before the bite of a bullet tore a chunk of flesh from her left bicep. She slumped to the ground, clutching her upper arm and taking slow, deep breaths to control the burning pain.

  After a dozen more measured breaths, she gritted her teeth and tore a hole into her shirt five inches from the hem, then ripped a strip of fabric all the way around her middle. Once she had the strip torn loose, she whipped it over her head and wrapped the cloth around her injured arm.

  That done, she pressed forward, refusing to give in to the persistent thrumming pain vying for her attention. Her breathing railed in her ears and her heart thundered, ineffectively muffling the sporadic exchange of gunfire.

  As she belly-crawled through the underbrush, whip-like branches snapped against her face and arms, leaving lashes and bruises on every part of exposed flesh.

  Already able to see the faint glimmer of the open dirt path shining under the pale sliver of moonlight, she pushed onward. Ten feet, five, two... Rising into a sprinter’s crouch, she burst from out of her leafy cover and took off without hesitation.

  She struggled to keep from stumbling in the loose dirt path, her heart pounding harder and louder with every step as she continually glanced over her shoulder. She couldn’t see them, but she sure as hell heard their angry shouts and the chirping squawk of walkie-talkies.

  She was so intent on what was coming up behind her that she never saw what stood dead ahead. Twisting forward, her eyes grew wide as her feet scuffled in the dirt, the leather-soled huaraches skidding in an out-of-control attempt to keep from crashing into the heavily armed band of insurgents blocking her way.

  Camouflaged for night movement in jungle fatigues with smoky streaks and smudges on their arms and faces, she hadn’t seen them until she was on top of them. She dug her heels in harder and threw her weight back, hoping to keep herself from plowing smack into the big scruffy-faced guy in the middle.

  She tensed and fell backward, landing hard on her hands and butt. An excruciating jolt shot up her wounded arm, and for a moment she thought she was going to black out or throw up, or both.
The feelings passed but the throbbing pain persisted.

  Propelled by the downward grade of the road, she continued to slide forward. In spite of her desperate attempts to stop the momentum, her feet found nothing but loose gravel and powdery dirt.

  It felt like every move she made was in slow motion, giving her the unfortunate opportunity to realize where she had made her mistakes. It might be too late to learn from them, but by God she wasn’t going down without a fight. Coming to a skidding halt not more than ten feet from the rebel faction, she was finally able to get a closer look at the half dozen men forming a human wall across the road. There was nowhere for her to go.

  Reaching for the revolver pressing hard against her lower spine, she figured she had three rounds left. Logistically she could take out two of them before turning the last shot on herself. She was never given the chance to do more than form the intent.

  Without so much as a grunt to verbalize his command, the big guy in the middle gestured with a flip of the wrist and a terse nod in her direction.

  The man on his left raised his pistol, took aim, and fired.

  Chapter Two

  He stood near the foot of the bed with a fist pressed near the Beretta holstered on his hip; he watched her sleep as he shifted from one booted foot to the other, wondering all the while if he should try to wake her. Before his full weight redistributed, he found himself staring at the business end of a compact 9mm.

  Raising his palms in a gesture of surrender, slowly, so as not to startle her or give her any reason to think he was going for his weapon, he spoke evenly and without a trace of fear in his distinctively deep, resonant voice. “Stand down, agent. I’m on your side.” He was also curious as to how and when she’d managed to find the loaded handgun while still under the influence of a powerful sedative.

  With the gun trained on his chest and her eyes locked on his face, she rose up and scooted on her knees to the end of the bed where he stood.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  A slow smile came to his clean-shaven face. “Have I changed that much since you saw me last, Piper?” Considering what the surgeons had to work with after the accident, he thought they had done a pretty remarkable job in restoring his face. Without risking nerve damage and facial paralysis, this was about as good as it was ever going to get.

  “Say something else,” she said in a tone that really didn’t give him an option to do otherwise, since the barrel of the pistol was inches from his sternum.

  “Well, let me see,” he said. “Your name is Piper Jordan, more recently known as Isabel Fuentes. You’re an undercover operative for InPro, an agency that places agents in long-term infiltration assignments for the purpose of reconnaissance and fact finding.” He paused, giving her a chance to ask questions. When none were forthcoming, he asked a quick one of his own. “Need I go on?”

  She tipped her head and studied his scarred and altered features until she appeared wholly satisfied. Then and only then did she relax her posture enough to lower her guard and the weapon.

  “Jay-zus, Riggs!” she exclaimed, her Texas roots weaving their way around every syllable as she rocked back on her heels with a disbelieving eye roll and an exasperated sigh. “What in the hay-ell were you thinking prancin’ in here like that?”

  “Apparently I wasn’t,” he said. Carter Riggs fought hard against the urge to grin. He needed to remain objective, but it wasn’t easy. Her drawl was coming on stronger than he’d heard in a long time, and he found it charming in every sense. “I thought you were still sedated and defenseless—my mistake on both counts.” He considered her with a wry twist of his lips. “And just for the record, I never prance anymore.” He was particularly adamant on that point. It’d been quite some time since he’d had the need. His undercover days as Sonny Charles, haberdasher to the New Jersey mob, were long behind him.

  Flexing her neck and shoulders, she rubbed her huge, dark eyes with the heels of her palms, then stared at him with a studious tip of her head. “I know it’s been a while, but you don’t look anything like I remember. Why is that?”

  “I was in a helicopter crash a couple of days after you left for Colombia. I’ve only just returned to active duty.” He found it ironic that considering all the dangerous missions he’d completed virtually unscathed throughout his lengthy career, it’d been a routine jaunt from D.C. to New York that had taken him out of the game.

  “Why are you here now?” she asked, gesturing to the unfamiliar bedroom with a lackadaisical wave and adding under her breath, “Wherever here is.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Don’t you usually leave search and recovery to McCaffrey and Branch?”

  “This was an extraction, not a recovery.”

  All expression fell from her features. “You didn’t know that going in,” she said with a straightforwardness he’d always admired.

  “No,” he answered with similar bluntness. “I admit I didn’t, but considering the fact that you’ve never done anything expected, I figured it was worth the effort to look for you myself.”

  Her chocolate brown gaze softened, and she smiled a gentle smile she rarely imparted. Something inside him gave a little tug, which he quickly contributed to nothing more than hunger pangs. He couldn’t risk it being anything more.

  “Lucky for you that voice of yours hasn’t changed,” she said, returning her attention to the pistol still lying loosely in her fist. “Here you go,” she said, turning it butt out to surrender it to him. “This must belong to you.”

  He waved away her offer. “Keep it. I know how much you like your small firearms.”

  “Thanks,” she said, casting him a grateful glance and a quick grin. She rolled and stretched across the width of the bed to place the pistol on the nightstand as casually, he noted, as most women set aside their watch or a jar of night cream before bed.

  He watched her closely, attempting to appraise her assorted injuries more by how she moved than by appearance. Even now, knowing the extent of her wounds, she wasn’t an easy person to read.

  As she stood just centimeters shy of six feet and was presently dressed in only a pair of hip-hugger cotton Jockeys and matching heather gray tank top, he always thought Piper Jordan looked more like a Victoria Secret’s model than a highly skilled operative. Except perhaps for those lovely little breasts of hers, he thoughtfully amended; they fell considerably short of Victoria’s more voluptuous standards, though he never thought of her as anything but the epitome of perfection in every way.

  When realizing the direction his train of thought raced, Carter stomped on the brakes and averted his gaze before she caught him assessing her with a less than professional eye. If she suspected his thoughts were less than honorable he’d be fishing for his newly capped teeth from here to the Florida coast.

  He was relieved to see she remained oblivious to his furtive leering. She sat up and ran her fingers through thick tousled waves of shoulder-sweeping sable brown hair, lifting it momentarily off her neck before releasing the heavy dark mass to resettle around her face.

  He was amazed by how long her hair had grown in the time she’d been gone. In all the years he’d known her she’d always kept it cropped short and wispy, a style that only seemed to emphasize the sharp angles of her high cheekbones, slender neck, and stubborn jawline. The longer hair framed her face and softened her features, accentuating her full pouty mouth and huge dark eyes instead. He liked it better this way, not that she’d ever know. This was one of those things better left unspoken.

  Piper slowly moved her head from side to side, as if the repetitive action would shake loose the last remnants of the sedative lingering in her brain. “How long have I been asleep?”

  He studied his black-cased titanium watch. “About twelve hours,” he answered. “Minus the time you used to search for the gun, of course,” he added, tap
ping the shatter-proof watch face with his fingertip. He was still amazed that she’d found the pistol he’d hidden in the room. Old habits died hard and that one would probably stay with him forever. He never lived anywhere, not even temporary quarters like these, without hiding a few weapons in places unlikely to be searched. The instinct had saved his ass on more than one occasion.

  “Twelve hours!” she exclaimed. “That’s insane. I can’t remember the last time I slept that long, but I’m sure the term infant was attached to the memory.”

  “I was beginning to worry we’d over-sedated you.”

  “What’d you use?”

  “Hypnolbarbitrate,” he answered after a thoughtful pause.

  She arched one delicate brow and curled her lips. “Isn’t that the latest and greatest date rape drug hitting the international club scenes?”

  “It is,” he acknowledged with a barely perceived nod. “That one nasty side effect happens only in combination with alcohol. Otherwise, HBT is a safe and effective sedative when administered by a physician.”

  “Nothing but the best for me, eh, Riggs?” she chided as she flipped her hair out of her face.

  “You’d been seriously traumatized,” was all he said in the way of an explanation. They’d found her battered, bruised, and bleeding. Traumatized was putting it mildly.

  “Yeah, well, too bad Escobedo’s thugs weren’t nearly as thoughtful. Their preferred method of sedation leaned toward fists and .45 caliber.” She flexed her shoulder and winced.

  “What happened in that cabin, Piper?” he prompted as he studied her, attempting to assess her present frame of mind. Although he loathed to push her for specifics so soon, he wouldn’t stop her from volunteering the information he’d have to get out of her eventually. “The fire hindered the investigation. It’s going to take a while to piece it together. Anything you can tell me will only help.”