Rescuing Carmen, page 10
“I’m up for that.” Alec eagerly rubs his palms together.
“I’m going with trophy wife,” Hayes jumps in, claiming his guess first.
“Dude, did you pay any attention to the briefing?” Zeb punches Hayes in the arm. “Maximus Angelo isn’t married. His wife died over a decade ago.”
More like twelve years. I’m a facts and figures kind of man with this weird knack of remembering minutia. Maximus’s wife died twelve years ago, leaving a ten-year-old daughter…
Whoa, my head snaps up, and I stare at the woman sitting in front of me. She’s about the right age, twenty-one, twenty-two? Could it be?
But that makes no sense. Why is she running from her father?
“He never remarried.” Alec shifts in his seat. “Which is sketch.”
“Sketch?” I thump the top of his helmet. “Why would that be sketchy?”
“Because the dude is powerful. Second only to el Presidente.” Alec gestures with a flick of his hand. “At least in Nicaragua.”
“So?”
“Why wouldn’t a dude like that get remarried? Doesn’t he need a pretty wife dangling on his arm for all those political events?”
It’s a good question. Not one I have an answer for. There could be many reasons, but I agree with Alec. It’s sketchy. A man with political aspirations the size of Maximus Angelo’s needs the positive public image that comes from a wife standing beside him, especially in this deeply religious country.
I pull at the collar of my shirt, hoping for a little relief from the heat.
The thought this woman might be a plaything for that bastard would churn my stomach, but I’m certain she’s his daughter.
“I’m thinking we ask her.” My attention shifts from my teammates to the woman curled in on herself. Her entire body shakes. It’s not a chill. Most likely, it’s the aftereffect of too much adrenaline dumping into her system all at once.
On closer inspection, even that is wrong. Palms clasped tight in her lap, she rocks back and forth. Head bowed, her lips barely move, but they do move. It takes a minute before I realize she’s praying.
Since we’re using our comms channel, she hears none of our conversation. It’s the genius of sub-vocalization. Sensors over our larynx enhance the vibrations of our vocal cords to create sound that can be heard through our earpieces.
It feels wrong talking about her when she can’t hear us.
Twisting around, I take a good long look at Izzy. She was an equal distance away from the flashbang when it went off. Booker appears to be carrying on a conversation with her just fine. They keep their heads pressed together, but he’s not shouting. Turning back around, I take another look at our unexpected guest.
While I wonder whether I’m right, Alec, Hayes, and Zeb argue over which one of them gets to bet she’s a mistress, a hooker, or kidnap victim like Izzy.
Betting is a thing we do. You name it. We bet on it. I used to lose a lot of cash until Alpha team’s weird betting ritual became general knowledge among the Guardian teams. Instead of cash or coin, Alpha bets with old buttons. It has something to do with Alpha-One, but I’m fuzzy on the details.
Bottom line, it’s silly and beyond weird, but the whole button-betting-thing spread throughout the teams. We all do it now.
“You’re all wrong,” CJ cuts through the chatter. “That is none other than Carmen Angelo.”
“Maximus’s daughter.” I complete the thought, barely registering the words coming out of my mouth. I can’t stop staring at Carmen Angelo.
“No fucking way.” Brady twists in his seat. “Why the hell would Maximus Angelo’s daughter hitch a ride with us?”
Hayes shakes his head and fishes out a raggedy button out of his pants pocket. He hands it to Zeb, who pockets it. When did Zeb guess she was Maximus Angelo’s daughter? I shake my head and remind myself distractions can be dangerous.
As far as distractions go, Carmen Angelo is one major distraction.
Her head lifts at Brady’s shout, revealing her hearing is coming back.
“I don’t know,” CJ says, “but we’re going to find out.”
“Carmen.” I like the way her name roles off my tongue. I reach out and press the tip of my finger under her chin. To my surprise, she doesn’t flinch and allows me to tilt her head back.
Carmen Angelo regards me with the fiercest stare I’ve ever seen on a woman. It’s almost as if she defies me to—well, to do just about anything. I should pull back, but I can’t help myself. For whatever reason, I force her chin up, then force her head to turn left, then right.
I was wrong. She’s not gorgeous. The woman is absolutely stunning and royally pissed off.
Her hand darts out. Fingers wrap around my wrist and apply pressure to the nerves on my inner wrist. It’s enough to bring a grown man to his knees. My legs buckle, but I stand firm as excruciating pain rips through me. She jerks her chin free and glares at me.
We share a moment, Carmen and I, testing each other’s strength. That nerve thing hurts like bloody hell, but I’ll be damned if I’ll allow her to bring me to my knees. Clenching my teeth, I lock eyes with her and the two of us duke it out like two little kids stuck in a stupid staring contest.
For the record?
She blinks first.
Which means I win.
Carmen releases my wrist and folds her hands primly in her lab. She holds my stare for a second longer before glancing over my shoulder to take in the rest of my team. Fear rims her eyes, but a stony determination holds it in check.
Forgoing sub-vocalization, I clear my throat and speak in my normal register.
“You can hear us, can’t you?” When she doesn’t answer, I gesture toward Izzy. “She hears just fine, which means you do too.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Wanna explain why you’re here?”
Carmen leans back and folds her hands in her lap. Red lacquered nails, the same shade as her ruby-red lipstick, tap her arms.
“Not talking?” I cock my head.
I don’t tell her we know who she is. Carmen’s headed for an interrogation, and I won’t hand over any useful intel we have on her. For now, it’s best she believes we don’t know who she is. That way, we’ll know when she’s lying.
Her lips press into a firm line and she disengages, turning her attention out the window to the waiting jumbo jet outside. The shuttle slows down, lurching to a stop at the very end. Instead of accidentally shoving my crotch in her face, like I did when we took off, I take a step back to steady myself. My grip on the back of the seats keeps me in place.
As soon as the driver opens the door, everyone piles out of the shuttle. Outside, Sam and CJ take Carmen from me. Sam grabs one arm. CJ takes the other. They corral her between them, manhandling her more than she deserves.
I get it.
Until they understand why she’s here, they don’t want to give her any chance to escape. Not that she would. The woman risked her life to be here.
But why she did that remains the million-dollar question. Is she escaping her father? Or is she acting as his agent and the whole escape is an elaborate ruse to ferret out who Guardian HRS is?
For what? What would they hope to gain?
We won’t know until we question her, and knowing Guardian HRS interrogation techniques, I pray she’s ready for what comes next.
As they escort Carmen onto the plane, she turns to look at me. It’s almost desperate how she searches for me. Once our gazes connect, the tension in her body eases. Not that it disappears altogether. Her brows scrunch as an unreadable expression ripples across her beautiful face. There’s fear, comfort, and something else; a longing of sorts.
Like everything, Guardian HRS doesn’t go small with the company jet. The jumbo jet’s interior was completely scrapped and remade. Every seat is first class, two on each side. They come with those privacy screens that encase you in your personal bubble, and the seats lay flat, becoming beds.
Not such a big deal, unless you’re a guy like me. I’ve flown first class overseas more times than I care to count, but I’m a big guy. There’s nothing worse than settling in for a long, trans-pacific flight in first class, only to find the fucking bed is four inches too short. In this jet, I can lay my seat back, tuck a pillow under my head, stretch overhead, point my toes, and there’s still room to spare.
We’re lucky to have Forest Summers in charge of approving jumbo jet modifications. There’s no question they took his size into consideration when designing the seats. I don’t remember, but he’s easily six foot eight. Maybe six ten? The dude isn’t seven foot, but he’s close. While he couldn’t get them to make the ceiling inside the passenger bay over seven feet, he definitely ensured the rest of the plane fit a man like him. Which I find kind of curious.
During my SEAL days, we often flew in C-17s. Those are double-decker planes, handling cargo the size of tanks, deuces, and whatnot with ease. I suppose commercial builds limit what we can do.
As it is, the poor guy still has to duck his head, but I’m happy for the seats. I’ve slept in them plenty of times. There’s room enough to spare, and I’m six foot four. Compared to Forest, I’m short. Compared to the Guardians, I’m simply average in height.
Compared to everyone else, I’m formidable. It’s a wonder Carmen doesn’t shrink away from my touch. What I wouldn’t give to hold her in my arms. Hold up. Where did that come from?
It’s crazy.
I know it’s crazy, but holding her while we flew in the air just felt—right.
As if she was made for me and I was made for her.
I don’t know if it’s my profound dry spell or something else. Maybe the lack of sex is fucking with my brain? But we connected. I know we did. I didn’t imagine it. With those thoughts swirling in my head, I move through the plane.
The front of the plane is for the techies. Monitors fill every spare inch of the bulkheads. It’s their mobile, in-flight workspace. There’s also a full-sized conference room toward the back. It’s large enough to hold an entire team, along with Sam, CJ, and Mitzy. Mission planning often evolves en route to our destination. The aisle between the seats shifts to the portside of the aircraft to make room for the conference room.
Beyond that are the lavatories. Full-sized bathrooms, complete with showers. Not that we’ll be using them during the seven-hour flight home. Beyond the lavatories are the lockers for our gear.
I follow Sam and CJ. When they open the door to the conference room, Carmen glances at me. A hint of fear flickers in her eyes.
I yank off my helmet and run my fingers through my sweat-soaked hair, giving her the first view of my face. Not sure what I expect, she doesn’t reach for me. There’s a pause, a slight hitching of her breath, but then CJ gives her a little nudge into the conference room. He and Sam follow her inside and shut the door behind them.
Excused from my guard duties, I join the rest of Bravo team in the very rear of the aircraft where our gear lockers sit.
Brady rips off his tactical vest. Like me, he’s covered in sweat. I do the same, eager to get some relief from the heat. The moment the helmet’s off, I shed my sweat-soaked t-shirt, then tug at my boots.
It’s hot here on the ground, but once we’re at altitude, it’ll cool down substantially. Not to mention, none of us want to spend the next seven hours in sweaty clothes.
“Where are the others?” Booker addresses Brady, who leans against the bulkhead.
“Inbound. Had to stop at the original exfil location to pick up the Rufuses. They’re five minutes out.” He clamps his hand on Booker’s shoulder. “Go ahead and stow your gear. We’ve got this.”
Booker leaves us, hitting up the head, before returning to Izzy’s side.
A few minutes later, the rest of our team arrives. Forest Summers boards first, ducking his head and slanting it to the side on account of his height. Something outside the window draws my eyes. I blink and do a double take. All three Rufus robots calmly march themselves up the cargo ramp. No doubt they’ll tuck themselves in for the flight.
We stow all our gear, do a quick change, then the guys head to the front of the plane to claim their seats. Nearly everyone’s on board. I hang toward the back, content to take a seat in the last row, when the door to the conference room opens.
Sam wanders out, catches my eye, then points inside. “She refuses to talk. See what you can do to change that.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thirteen
Carmen
So far, so good.
It doesn’t look like they’re going to leave me behind. I can breathe easy.
But where are they taking me?
Two men guide me down the center aisle inside the plane.
I’ve flown in numerous private planes before, but nothing on the scale of this. The insides of this plane are built for comfort. Every seat is first class. This outfit has significant financial backing.
Have I made a fatal mistake?
The men lead me past rows of first-class seats to a door toward the back of the plane. Once there, they deposit me inside what appears to be an airborne command center.
I’d like to look out the windows, see if anyone is racing out to meet us—Police? The clergy? Matias? My father? Artemus?—but there are no windows to look outside. As far as anyone goes, there’s no way Father’s security forces have recovered from the breach tonight. However, I’ve learned not to depend on such things. A simple phone call from my father brings all of this crashing down.
A long conference table spans the length of the room; twelve chairs sit around it, five on each side and one each at the ends. Monitors fill the walls, leaving barely a gap between them. There’s even a low counter with an ice bucket and several bottled waters waiting to be consumed.
One of the men gestures for me to take a seat. I do so with as much grace as I can muster while minimizing any sign of my unease.
“My name is Sam, and this is CJ.” The burlier man speaks first. He pauses for a second while I press my lips together and try to find a comfortable position. “And you appear to be Carmen Angelo, daughter of Maximus Angelo, Minister of the Interior for Nicaragua.” He casually inspects his nails. “Care to explain what you’re doing here?”
“Not really.” I fold my arms in a defensive move.
They deserve answers. This isn’t an unexpected question, but I need to be strategic in what I reveal.
Sam glances at CJ. His left brow wings up, surprised by my non-answer.
“We’re going to need a little more than that if you want to stay on this plane.” Sam mirrors my pose, not to be defensive, but rather to establish authority.
“Are you the one in charge?” I ask.
“I’m the one questioning you.” He takes a step back and leans against the wall.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Correct. Just as yours isn’t an answer to the question I asked.”
“Do you work for the CIA?”
Life will be much easier if they’re CIA operatives. Not that I can divulge anything to them. My contact was very clear on that point. No matter what, that’s a secret I’ll take to my grave.
The two of them exchange looks, conversing in that silent way of theirs. Beneath my feet, the airplane’s decking vibrates with the movement of others getting on board.
“Do you?” Sam unfolds his arms.
“Do I, what?”
“Do you work for the CIA?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Why won’t you answer my questions?”
This is going to get dodgy. He asks things I can’t answer, so I turn the tables on them.
“Your organization came to rescue Isabelle LaCroix, didn’t it?”
“Looks that way.” The corners of his mouth bounce with amusement. “And you crashed our rescue, didn’t you?”
“Looks that way.” I parrot his words, feeding them back to him. “Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why did you rescue Isabelle LaCroix?”
“Because your father took something that didn’t belong to him. We don’t like when that happens.”
“I assume it’s safe to say Isabelle LaCroix works for you?” The more information I can gather, the better off I’ll be.
“You can assume anything you want.” He pulls at his chin. “What possessed you to jump Rafe?”
“Rafe?”
“The Guardian who held onto you and saved your life.”
“I don’t know about saved.” I use air quotes for emphasis.
“You’re saying he didn’t?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“Well then,” Sam twists toward CJ, “looks like we let her go.”
“No!” My shout is more frantic than I mean it to be.
“No?” Sam crosses his arms again. “What are you running from, Miss Angelo? Or, should I rather say who?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Seeing how you hijacked our mission, I’d say your intentions are very much our business. In a moment, we’ll be closing up the airplane, taxiing to the runway, and taking off. We’ll be flying out of your country back to ours. You can imagine the difficulties we’ll have with the custom’s officials when we arrive with a passenger who has no passport.”
“I have a feeling your operation does a lot of that. Don’t feed me B.S. about not being able to handle that.”
“We have a saying around here.” He pauses, and I fall right into his trap, too curious to hold my tongue.
“What’s that?”
“Never assume, and never jump to conclusions.”
“Why not?”
“When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me, and when you jump to conclusions, it’s a long swim back. You, young lady, are one massive assumption, and that makes you a major liability. Considering who your father is, bringing you with us could open up a political quagmire no one wants any part of. So, I’m going to ask you again. Why are you here?”
Shoot.
“I want to talk to Isabelle LaCroix.”
“Izzy?” CJ, who’s said nothing thus far, suddenly pipes up. “Why her?”
