Jaw set at a stubborn angle, Audrey vehemently shook her head. “I won’t kill anyone.”
Figures he’d end up in the middle of a raid with a peace-loving, flower-sniffing hippie.
“Then make yourself useful and keep watch,” he gritted out between his teeth and made sure his phone was on silent mode before sliding it down into his boot. Thank the technological gods for razor-thin phones. With his boot laced, it was all but invisible, and if the guerillas patted him down, it would go unnoticed. If they made him strip, then he might have some issues.
One of the cars up ahead contained a family, and the guerillas were no gentler with the two little boys than they were with the adults. The kids’ mother cried out as one guerilla shoved the older boy hard enough that he hit his head on a tree stump and went limp.
“Oh my God,” Audrey whispered. Her hand covered her mouth in shock even as she reached for the door. “We have to—”
“Stay here.” He caught her arm. “It’ll be bad enough for us once they realize we’re American.”
And when they saw that he was armed. But he couldn’t hide his firearm in his boot. The SIG was a veritable death sentence for him, and all but useless against all those AKs. It wasn’t so unusual for him to be outnumbered and outgunned—for a SEAL, it was just another day in the life, what he was trained for. In theory, he should be able to take three or four out before they got him, but that wasn’t a theory he particularly wanted to test when Audrey’s life was at risk, too. What would happen to her after they killed him? He shuddered to think.
She struggled against his hold. “But the boy—”
“His parents have him. Don’t draw any unnecessary attention to us, Audrey. They’ll notice us soon enough.”
Chapter Eight
The moment the warning left Gabe’s lips, wheels screeched as the car behind them shot into reverse, kicking up gravel that pelted the Jeep like hail. Shouting, the guerillas left their captives to run after the escaping car, those wicked-looking guns locked to their shoulders, firing without sense or aim. Bullets peppered the windshield and Gabe grabbed Audrey by the back of the neck, shoving her down. Her breath whooshed out when the heavy weight of his body covered her and jabbed the gearshift into her ribs. Every second felt like forever, every heartbeat her last. She closed her eyes and prayed like the good Catholic girl her mama had raised her to be. Someone was making a hiccupping sound, and for a long, confused moment, she couldn’t figure out who it was.
Gabe’s arms circled her, crossing over her chest so that his hands covered hers where she held them clasped between her breasts. She felt his heartbeat against her back, heard his soft, even breaths in her ear. Calm. Cool. And so insanely collected, he was almost a robot.
Just another jungle jaunt for the man who didn’t know how to cut loose.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up, but caught on the growing knot of fear in her throat. Realizing she was the one making those hiccup sounds, she clamped her mouth shut and ground her teeth to keep more noise from slipping out.
Gabe gave her a tight, reassuring squeeze. It shouldn’t have helped. She shouldn’t have felt safer with him wrapped around her, because he wasn’t any more bulletproof than she was. But, oh God, did it help.
Minutes, hours, days later, the gunfire slowed. Then stopped altogether.
“Stay quiet.” Gabe squeezed her again, lightly this time, and she felt him shift his weight, his face lifting from where he had it buried in her hair. “Oh, fu—”
Suddenly he was gone, hauled off her by rough hands. The passenger side door flew open and more hands reached in to grab her and yank her out of the air-conditioned Jeep, into the stifling heat of the jungle afternoon. A cacophony of sights and sounds bombarded her senses as the guerillas shoved her over to stand with the other captives. Monkeys screeched in the treetops, several people were sobbing, others shouting in jungle-accented Spanish. The car that had tried to get away hissed steam from under its hood as its bullet-riddled radiator leaked. Three bodies lay sprawled on the pitted road, seeping bright red blood even as the guerillas went through their pockets. The air reeked of jungle-rot, gunpowder, blood and bowels.
Two of the men—God, they were more like boys—held Gabe by the arms while a third got in his face and interrogated him in Spanish. “Who are you? Are you police? American military? Answer me!”
Gabe looked as if he was talking about the weather as he shook his head and said repeatedly, “No Spanish. No hablo Español. No Spanish.”
The guerilla asking the questions hooked the strap of his AK-47 around his back and reached to pat Gabe down.