Michael's Temptation. Eileen Wilks

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СКАЧАТЬ symptoms of terror as best she could, making her way by touch and memory to the boarded-up window. There she folded her long legs to sit on the cool, dirty floor. Spaces between the boards let in fresh air—chilly, this far up in the mountains, but welcome. She smelled dampness and dirt, the wild green aroma of growing things, the heavier perfume of flowers. Even now, in the dry season, there were flowers here.

      Wherever “here” was. She didn’t know where the soldiers had brought her when they’d raided La Paloma, the sleepy village where she’d been working. San Christóbal had a lot of mountains.

      The boards let in slices of sky along with air. And if the sky was clear…yes, when she leaned close she could see a single star. The sight eased her.

      The night wasn’t truly silent. Inside, there was the labored breathing of the feverish nun. Outside, frogs set up a staccato chorus, and the soft whirring of wings announced the hunt of some night-flying bird. Somewhere not too far away, a man cried out a greeting in Spanish and was answered. The distant scream of a puma rattled the night. Then there was only the sighing of wind through trees.

      So many trees. Even without boards, without soldiers and fear, it had been hard sometimes to find enough sky here to feed a soul used to the open plains of west Texas.

      A.J. tried not to regret coming to San Christóbal. That, too, was hard. Her eyes stayed open while her lips moved in a soundless prayer.

      It shamed her, how deep and terrible her fear was. It weakened her, too, and she would need strength to get through whatever was to come. So she would pray and wait here, wait and watch as her slivers of sky brightened. In the daylight, she could remember who she was. There was Sister Maria Elena to care for then, and birdsong and monkey chatter to listen to. In the daylight, the slices of sky between the cracks would turn brilliantly blue. She could steady herself against those snatches of life.

      But at night, locked into the darkness, she felt alone, lost, forgotten. In the darkness, she missed Dan intensely—and blamed him, too, as foolish as that was. In the darkness, the fear came back, rolling in like the tide of a polluted ocean. Sooner or later, he would be back. The one they called El Jefe. He would finish killing people elsewhere and return to his headquarters.

      Being left alone was a good thing, she reminded herself. El Jefe was a man who believed in killing for his cause—but he didn’t condone rape. Neither she nor Sister Maria Elena had been harmed in that way. A.J. watched her star and murmured a prayer of thanks.

      If she hadn’t been sitting with her head almost touching the boards, she wouldn’t have heard the sound. Softer than a whisper, so soft she couldn’t say what made it—save that it came from outside. From the other side of the window.

      Her breath stopped up in her throat. Her eyes widened.

      Something blacked out her star.

      “Reverend? Are you there?” The voice was male and scarcely louder than her heartbeat. It came from only inches away. “Reverend Kelleher?”

      It was also American.

      Dizziness hit. If she had been standing, she would have fallen. “Yes,” she whispered, and had to swallow. “Yes, I’m here.”

      A pause. “I’m going to kill Scopes,” that wonderful voice whispered.

      “Wh-what?”

      “I was expecting a baritone, not a soprano.” There was a hint of drawl in the whisper, a deliciously familiar echo of Texas. “Lieutenant Michael West, ma’am. Special Forces. I’ve come to get you out of here.”

      “Thank God.” The prayer was heartfelt.

      “How old are you?”

      “Thirty-two.” She bit back the urge to ask him how old he was.

      “Are you injured?”

      “No, I—”

      “On a scale of couch potato to superjock, how fit are you?”

      Oh—he needed to know if she would be able to keep up. “I’m in good shape, Lieutenant. But Sister Maria Elena is over sixty, and her leg—”

      “Who?” The word came out sharp and a little louder.

      “Sister Maria Elena,” she repeated, confused. “She was injured when the soldiers overran the village. I’m afraid she won’t be able to…Lieutenant?”

      He’d begun to curse, fluently and almost soundlessly. “This nun—is she a U.S. citizen?”

      “No, but surely that doesn’t matter.”

      “The U.S. can’t rescue every native endangered by a bunch of Che Guevara wannabes. And what would I do with her? Guatemala and Honduras aren’t accepting refugees from San Christóbal, and Nicaragua is still pissed at the U.S. over the carrier incident last spring. They wouldn’t let us land a military helicopter.”

      “But—but you can’t just leave her here!”

      “Reverend, getting you out is going to be tricky enough.”

      A.J. leaned her forehead against one rough board and swallowed hope. It lumped up sick and cold in her stomach. “Then I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t go with you.”

      There was a beat of silence. “Do you have any idea what El Jefe will do to you if you’re still here when he gets back?”

      “I hope you aren’t planning to give me any gruesome details. It won’t help. I can’t leave Sister Maria Elena.” Her voice wobbled. “She’s feverish. It started with a cut on her foot that got infected. Sh-she’ll die without care.”

      “Lady, she’s going to die whether you stay or go.”

      She wanted desperately to go with him. She couldn’t. “I can’t leave her.”

      Another, longer silence. “Do you know anything about the truck parked beside the barracks?”

      She shook her head, trying to keep up with the odd jumps his mind made. “I don’t know. They brought me here in a truck. A flatbed truck with metal sides that smells like a chicken coop.”

      “That’s the one. It was running last week?”

      She nodded, then felt foolish. He couldn’t see her. “Yes.”

      “Okay. Get your things together. Wait here—I’ll be back.”

      She nearly choked on a giggle, afraid that if she started laughing she wouldn’t be able to stop. “Sure. I’m not going anywhere.”

      The moon was a skimpy sliver, casting barely enough light to mark the boundaries between shadows. Michael waited in a puddle of deeper darkness, his back pressed to the cement blocks of El Jefe’s house. A sentry passed fifteen feet away.

      The sentries didn’t worry him. He had a pair of Uncle Sam’s best night goggles, while the sentries had to rely on whatever night vision came naturally. He also had his weapons—a SIG Sauer and the CAR 16 slung over his shoulder—but hoped like hell he wouldn’t have to use them. Shooting was likely to attract attention. If he had СКАЧАТЬ