Last Spy Standing. Dana Marton

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      About the Author

      DANA MARTON is the author of more than a dozen fast-paced, action-adventure romantic suspense novels and a winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence. She loves writing books of international intrigue, filled with dangerous plots that try her tough-as-nails heroes and the special women they fall in love with. Her books have been published in seven languages in eleven countries around the world. When not writing or reading, she loves to browse antiques shops and enjoys working in her sizable flower garden, where she searches for “bad” bugs with the skills of a superspy and vanquishes them with the agility of a commando soldier. Every day in her garden is a thriller. To find more information on her books, please visit www.danamarton.com. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached via e-mail at [email protected].

      Last Spy

      Standing

      Dana Marton

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      This book is dedicated to Karen Micek,

      a wonderful friend.

      With many thanks to my editor, Allison Lyons.

      Chapter One

      The unforgiving South American sun scorched Mitch Mendoza’s neck as he watched three men on the hillside below him through a pair of high-powered binoculars.

      His current mission had only two rules. Rule number one: Don’t mess up. Rule number two: If you mess up, don’t leave witnesses.

      The three men, aka the witnesses he wasn’t supposed to leave, moved at a good clip. They were local, used to the jungle terrain and the humidity that made breathing difficult for outsiders who had no business being in these parts. Outsiders like Zak “Kid Kansas” Goodman who gasped for breath as he tried to keep up with Mitch.

      “We can’t let them reach the river.” Mitch let the binoculars drop against his chest and looked back at the twenty-two-year-old trust-fund jerk whose only ambition seemed to be finding trouble and annoying as many people as possible in the process.

      The boy was a long way from his fancy college fraternity, scratched and gaunt, wearing the signs of his recent imprisonment. “They’re just a couple of goatherds. Let them be.”

      Mitch didn’t think the kid had developed a conscience—although, that would have been nice. More likely, he was just too lazy to pick up the pace, too soft to put in the effort that would be necessary to catch up.

      “I’m hungry. I want a break.” He was worse than a three-year-old whining, Are we there yet? from the backseat.

      “Soon.” Mitch moved forward, adjusting his half empty backpack.

      Their food had run out the day before. Neither of them had washed since last Friday. Not that he would have said they were roughing it. They still had a bottle of drinking water between them, and a tent to keep out the poisonous creepy crawlers that liked to pay jungle trekkers nighttime visits.

      “Watch your step.”

      The faster they went, the more careful they had to be. Snakes hid in the undergrowth, stones blocked their steps on the uneven ground. Neither of them could afford a twisted ankle. They needed to catch up with those goatherds. Quickly.

      Word that two Americans were trespassing through infamous drug kingpin Juarez’s part of the jungle could not reach the nearest village. Or the head of the local polizia. If the police chief was corrupt, he’d report right back to Juarez. If he was clean, he’d report the info to his superiors. Mitch didn’t need complications like that. Enough had gone wrong already.

      The trip should have been a simple in-and-out rescue op, except that Zak wasn’t the clueless victim his file had indicated. Mitch had found him in a shed on Juarez property just as the kid had shot the drug lord’s second in command. Juarez’s brother-in-law, in fact.

      That wasn’t going to be forgiven.

      Juarez was going to move heaven and earth to find the idiot. What had the kid been thinking anyway? He’d shoot his way out of camp and make it out of the jungle? He would have been dead within the hour if Mitch hadn’t been watching the camp for days; if he hadn’t been ready to grab the kid and run with him.

      He pushed forward and knew without having to turn around that Zak was falling behind. The kid made a lot of noise.

      “Keep up and keep quiet.” His mission was to get Kid Kansas, aka Kansas Governor Conrad Goodman’s son, out of the South American jungle in one piece without anyone knowing that he’d been there in the first place.

      They didn’t exactly have authorization from the local government. Mitch didn’t have authorization from his own government, for that matter. Just a request from Colonel Wilson. The governor and the Colonel went way back, to a double tour of duty in ‘Nam. They were blood brothers.

      That the Colonel trusted Mitch with the mission was an honor. Mitch would have walked through fire for the man.

      He looked up at the sun and prayed for a little luck, although he was used to his prayers going unanswered. But maybe this was his lucky day, because suddenly the three men he was following stopped. It looked like they were going to have a bite before crossing the river.

      “Let’s move.” He set the pace even faster.

      “I can’t.”

      “Should have stayed home, then.”

      “It’s not my fault I was kidnapped,” the kid snapped. He was getting his spirit back and then some.

      Right after he’d shot Juarez’s brother-in-law, he’d been ready to fall apart, panicking when Mitch had busted into his prison. But in the past two days, once he’d realized his escape had been successful, he’d come to consider himself some sort of an action hero—or, at the very least, Mitch’s equal.

      “I don’t deserve any of this,” the boy kept on whining.

      “You didn’t come to Bogota for sightseeing.”

      The governor had bought that line from his spoiled son. Mitch didn’t. But Zak’s lies were an issue for another day. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry. The men in front of them weren’t his only problem. Juarez’s soldiers were hunting for Zak, and they couldn’t be far behind.

      He got the kid down the hill in twenty minutes, stashed him in some nearby bushes, then moved toward the men’s camp. The goatherds had already lit a fire to warm water for their yerba maté, a favorite herbal drink of most South American natives.

      They seemed simple men, each traveling with a single bag, wearing worn, mismatched clothes under their equally tattered ponchos. Their only crime had been being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Then again, better men than these had been killed for lesser reasons. And how many truly innocent men hung out in this part of the jungle? Where was their herd, for starters?